Back in the 1970s, Max’s wife Precious and I were on the staff of our neighborhood newspaper, the All Greenhills Gazette, when we were threatened with a libel suit for an article Tes Choa (now Soroptimist International president) had written about tenants’ rights. Totally flustered, we consulted Max the veteran journalist about this disturbing development and, to our chagrin, he was absolutely delighted. I’ll never forget what he said to us: "Ladies, you’ve made it! You’ve got your first libel suit–you’re journalists!" I don’t know about Precious and Tes, but I was not quite convinced about our "good fortune." A couple of years later I found myself working for Max as managing editor of MANILA, a pioneering glossy magazine he published, the beginning of a very exciting and enriching relationship.
We had a really small office at MANILA; Max, of course, had the innermost and largest table. Carmina Nakpil was his executive assistant, Tess Padilla (now Mrs. Cofill) his secretary (she remained a most loyal and trusted aide to the end), Dopy Doplon our art director and Dani de Mesa his assistant, George Tapan our resident photographer, and me as chief cook and bottle washer. Everybody was within shouting distance; there were no secrets in that office, and a lot of private jokes that we still throw around and laugh about to this day.
And shout Max did, often with his favorite line, "But I’m your publisher, gaddammit..." But by the next sentence he would have calmed down, disarmed no doubt by our charm and cariño (at least I like to think so). For at heart Max was a real softie, our tatay–which is what we all still call him–from whom we learned valuable lessons on writing, on what being a journalist meant, on fighting for truth and for country. We honed our craft under his strict and exacting mentoring–writer, photographer, graphic artist, account executive, whatever job or task we had...he taught us and he trained us, always pushing us to do better, to be better.
And he fired us too–many, many times–but just as quickly "un-fired" us. I think Dopy Doplon, now an internationally award-winning graphic designer, holds the record for the number of times he was fired. We very early on realized that if Max didn’t fire you, he didn’t love you, just as if he didn’t shout at you, he didn’t love you. That’s what I repeatedly told my colleagues here at The STAR–especially news editor Marichu Villanueva–when they got bawled out by Boss Max.
It was during our time at MANILA that I got the nickname Doringay from Max; exactly how that name came about I no longer remember, but he has called me by that strange name all these years. Now that he’s gone, I’m not giving anyone else the privilege of using that name.
It was also during our stint at MANILA that Ninoy Aquino was assassinated, and Max was at the forefront of protests against the Marcos dictatorship. He was back in his element writing eloquent, feisty, pointed tirades against the dictatorship–and he was loving it. Of course the threats from the state came with his outspokenness, but he didn’t care. Except one time, when he had to go to some meeting, he asked to trade cars with me. He did use my car that afternoon, but I was smart enough NOT to use his car (I stayed put in the office until he came back) and risk being picked up or shot at by who knows what forces. Max always said that he thought he’d never get out of martial law detention alive, but he did–and he took that to mean that he had to continue the fight for freedom and justice, especially for his cellmate Ninoy, so brutally killed.
In 1985, when Max, Betty and Eggie Apostol got together and formed the Philippine Daily Inquirer with offices in this very building where The STAR now is, I did not join the paper but continued to work as Betty’s assistant. When Betty and Max teamed up – this time with Art Borjal and Tony Roces – to set up The Philippine STAR in 1986, there was no doubt that I wanted to be part of this paper, to finally work with both my mentors, the two people I had come to respect and love, one as "Ach"–achi, or eldest sister–and the other as "Tatay", or father. For not only were they great bosses and great teachers, great nationalists and great fighters, they were the most fun to work with.
For one thing, with Betty there was always food–cream cheese and crackers, hot cocoa and milk, lunches in Chinatown and at Mr. Poon’s with the artists Ang Kiukok, Malang, Goy, and journalists Johnny Gatbonton and Larry Cruz, and her famous lumpia dinners.
Max, on the other hand, we could always "hold up" for merienda money, for though he professed to being a "GI"–genuine Ilokano, as kuripot as they come–Max could never say no to the "hungry witches" of The STAR–Amy, Marichu and Doringay. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he didn’t hold office here–the way we ate, if he had to feed us every day, he wouldn’t have anything left of his salary.
Max dined with kings and presidents, tuk-tuk drivers and battle-scarred soldiers; he covered wars and world events; the high and mighty sought his counsel and valued his friendship. He witnessed history and with his pen he eloquently recorded it, weaving past and present, with his keen eye seeing panoramic vistas as events unfolded but noticing as well the little details that revealed secrets of the human heart. He loved his country, fearlessly fought for it, was always proud to be a Filipino wherever in the world he traveled–and oh how he traveled! The joke was that airport arrival statistics were so high because of Max Soliven’s constant travels.
But he was also the "tatay" who took time to walk me through his fantastic collection of toy soldiers and battleships and historical tableaux, telling stories from his fantastic memory of battles that occurred, of rituals in ancient courts, especially in the old Chinese dynasties that he knew I would be most interested in; who called to ask me what I needed when my mother died; who would say thank you for small favors like bringing home his mail. His death is a great loss for Philippine journalism and for us in The STAR family; it is also a very personal loss for me.
Rest now, Tatay, from the travails and tribulations of this world, but –susmaryosep! please naman–don’t fire the angels if they happen to sing off-key.