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"Channel the voice of a genius. Certain writers have very specific styles, and on the path to discovering your own voice, it can be useful to practice a bit of mimicry. Choose a writer with a distinct voice - like Ernest Hemingway, e. e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, Gertrude Stein - and read their work, paying attention to what makes their writing stand out. Then sit down and write you own prose or poetry, applying their style to your piece."

For this first exercise, I write as Nuala O'Faolain, feisty and courageous in whipping out her memoir with nary a smidgen of timidity. Here goes:

Who Do You Think You Are?


I write for the love of writing but I have gotten tired of doodling and scattering the pieces of my broken hearts in the many stages of my life on loose paper. I write with the title "Who Do You Think You Are?" which gives away my writer's paranoia, lest somebody point at my presumptuousness in writing my own story.


Memoirs are hard to write. After all, you are writing a story that has many angles, many truths, from only one perspective: the writer's. In this case, mine.

And who do I think I am?

That's a hard question to answer. It made me pause and look at the sky from my bedroom window. The sky is white, not milky white, but overcast white. Not yet grey, but neither blue. White. I can see the trees that swayed ten nights ago when the biggest typhoon of the year hit our city. I look outside, at the heavens, wondering...

Who do I think I am?

In writing, I find out who I am.

Earlier, I was organizing my things that were stuffed into a big balikbayan box. Finally, I was able to find time to arrange my things. Mostly memorabilia. One of my friends loves to tease me on how "senti" I am. This irks me. But I look at my possessions, and I find that it is true. Was.

I saw scattered pieces of my broken hearts. Trying to figure out relationships with the men I dated, with the boys who became my boyfriends, separately of course, because I was never a player.


Some of my own writings made me cry. Seeing envelops addressed to me by the last person with whom I declared to be soulmates made me cry. Then there was that piece I wrote in uniform longhand trying to understand how two men who mattered to my history, up until that point, loved me at the same time.


"M and B. B and M. M. B. B. M.


Both are my friends. Both have my heart. Both are part of me. And both of them love me, want me.

With M I am surefooted and calm beyond words. With him, I embody dignity and the grace of a queen.

With B, I am in awe of the world and of life. His presence and his love overwhelm me. I am a child beholding a rainbow, never wanting it to be out of sight, wanting to hold it in my hand.

Both have been dreams come true, wonderful packages at different times of my life, giving me different tastes of pure and real love.

I welcomed M reservedly, like a host ushering a surprise guest to tea.

I reveled at B's arrival. It was with fanfare and joy and celebration that I greeted him after eleven ears since our first acquaintanceship.


Both are part of significant moments in my history.

M was the crush I resisted admitting.
B was the guy I shoved from my memory.


In fifth grade, M was the apple of every girl's eye. He was the whispered name in girls' giggles. He was the guy I didn't want to give the satisfaction of bestowing my favor (even in secret).


In 'ninety five, B was the guy I flirted cleanly with. He was my victory in that I didn't succumb to his star power. He was just a guy I exchanged pleasantries with, without the illusions of forever.

M: Why should I want someone whom everyone else wanted?
B: Why should I bother with someone who can have any girl at the flick of his fingers?

Two Thousand Eight: They both love me, they both want me.

With M, my psyche is safe.
With B, I am compelled to learn more about myself in terms of faith.

I don't want to use either as a cushion if either love story fails.
I don't want to say "so what if he leaves, B/M loves me anyway?"

They both love me want me, love me at the same time, at this same period in my life.

With M, I will be a chef's wife. he will pick me up at work and go home to our neat little home and go about our divided chores and spend the evening together with my son.

With B, I am a musician's wife (sic) who takes care of his homestead. I am there when he awakens and I will wait for him to come home after a night's gig. We will be home with my son and our baby girl. He will leave at times, for out of town concerts, even abroad. But he will come home to me.

M is tall, fair-skinned and neat.

B is tall, dark and neat.

Both smell sweet, look nice. They are good company too. They can even be each others' good friends.

Even apart and at communication hiatuses, I feel safe with M.

Even when I try to kill my love for B through diminished communication, my heart seeks him out, even in nosebleed secret.

My feelings for M are steady, sedate and serene.
My feelings for B vacillate from an outburst of affection, love and "can't get enough of him" to contempt and mistrust, to simple acceptance of what is.

And all is from a God-honest, soul-bared-out heart.


I am fond and grateful for M.
I am so much in love with B.

I was so much in love with M.
And I was fond of B's memory but in a nonchalant, proud way, and only when his memory served a moment's purpose.

I can't say M is nothing to me now because why is he in this entry?
I can't say B is everything to me because why am I writing about M here?

I love them both.

I know if I'd tell M that I'd leave B to rebuild our relationship and push it a notch higher, he'd happily resume what we started out in 2001.

I know if I'd leave B for M, I would be pining for B in a secret nosebleed way

And that would be using M in the name of safety and security.

With M, I wouldn't care if he'd sleep with someone casually.
With B, I'd be lying if I said the same thing.

Men!

But I know they'd always come home to me.

M will always have a special place in my memory.
Right now, B holds my heart.

With M, things in writing seem healthy.
With B, my feelings are unstable, erratic.

I am serene and safe with M.
With B, I am happy, scared, angry and vulnerable.

Both of them are far away.
But then so near.

With M, I am perched on a strong tree, as wise as an owl.
With B, I am floundering on dangerous uncertain waters.

I've never been jealous with M.
With B, I am like a warrior, watching all sides of my person but pretending to be carefree and easygoing.

I know I"d feel secure with M, but by the merits of our relationship on their own, things will never be the same.

I want to learn and grow through my love for B no matter how illogical the choice. Love and faith are its only logic.

At the end of the day, having said all these, only time will tell what God has in store for me and with whom. And God will see that winning love through. After all, His choice is the best.

Life is unfolding as it should.
It is a beautiful world. (Desiderata)

All is well. This is all part of God's grand plan and it has its own effects and influence of the bigger picture - even though it comes from this tiny, seemingly insignificant corner of my world.

They both love me. But God loves me more than either will ever do.
Who do you think I really love? I have an answer but what do I do? Lord tell me."

Three years later, I am without both.


My relationship with B could not withstand the distance between us, not to mention how I never trusted him from the start of our second beginning, when he wanted to add me to his roster of girlfriends, me, being number 2. No, I was never technically number 2. When his girlfriend left him, I became little miss rebound. Which was telling of my feelings of inadequacy. Nonetheless, that event in my life merits an award winning film.


M and I tried getting back together a couple of times after B and I broke up. He was my best friend, until he totally abandoned me when I told him that I was going to the doctor for a bump in my right breast. After that, I never heard from him in a meaningful way. February of 2011, he invited me to his cousin's wedding in July. Since then, I have been worrying over suitable clothes to wear. But since May, I've never heard from him. Until I greeted him Merry Christmas.

My bestfriend, J, told me to drop it. I call it "He's just not that into you" and I don't get it, just to make me laugh.


Who do I think I am?


I still have no answer. But I have a pretty good idea that I am made of good tough stuff.