getting out

I was looking at myself on the mirror at the office thinking it might actually be the last time I'd be seeing myself here. I was smiling leisurely, realizing it was something I haven't done in a while.

Torture is an understatement of whatever it is that I felt during the past few days. If I were to think about it, everything started on the week of my birthday.

It was the same week the Global Forum on Migration and Development (GFMD) was held. Philippines has host the event and the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA) was the overseeing agency. Although I am assigned to the foreign affairs, the topic is more on the labor side of migration that my editor decided to send our Labor reporter instead. And since DFA is at the GFMD, I literally had nowhere to go, no stories to pursue. And so, I decided to cover the protest rallies instead.

By Sunday, my editor talked to me telling me he didn't like the idea that I was covering protest rallies. I told him my excuse and he does seem to accept my inability for that week. Aside from that, we listed topics for stories the paper is interested in. He also told me where and what should I be looking out for the next few days.

The next week turned out better than the usual. I was able to publish three articles, not including the ones on the website.

When Sunday came, I didn't even know evaluation was to take place and as expected, I literally and seriously failed it. However, my editor gave me no sign of termination except for a request of improvement on my part in time for the next evaluation or else...

I was determined to do better actually. In fact, I was more inspired to work than I have ever been, seeing that my editor still has hopes that I could do better. However, Monday became a day of wilderness, drought and poverty of stories. There was really nothing to write about. It didn't stop me though. I passed a crappy article and in a few minutes, I received a message telling me that I had been ordered to work and stay at the office starting Tuesday, the idea we reporters call "na-bartolina".

Depression had gotten all over me as I dreaded the idea. While nobody had explained to me why such a decision took place, I know for myself I was going down. I've tried working at the office before and there was too much pressure for me to handle. Everytime I would see the managing editor looking at what I'm working on makes my knees turn jelly. (By the way, my computer is just a seat away from his table, while three more editors are working just behind me). Then again, I have no choice but to obey. Waiting for the day to turn to Tuesday became a punishment.

The sole article I submitted for Tuesday was not published. Moreover, my editor asked me to rewrite it that I had to stay at the office until 8pm, the latest I have ever stayed there.

My sole source for my only article Wednesday backed out on me a few minutes after deadline and I was not able to pass anything hereon. I tried a few times to have something, but it wasn't anything the paper would be interested in. It was easier now for them to turn down my articles since I am in the office. There was a time a reporter-friend and I had the same article to submit for the day and I was the one asked to work on something else an hour before deadline. Obviously, I couldn't make it.

For four days, I found myself escaping the eyes of my editor as I slid away from the office avoiding further talks with him. I found myself restless with nothing to compensate to whatever I was feeling. Depressed, I wanted to do better but I couldn't understand why it had to be so difficult for me. More than that, I was ashamed of myself, carrying the surname that had gathered respect in the field for years and yet so incompetent from the very start. Adding to that is the idea that the company has been paying me really well and when I couldn't really do my job to deserve such a pay.

I was at the verge of giving up actually. It was too much for me to handle and I knew I had to break free immediately. Then again, I just couldn't let go of something so great, a blessing, that easily. It's like giving up on what God has in stored for me. Although I couldn't exactly find anymore dignity for myself, I decided to push it to the limits and wait for my editor to kick me out. At the back of my mind however, hopes that this will soon end. I'm tired.


Sunday came. I believe my editor expected that I had nothing to give as well and he must have noticed my sudden slipping away. As I was about to leave with my friends, one of the editorial assistance stopped me. My editor wanted to talk to me.

I sat down in by the exit, trying to stop my tears. This is it, I told myself. That morning I asked God to make me stop crying, to either make it better or make them kick me out. While two of my friends already left, I asked another reporter to stay behind and wait for me. I might be needing a friend after the talk.

WHen my editor asked me to assess my performance as a reporter, I found myslef bursting into tears. As much as I don't want to put myself down too much, I had to be honest enough to make him see I am not living in an illusion that I'm doing pretty well at work.

He must have softened the moment I cried. He asked me what could have held me back. I told him it was something more of my personality, that it took me some time to get out of my shell and sharply ask questions in an interview, that I grew up finding calls from a total stranger as offensive, and that I realized I wasn't as fast when it comes to adapting to change.

And then, he said it. Although my editor recognizes that I was trying to do my best, output is very important in our work. "The desk wants you to reconsider your employment here and decide as soon as possible."

I felt like crying again, and this time he was trying to make me laugh by telling me stories of his wife. Although I did not directly say it, I told him I was just waiting for the desk to tell me that simply because I do not want to see myself giving up on something. I thanked him for everything he has done for me, for every effort he has given to try to push me to do better.

My friend and I left the office and I felt like something piercing my heart was suddenly taken away. I filed my resignation letter Tuesday which also became my last day at work.

I still covered an event Monday morning, submitted three Somali pirates stories Monday and two more Tuesday for the paper's website. And my last article on my Monday event never got published.

My friend who waited for me during the talk told me he has never seen me as relaxed as I have been on my last day. I won't say it was a mistake to even apply for that job at that paper, hearing horror stories of stress that reporters experience there. It didn't matter how I got in and what am I now when I got out. I don't care if others say there was something wrong with the paper's system. The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. Blessed be Your name!

hallelujah chance!

If you are a Jdorama fan like me, the first thing that would definitely come into your mind reading these words is Ken-zou and his efforts to go back in the past and change things so that his bestfriend would love him instead.

I have been a fanatic of the series, really. In fact, since I have been the source of recommendations for DVD marathon episodes, I have used this position to influence people to patronize such a wonderful story. True enough, everytime they hear my ringtone in which Iwase Ken shouts "Hallelujah chance!", they would be frantic while enjoying the rush of thoughts it brings them.

I thought it was a simple fanatism.

Being a Christian journalist living a day at a time in faith, I take opportunity of every chance I get for a coverage, or at least get a hold of whoever official related to foreign affairs. Even if it were a mere ribbon cutting, photo opportunity or what else not newsworthy there is, I'd be there just to get a hold of anyone.

I have actually had days when I had no concrete plan of how and where to get a story. And then, a sudden coverage would come up and I would find myself writing stories to be passed a few hours later. I find myself mused with the fact that there is always a chance, an opportunity for me to survive this daily grinding. I know and I cannot deny that God is and will always be there to help me survive. And I have actually learned to remind myself of God's providence to the birds where it know not where to get food and yet they still manage to survive. How far more will He provide for human?

Hallelujah for the chance.

I'm currently on my 6th week on the beat and I have been able to pass articles daily. Though most of the times I pass them late, I am still thankful I was able to pull out a story, to have them submitted and sometimes, if lucky enough, would get it enough.

I'm always excited for text messages, as it is the door of chances for me; a spokesperson texting for Somali pirates updates, my friend reporter telling me of a coverage, or my editor sending me to another out-of-my-beat coverage. Whatever it is, it signifies my chances of survival and I'm happy for it.

Hallelujah chance.