This one’s a bit personal. Usually, I write in Cebuano, the language I’m most comfortable with. So why write this article in an impersonal tongue, you might say. Well, I express myself better in English (that’s what happens when your entire educational training from childhood is English-oriented), but I digress. What’s personal here is the theme. This month is Women’s History Month and last March 8th, we just celebrated International Women’s Day. What I like to do now is make a tribute to the women that have meant the world to me. 

I want people here to be familiar with the term “mamimikpik”, it’s our native term for potter. Historically, it was used to refer to the notion of a Supreme Deity among the Visayans, as God Himself was reckoned by the ancients as a potter who spinned the proverbial clay to make man. Here, I shall apply first this metaphor to someone dear to all of us [myself in particular] and that’s our mothers. They are the potters who shaped us into the person we are today and I can say with much confidence that my own potter molded me into that person. 

My own mother practically raised me by herself.  You see, my father works abroad and dutifully sends his remittances, but it was Mama that had to look after the sole progeny of their bloodline. The woman was headstrong and commanding, especially when it came to school. I remember long nights of tutoring from her while she beat the pencil on the plastic table because her preteen child had difficulty grasping multiplication of fractions. Every grading period (that’s my private school’s term for semester), she would mentor me on all my important subjects such as lofty Social Studies to simple G.M.R.C. and we stayed up til two in the morning only to wake up four hours later because school was at 7:30. My my, those were some good memories. But she wasn’t all stiff and stone-faced, she is actually very tolerant with my interests and career choices. Mama supported me when I decided to enroll for a summer taekwondo class in fourth grade. She brought arnis sticks for me when I wanted to try out in the school club in tenth grade. When I decided that writing was going to be my job, she helped me find a good school that offered those kinds of courses. Perhaps the thing that will always stay forever in mind is the image of her gently patting my thighs as I sleep on our straw mat back in the province. Gipikpikan. That’s the term in Binisaya which has the same root as Mamimikpik. Truly, I was not just molded, but also nurtured and cared for. 

Before my mother, of course, was the matriarch of our family, my late Lola. My mother used to hire tricycle drivers to deliver me to school, the pay was good and she worked that from the sweat of her own brow or borrowed somewhere. Either way, I had a mom that always accommodated my every need. My Lola would often accompany me to school and every after class dismissal, she would stand by the guardhouse waiting for her ward. The jolliest moment a kindergarten boy could have at lunchtime is a meal from a place where happiness is bida. Yes, I refer to jolly spaghetti and burger steak being served at everyone’s favorite maroon bee. For that, Alturas Mall, Bohol was often the usual stop. Like my mother, she could show the maternal instinct to protect. I distinctly remember the visage of a short-haired lady watching his grandson on the lobby entrance directly across our classroom, patiently waiting until break time was over. She wouldn’t leave until she saw her apo in his classroom and not sweating from constant frolicking outside. An annoying sight for a lad like me, but one that’s actually sweet in retrospect. I’ll forever miss that woman. 

But blood relations don’t have a monopoly on the occupation of potter, and neither do they come exclusively from the house. In my experience, the first consequential mentor I could have the pleasure of knowing is my Writing teacher. I don’t mean in the literary sense, but in the aesthetic. My classmates often humorously chide me for my vine-like, almost unreadable cursive handwriting. It’s a fact that throughout my educational life, I have been marked by many teachers solely through the way I do long-hand. Well, they have Mrs. Pantoja to thank for that. She introduced me to the idea in third grade. It was a subject she taught and one that she personally encouraged me to follow for the rest of my life. Since then, cursive handwriting has become a vital part of my character and style. I remember one nurse in ACE Medical Center, Bohol who upon seeing my handwriting on the hospital forms quipped: “Kujawag agi bataa, mora mag binaje” (Translation: What amazing handwriting this kid’s got, it looks feminine). Every time someone comments on my handwriting as womanly, I think of the lady school teacher who had engendered that practice to me. 

Lastly, I think of my major Literature instructor. She has been a recent addition to my hagiography of outstanding influence on my life. Firstly, she is a professor— a doctor in her own right. She’s also a writer, scholar and literary translator; career paths that resonate with me. Recently, she has been feted by the National Research Council of the Philippines with an award for her scholarly work in literature. I won’t name her personally, but she has spoken so highly of my talents in translation. I am encouraged by the fact that she praises my work in poetry, short story translation and oral reportings. At one point, she remarked that among my classmates, I had the most potential to become a translator like her. I had always aspired to have a sideline job crunching words while I write many creative pieces. That’s not the only thing she’s complimented me on, apparently she liked how I parted my hair in the middle. She’s known to complement the littlest things she observes from us in our class. For a doctor of her stature to have high regard for me is something telling of what capabilities she sees in me, which is encouraging, since I’m someone who rarely sees any capabilities in myself. 

I’m still in the processing of crafting my best self, but time and fate will tell whether I shall achieve those earnest desires. One thing remains certain, I will never be myself today nor reach that ideal destination if not for the women that nurtured and guided me all the way. Crafting oneself is difficult enough, but to have great women shaping you to your fullest potential is uplifting. Here’s to all good gals and dames who made the world by molding men to greatness. Happy Women’s History Month to all!