My father was my best teacher, even if he whipped me for some unlikely infraction or other, like when I badly scraped my knee falling from the merry-go-round in the town plaza. He swabbed the wound with iodine and then lashed me across the bottom with his calesa whip. When in Grade 6 I asked his help in making the composition for class on the subject of “What’s more important: labor or capital?” or something ponderous and profound like that for a grade-schooler, or even a college student, he practically dictated the whole argument pro labor to me. He passed away when I was in Philosophy at the San Agustin Seminary in Intramuros, Manila. I would never know if he would have been proud of the fact that I had worked as lifestyle editor in Today, whose publisher was Teodoro Locsin Jr., son of the founder and publisher of Free Press, father’s favorite periodical, and as senior desk editor and op-ed editor in Philippine Star, whose publisher was Max Soliven, whom father also regularly read in a now-defunct Catholic periodical. Although Max often invited me to be managing editor or associate editor in his new magazines, he (or we) sooner or later would come to a point in our working relationship when, to maintain harmony in the staff or the good health of the magazine, he had to decide whether to keep me or fire me. He often chose the latter. We could not get along well together within screaming (his) distance. But, personally, we had remained friends. (Read on further below about “Terror Teachers.”) Max and Ted were my profound influences. Often when I’m writing I find myself writing with them in mind, I find myself writing for them, not for my readers. Go figure. Influential teachers, mentors, or colleagues may not be the easi- est to identify, after a whole lifetime of them. Does a childhood yaya qualify? Yes, of course, but who would acknowledge them in all sincerity? Everyone will talk about their grade-school teachers and the professors they had in college and in universi-
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