+++ MY SILENT REVERIES +++

WHY?
Saturday, October 29, 2011

During my English Critical Thinking Class in college, Professor Mendez, my English teacher, handed each student a list of thoughts or statements written by other students then gave us a creative writing and critical thinking assignment based on one of those thoughts. At 19, I was beginning to wonder about many things, so I chose the statement, " WHY? I wonder why things are the way they are?"

That night, I sat staring at the paper. I wrote down in the form of a story all the questions that puzzled me about life. I brainstormed every nooks and cranny. I realized that many of them were hard to answer. In fact, too difficult to contemplate as I dug my brains out. And perhaps others couldn't be answered at all. There's just none. Even if I searched the encyclopedia or googled my way through it.

When I turned in my complicated paper, I was afraid that I might fail the assignment because I had not answered the question, "WHY? I wonder why things are the way they are?" I had no answers. I had only written questions.

The next day, Professor Mendez, called me to the front of the class and asked me to read my story for the other students. He handed me my paper. And he sat down in the back of the room. The class became quiet as I began to read my story.And I was nervous as I hated speaking in public.

Mama, Papa.....Why?

Mama, why are the roses red?

Papa, why is the grass green and the sky blue?

Why does a spider have a web and not a house?

Mama, why do I need to read my notebooks cover to cover?

Papa, why can't I play with my friends after lunch?

Mama, why do I have to read and NOT watch TV?

Mama, why can't I go to the dance?

Papa, why can't I stay out until 12:00? The other kids can.

Papa, why do I have to learn all these house chores again?

Papa, why don't the boys like me?

Why do I have to be so chubby?

Why do I have to be so brave and be tough?

Why do I have to learn to mature??

Mama, why do I have to graduate?

Papa, why do I have to learn too much?

Mama, why did you to go abroad and have to leave?

Mama, why don't you write more often?Or call me every day at least?

Papa, why do I need to memorize these tasks and recipes by heart?

Papa, why do I miss my old friends?

Papa, why do you love me so much?

Papa, why do you spoil me? Your little girl is growing up.

Mom, why don't you visit?I miss you teaching me.

Mama, why is it hard to leave Philippines and make new friends?

Mama, why do I miss my old country?

Papa, why does my heart skip a beat when that boy looks in my eyes?

Papa, , why do my legs tremble when I hear his voice?

Why is being "in love" the greatest feeling in the world?

Why do I wait for his call?

Why do I miss him?

Why do I feel that day?

Boy, why do they have to leave?

Boy, why do you make me fall and then leave?

Lord, why do you make go though all these?

Lord, why make me happy and make me sad?

Why does my face show every smile that I have ever given to a friend or a stranger?

Why do older people's hair glisten a shiny silver?

Why does Papa's hands quiver when he bends to pick up something?

Why does Mama's skin show memories from her wrinkles?

Why, God, are the roses red?

Why, Lord are the grass are green and the sky is blue?

Why the rainbows come in all hues?

Why the sun shines at the dawn?

Why?

Why? Oh Why?

At the conclusion of my story, my eyes locked with Professor Mendez's eyes. In his fogged up, thick glasses, I stared at him. And all I saw was a small peck of tear slowly sliding down his cheek. He wiped it so quickly and so instantly as if I never noticed it. But I did. I stayed quiet. I stared down and went back to my seat shyly.

I just sat there. Puzzled. Confused whether I passed or fail. A week after, I got the paper back. With a marked red ink on the front page that printed, "A+." And a note in the back of my paper, "Eloquent,,contemplative.very touching, very inspring. As a professor, papers like these are the reason why I became an English professor. Thank you. [ Signed.] E. Mendez." He also gave me an A for the semester and a letter of recommendation for the Dean's Scholarship and for the acceptance letter for the higheest recommendation for the top universities and their Nursing programs.

I sat there again. But in awe, this time. I smiled in silent. "Why?" I still asked. I wish I can ask him. But I did not have the guts to do it. Why? Never mind. It was then that I realized that life is not always based on the answers we receive, but also on the questions that we ask.