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| my life |
Briefly? Because, according to Kahlil Gibran, work is love made visible. And I’m so in love!
When I’m cramming at work, I ask for the impossible—at least two of me, 32 hours in a day, or please, please, please, even just an additional pair of arms. When I’m at my harried worst, my sensitive Patring wants me to be a housewife—to stay home, cook bland food, play kiliti games, stop sibling skirmishes, draw three-dimensional pictures, read Bertdey ni Guido for the nth time, watch Cat in the Hat, stop sibling skirmishes, give them showers in the front yard, re-arrange the furniture, look at piles and piles of pictures, stop sibling skirmishes. (I wonder: Is my eldest reading my mind? When I’m harassed by official business, I know domestic concerns will help me find my balance.)
But my husband tells her I won’t be able to stand it. Of course, he speaks from hindsight: He bore the brunt of my restlessness and resentment. In 1999, after I became a mother of three in four years, I had to put work in the backburner. Motherhood was calling—more like wailing, demanding my full attention. So for almost a year, I was out of the rat race. During that year, I felt my vocabulary drop to one- and two-syllable words (“Ingat,” “Sakit tyan?” “Ihi?”). OK, sometimes four syllables (Maliligo na!). Back to basics meant beyond Neanderthal, it’s pre-preschool.
And then there were the house chores! I have worked for newspapers, where deadlines were sacred and work ran over holidays, including Christmas. But having to think about the lunch menu while washing the breakfast dishes was drudgery.
While I was keeping house, I was also relying entirely on my husband’s money. I’ve been working since I was 17 and I’ve lost all sense of what it’s like to ask for it (although I haven’t lost the sense of accepting graciously). I don’t feel good about spending money somebody else worked for, especially because I’m also able. Not using your potential is one of the greatest sins. There’s nothing like paid work to give you a sense of worth, even if it’s just in pesos and centavos that will cover only a week’s palengke budget.
Once, I had a shouting match with a senior editor—it was so only because he was deaf and I wanted him to hear me. I wanted to be violent but how could I hit an old man without being ruthless? A friend on whose virtual shoulders I spilled my guts (we talked on the phone) told me to let go of my anger. He said, “Think about your kids. What happened is just work; it’s nothing. Your kids are more important.”
“But,” I argued, “I am what I do, not who I’m related to.” Now of course I realize my answer was only partly true. I am all my relationships—with myself, with other people, with the world, with the universe.
Work establishes my relationship with myself. Work brings me joy (good work brings me joy and satisfaction, and sometimes if I’m lucky, more money). My relationships with other people, especially those I cannot choose and are therefore the most intimate and intense, are beyond my control. Ergo, I can only try to be a good mother, a good wife, a good daughter, sister, friend, co-worker. But I cannot ensure what these other parties will feel or believe about me. I rule only over myself. My work—how thorough, how systematic, how brilliant—gives me that power.
So why do I work? Apart from the selfish reasons I enumerated, I work also for my family. When you’re a mom and your work makes it possible for your kids to enjoy more of life, work is the violin in a rock band—providing a classier texture to everyday music. Because I share with them a world bigger and more varied than our home, our lives are richer. Of course, there are times when I wish I could spend more time with my kids and see them grow and develop into the persons I want them to be: sensible, kind, smart, compassionate. But because my work makes me happy, it helps me do just that.
