Destiny

When I got married in 1944, during the Japanese occupation, I thought that I would be happy to spend the rest of my life as a “plain housewife.” But it was not destined to be.

* * *

After a breakfast of salabat (ginger brew) and boiled camote, my father-in-law takes me aside and says that when the war is over (it’s now the beginning of January 1945), I should return to the university. He does not ask me, he tells me: “In this country, without a college education, you’ll get nowhere.”

In mid-1945, the University of Santo Tomas opens its AB classes and I enroll, unable to wait for Philosophy and Letters, my original college, to reopen.

A week later, I see a notice on the bulletin board announcing that a scholarship test will be given. On the day and time announced, I go to the room and, with around 30 other applicants, listen to what the examiner, a Dominican priest, has to say.

“This is not a test per se,” he announces, looking evenly at all of us. “I just want you to answer two questions: Why do you need a scholarship? Preferably in essay form. And, what was your last weighted average when the war broke out?”

I recognize him: He was my dean when I was enrolled at the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters. He is a man of few words.

On the pad paper in front of me, I write: “(1) I need a scholarship because I am now married and have a baby daughter. My husband earns P150.00 a month. (2) My last weighted average in the first semester of school year ’41-’42 was 92+.” I fold the paper and place it on his table.

Even before I reach the door, he calls my name. When I approach him, he says, “I know you.”

“Yes, Father,” I answer. “You were my dean.” (At that time before the war, the entire population of Philets was just close to 100 and everybody knew everybody else.)

“How?” he inquires, pointing at what I have written.

“I got married at the UST Chapel in April of last year. Father Serrano (my favorite philosophy professor) officiated at my wedding.”

“All right,” he says, writing something on his memo pad. “Go down to Father Treasurer. Do you know him?”

I nod my head.

“I’m giving you a full scholarship. You’ll get a refund.”

“Thank you, Father,” I say. And as I leave the room clutching my small precious slip of paper, I see the others scribbling furiously.

The moral of the story: When in dire need, a simple, direct, honest request very often obtains results. When one is drowning, one simply cries out, “Help!” Our Lord Himself tells us, “When you pray, do not use too many words…”

* * *

On my way to the students’ canteen, I see several professional-looking men and women emerge from a nearby room. Curious, I inquire what’s going on and am told that the high school department will soon be reopened and that Father Director is hiring teachers and personnel.

I wait for the crowd to disperse and when the coast is clear, I go in. It is almost 5 p.m. but the Spanish Dominican priest—tall, handsome and looking like Spencer Tracy—politely points to a chair. I introduce myself, telling him that I am a student, majoring in English. He then gives me his pet theories on the teaching of composition. We exchange impressions of our favorite books and regale each other with our “occupation” experiences.

After a time, I ask him if he thinks I can join his staff. “But you’re still a student,” he says.

“But I’ll be graduating in a month,” I say. “I’ll make summa, I know. (Ah, the cockiness of youth.)

“Furthermore, you have absolutely no experience.”

“How can people like me acquire experience if people like you don’t start hiring us?”

He laughs. “I have given out all the assignments, but let’s see,” he says, riffling through his files. “Let’s see… Well, there’s one class in religion.” He looks at me inquiringly.

“I was a member of the Legion of Mary and taught catechism to public school children in my freshman and sophomore years,” I say.

“What do you think? I’m offering it to you, but only one subject.”

I don’t hesitate. “I’ll take it, Father.”

He stubs his cigarette on an ashtray. “Next month I’ll be starting the school paper. Perhaps you can help me with it.”

“Ok,” I say, telling him also of my short stint at the prewar Manila Tribune.

He stands up and we shake hands. That handshake started me off on a teaching career that would last for 38 years and seal a friendship that would span over three decades and would end only with his death in Avila, Spain.

In a couple of weeks, an old philosophy professor dies of a heart attack and I inherit his logic classes. With the influx of students, new sections are formed and composition classes are assigned to me. Within a month, at age 22, I have a full load and am refusing other offers.

* * *

I stay on and build a career in the academe. At age 60, during the turmoil after the assassination of Ninoy Aquino, I retire from teaching and say good-bye to the university.

But six years later, I am recalled by Father Rector to start and take care of Campus Ministry for UST. This I do until I retire, a second time, at the age of 75.

Lourdes Syquia Bautista, 91, is a widow, mother of 12, grandmother of 27, and great grandmother of 15.