Five Years in the 5th Worst Job in the World, and I have no regrets!

Five years of God’s faithfulness and goodness in the workplace. Five years of testing, trial and triumph. Five years of enduring, enjoying and engaging with people, with facts, with stories. Five years of both heart-warming and heart-breaking realities of events, of lives. Five years of unwavering hope, inspiration and public service. Five years, and counting.

This is the job that I prayed for and wanted to do. Initially, I just wanted to write. But I was given the rare opportunity not only to write, but also to be heard and seen, through the audio-visual medium. I am a broadcast journalist, and I love being one.

 A survey by CareerCast in 2012 ranked being a journalist as the fifth-worst job to have and become. The stress, the irregular working hours, the not-so-high compensation, the excruciating waiting discipline requirement, and yes, the pressures from the management! These and all other points may be true. But seeing the other side of the coin, becoming a journalist, at least on my part, proves to be one of the most fulfilling, rewarding and challenging jobs to have, ever!

I have experienced amazing and countless moments of “first times” because of my job. All these were free of charge, only guts to pay. For the first time, I was able to ride in a helicopter during my extensive marijuana eradication coverage in the hinterlands of Cordillera. After touching almost the clouds and the heavens, I then submerged myself somewhere at the bottom of the sea for an underwater coverage. It was my first time then to scuba dive, and I always get excited whenever there’s a chance for an underwater coverage. Work should be fun!

I get to eat foods I have never tasted before. I get to travel to places I have never imagined to discover. I get to meet and greet celebrities and high-profiled personalities. So? Well, I have never earned and received money from them, but we call it psychological income! And all these boost our confidence!

It was my first time to be bribed by people of hidden interest. But through God’s grace, He preserved me, and still is preserving me to have clean hands. One can live right and clean in this industry marred also by lies and corruption. We also have to police our very ranks.

It will take some pages to put into details all my first times. But definitely, these first times were repository of lessons and knowledge, of experience and realities, of hope and joy, of courage and discipline. More importantly, these first times were springboard for the second, third and countless times of new learning. Not only the unfolded events that grant insights but also the various stories and pleas of people I have come to meet along the way.

Street sweepers have their stories to tell. They earn from our trashes, but they despise our garbage. Beggars wander night and day, but they remain homeless and voiceless. Prostituted men and women hide from the shadow of immorality because there is lack of covering and comfort, of opportunity to earn through a decent job. They need real love and respect. Corruption still exists, injustice still prevails, but only a few stands straight and principled. Poverty issues are favorite topics, yet there is not much action being taken to address it. Or actions are just too slow .

Accidents, crime, victims of abuses, and yes, disasters! These fall under the category of hard news. Sometimes, these are indeed hard to swallow. These are difficult to cover. You need to be immersed; you need to be there on-site to contextualize your stories. I need to be sensitive and responsible even more. I need a heart to empathize and a mind to comprehend the real score of the story. I need to be really human in dealing with people. They, too, are humans with feelings and emotions, with soul and spirit.

 

In journalism, particularly in broadcast media, I am challenged to exercise the responsibility and power it holds. In the Philippines where media is considered to be the “Fourth State,” my role as a member of that imperfect yet influential institution is very vital. Whatever stories that I report, people generally believe them to be true and factual. Therefore, I consider my job as an expression, not only of my passion, but also of my high regard towards truth, good governance, transparency, and other significant advocacies.

Journalists are heralds, both of good and bad news. As a media practitioner for five years, I wish and hope that I have become a herald of TRUTH, good or bad news that might be.

Cheers! †

A son’s wishful treat for his father

I’m just counting hours for my father’s arrival this week. I am not particular with the exact time of his coming because I will not meet him at the airport anyway. There will also be no placards and exorbitant banners to welcome him. Since the time he left the country, and every time he goes back on intervals, we are not used to join and meet him at the airport.

Perhaps, this is just a mechanism for all of us to avoid emotional outpourings of bidding goodbye or welcoming him, or maybe, for practical reason that we could save money if we don’t join him at the airport. What is important is that we’ll see him home.

His arrival this time would be different. My sister who works in Manila can welcome my father. The history of not meeting him at the airport would be changed, and my sister will be the first one to experience how it feels to welcome our father, fresh and sound. Aside from the Yuletide season, my father will be with us for three months because of my sister’s wedding in January.

He will be one of the thousand, if not million, OFWs to go back to their homeland to spend Christmas and some other important family events. Their comeback is much rejoiced, but their exodus is hard to reckon. I am now calloused to recall the moments without him. And I am even trying hard to reminisce the moments with him. But excitement always dominates the feeling when someone I love is coming.

Thinking him and my bilin of a digicam, I’ve got bunch of suggestions in mind when he arrives that I haven’t told him yet. I will lure him to treat the whole family to visit Baguio where I stay. If that happens, it will be our first get-together as a family outside Pangasinan. I will tour them in places I usually go, introduce them to friends, churchmates, orgmates, and special people who serve as my second family in Baguio.

I will maximize the digicam he had bought for me to take family photos, be it stolen or wacky shots. Or maybe, we’ll just go to the professional photographer to take our first family portrait. And then, since there is a resort about 30-45 minutes away from Baguio, we can go swimming and pamper ourselves with the soothing effect of the hot spring, and the rest of the day would just be perfect.

You see it’s very easy for me to suggest such things, but I know the possibility that it may not happen. But I’ve got plan B at hand just in case the first one fails to happen. However, it would be limited for him alone. If, hopefully, I receive my little bonus from my work in December, I will propose that he stays in Baguio even for three days or a week, my treat, so he could just unwind and see a bit of what life his son is enjoying and enduring in Baguio.

Perhaps, he will understand why I keep on staying in Baguio, not just indulging the freedom of living independently, but because of higher calling of serving God. He will understand why so far I don’t follow his advice for me to work abroad. He will understand why I keep on saying I am still young, and I am not in a hurry to get rich, which is not all that matters. And hopefully, I could say to him that I love him, a phrase I practiced during his absence, solely intended for people I truly love.

On the other hand, I hope to further understand why he keeps going back to Saudi to work aside from financial reason. I hope to hear him speak from the heart what he really wants me to become. I hope to hear from him his plans after he retires from being an overseas worker. I desire to hear from him his stories on raising us up, and how he struggles to overcome the boredom of working far from us. I desire to feel his love skin deep. We haven’t done that ever since.

It was very hard writing this piece. Many times I swallowed my thirst just to control my emotion, just to spare me from looking like a jerk when I cry. Though I treasure the culture of crying because of its healing and edifying effect, the emotion that exudes in remembering the times with and without my father is irreconcilable. I could not blame him for working abroad, but I could not also discount the fact that with his absence, a sense of longing has been cultured in my heart, in our hearts.

With his presence, things would have turned better. He would have been prouder to see me receive academic honors and how I turned out to be a volunteer campus minister. He would have been my younger brother’s best basketball coach. He would have been my older brother’s best pal in giving pieces of advice about fatherhood and parenthood. He would have been my sister’s most appreciative audience when she sings. And he would have been my mother’s comfort, strength and joy in raising the four of us.

Things would have been better during his presence. But it doesn’t mean we cease to love him during his absence. When my father comes, I will really say I love him. And I will not mind crying and looking like a jerk, as some women say of crying men, but I’ll be grateful that God has gifted us a father like him.

I may not be at the airport with all those welcoming paraphernalia, but when I receive my bonus, Pa, how I wish I could treat you. Go up and cool down in Baguio. †