Everyday on my way to work, an officemate or two would've been on an Ikot jeepney as usual, long before I hail whichever reaches my stop first. One morning late last week, I rode with two officemates and squeezed in right next to one of them. After silently beaming at them, I called out to the driver to hand over him my fare. The surprise jumped in when the words "Bayad po!" which I belted out in full hearing, came out not from me but originated from my officemate's vocal chords. Apparently, what materialized from my mouth was just a husky, dead air with no words. I totally forgot about my bad sore throat. Thanks to her, I didn't have to worry about calling out "Para po!" to the driver because she caught the words across for me.
With storms filing in like August is the only month there is that spells rain, classes were suspended thrice in a row last week. And because I belong to a working class which is just being "dutiful" sometimes, I still have to go to work. In truth, I don't really mind much about this. Not until yesterday came along.
My voice is still husky today. Although not as clear as would my normal tone and volume, it is audible now and I know I will soon have its normalcy back. The only important thing now is that I can be heard, understood and listened to. The thing that struck me yesterday however, was the dawning reality that no matter how far -- even booming -- your voice could go, if you are talking to the hand, you are talking to the hand. No matter how frustrated you are, or how passionate you are with whatever advocacy you support, the hand will not understand. If the owner of the hand refuses to listen, you are likely to face a battle half-lost. And if the owner of the hand pretends to listen and chooses not to understand, your war is over.
These are the very moments when, though they seldom come, I can really feel its thundering blow. Moments when small voices are neglected. These are the moments that make me think twice about my chosen career. These also compel me to evaluate how far my loyalty would go. I have always ingrained in me that I am not going to be a stunted professional. Librarians cry foul whenever they are only regarded as clerks -- "glorified", as I humbly quote my friend, Richard. The society is not to blame for this because this is what it sees. This perception will only change, slowly as it may be but still it will, if we will instill change. I know of some colleagues who have sailed into pursuing a bold cause if only to let the world see that Filipino librarians can actually think. I for one, though not a born writer, am honing my writing skills in order to stir my head to think and then put my thoughts down into words.
That's the good news: that we can always break away, make a difference, and be librarians all at the same time. What is sad and disappointing about this however, are the times when you are so fired up into making a significant contribution in the society and yet you are strapped down in a tight straitjacket that spells the lack of support from those you believe will be the first ones to pull you up and cheer you on. If the strapping will not be let go, there really is no difference between that and those horses in the streets of Manila drawing the calesa. Their only purpose is to run where their powerful kutseros whip them to go because they can't do anything else. They're tied to their calesas with blinders and head onto only one destination.
Sigh...Thank goodness for this blog. I can now start working again.
