When Ateneo’s junior high school acquired Bellarmine Hall in the first week of classes, college teachers were dispersed everywhere, and I had the misfortune of being assigned one of the University Dorm’s basement function rooms.
The upside was there were four air-conditioners, but the downside was that the room was far from anywhere else in the college.
I eventually noticed, though, that when I stepped out of the room and looked down at the green vista of Marikina Valley at 7:30 every morning, the landscape below was so calming. And then it occurred to me that I had a very good view of the cemetery below where my sister is buried.
Had Lara Angela lived, she would have been 39 last July 9. But she was born physically weak and passed away after only 13 days in hospital. I was only three at the time and have no memory of what she looked like, or of ever having a chance to hold her. Yet, because of my sister’s short life, I have a personal prayer—that when I myself die, if someone comes to pick me up, I want it to be her.
We’ve actually had conversations, Lara and I. Over the last decade or so, I have been visiting her grave on my birthday. As I’ve told many of my students, the death of someone close, someone so young, puts many things in perspective, especially the very thin line between this world and the next. It also reminds us of how mortal we really are. There is likewise a tremendous urgency not just to be alive, but to actually live, to recognize our mortality and cherish it and not recklessly throw it away.
Blessing
In retrospect, I guess it was a blessing that I got to see my sister’s resting place every school day for the last five weeks. I’m not getting any younger, and since last October have been working at a breakneck pace—teaching a full load, being part of one book project (ongoing) and now working on a second one, helping raise three kids, and then finishing my dissertation in four months.
As a teacher, I’ve always been very intense in the classroom and I regularly check papers at a ridiculous pace. But the last nine months have been particularly punishing for me, physically, mentally and emotionally.
That’s why “visiting” the cemetery for five weeks taught me to slow down and tell myself that, yes, I want to actually live and not just go through the motions of existence. I also want to live a little longer, if you know what I mean. I’ve been so burned out and bummed out over the last few weeks that going to the classroom was an effort (although I didn’t show it) and balancing different professional and personal commitments was no joke.
Now I’ve forced myself to take a step back, to remember to take a deep breath, and, if need be, another one and then another one. And to take a day off, or even two. To reshuffle deadlines while still being a true professional.
I’m of no use dead to anyone— not to my family, or my bosses, colleagues and students. Nor can I do any kind of productive work if I’ve forgotten how to relax and enjoy the moment. Oops, moments.
I’ll be scrambling over the next three weeks to prepare to teach Philippine History in August, for the first time since 2012. That means new lectures, new readings, blah blah blah. But I’m not going to kill myself over this anymore. No job, whatever the pay, is worth effectively ruining what’s left of my health, or taking quality time away from the people I love.
My dear sister, you’ve already waited 39 years. Sorry if Kuya is no longer in a hurry to join you where you are. We’ll still have our serious talks, our private jokes, as only brothers and sisters can have. And I’ll still visit your grave regularly.
Just because I’m here and you’re over there doesn’t mean I don’t love you and miss you every day that we’re still apart.
See you, but not too soon. No rush.
For Lara Angela, 9 July 1976-22 July 1976