Eight Paragraphs (December 11,2007)

Eight Paragraphs
By: Maria Reylan M. Garcia

She was scribbling down her fifth paragraph, yet I was trembling with my first, and we were asked to make eight. She had a bucketful of self confidence, yet I had a teaspoonful of bitter self blame, and we were just given an hour to finish. She clipped her pen close and was the first to pass, yet I rubbed off the ink markings on my palm and was the last to submit, and we were both writing for the same issue. Human Struggle Against Poverty, that was the topic and we were to ferment a feature article out of it. Ink refused to flow smoothly as it touches the stubborn newsprint paper while my ideas ended up in disarray. The eight paragraphs were no less than mere empty words forcibly patched up to meet the austere guidelines.

That tension filled hour denied me to explore more, to see more than just slum areas or murky rainwater dripping from ceilings. I was too visual, that what I see is what I also write. The survivor’s story of an unfortunate fate skipped past my thoughts, and was blinded by obvious scenarios seen by almost any bystander. As I tapped every letter on the keyboard, I realized that my dilemma on such a petty feature article was comparable to the everyday struggle of the deprived against poverty.

To be poor is not a destiny, rather it is a choice. Proofs are the stories of wealthy upper class men who once laundered with rags and ended up bubbling with riches. It was my choice to be unaware of time, it was my choice of being foolish enough to construct paragraph number one for almost half an hour, and it even was my choice to join the competition. I can blame no one but myself. Time element was no factor; every contestant has the same hour glass to beat. Psychological influences were no reason; every contestant has the same anxiety to relieve. So does the poor who can blame no one but themselves. Heredity was no factor; every person has the same volume of opportunities to conquer. Political anomalies were no reason; every person is under the same governance, may it be fair or rotten.

As I handed in my feature article, I dropped my head down hopelessly aware that I had no chance of laying my hands on the shiny trophy. Even before the critics judged my work, I gave in to pessimism; I gave up looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The fear and uncertainty is always there, it only takes confidence to precede over them and soon feel the sweet pleasure of gut-feel, of hope. So do poverty, it is always there, unless economics would cease to exist. The poor continues to be poor because, after they realize they have dripping ceilings, their hopes seem to leak as well. Even before they try going to school and finish a course, they concluded they are illiterate. Even before they tasted the grapes they already proclaimed them to be sour.

I enrolled in Sociology 101 last semester, and though I may not be very well versed in demographics, I can vie to this simple theory on poverty drowned individuals. They clamor much on their situation yet, not a single twist of ankle did they spare to change their fate. Just like what I did, I clashed with my mind as the inevitable situation called the writer’s block visited me on the hour of my competition. I clamored, I panicked, I reacted but did not resort to any alternatives, did not even try to heave a deep breath and clear my mind. Silly me.

Poverty is an enemy, it is not a reason that one can use so as to be spared from the responsibilities of life. People use poverty to rationalize their condition, to euphemize their instability, to hide their wrong choices. I used the cousin of poverty, tension, to somehow wipe off the waste of ink I etched on that sheet of paper. I used tension to elevate my self esteem; I used tension as the reason why I lost in the competition.

I may have not written eight paragraphs as of now, but every word counts, as the key board seems to be more giving. She eminently shows off her shiny trophy to her friends, I apparently smile accepting the fate that I myself chose. She sleeps tonight with sweet dreams of triumph, I sleep tonight with a feature—err column article done, a cozy pillow to hug, and a belief that, between two of us, I was the survivor.

Be a survivor.
Stop Poverty.