When lightning strikes
This Week’s Winner
Sid Gomez Hildawa is a poet, visual artist, and an architect. He obtained his B.S. architecture degree from UP and his master’s degree in creative writing from De La Salle. He works as a manager for the Visual, Literary, and Media Arts Department of the
The “thunderstorm” started brewing one distant afternoon when I was a grade one student at Don Bosco school in
“Hmmm, rank five,” said my mom, “that’s good.”
“Could be better,” said my dad.
I didn’t know then what “rank” meant; I just knew that “5” was my favorite number. I liked its shape and the sound of its name, plus the way it would conscript all fingers of a single hand.
“It means that when the students in your section are lined up from highest to lowest, you would be the fifth from the top,” explained my mom. “You might as well aim to be rank one.” Thus started my drive to be first in my class, and by extension to excel in all that I did.
From then on, I became conscious of my standing in relation to my peers, so I excelled in academics and thrived on competition. I did become “rank one” that year, and at the end of each scholastic calendar for the next 10 years in a row, my mother and I would endure the processional marches and long programs of “recognition day” so she could proudly go up to the stage to pin on her eldest son a medal or two; one for being an honor student and another for being best in religion or conduct. I would wear these medals to the restaurant where the whole family celebrated after the ceremonies. My father bought a wall-mounted display case with sliding glass doors for me to mount my growing collection of medals. Aside from being a symbol of pride in achievements, I later understood that this was also a way of holding me up as an example for my younger brothers and sisters.
As the years went by, it gradually occurred to me that being “number one” meant having to defend my post from all the rest who secretly wanted to unseat me. I had to constantly be on my toes and be a step ahead of the competition. This meant not letting my classmates copy my assignments, not sharing with them my notes and sources. Basically it was regarding friends and companions as possible opponents in a game that I had begun to take seriously. Oh yes, I was a diligent student; well behaved and obedient, the favorite of my teachers. But looking back now, maybe I didn’t enjoy schooling and childhood as much as my classmates did. Life for me then meant finishing assignments early and well, reading ahead of the day’s lesson, and being disciplined enough not to play too much. Not that it was a bad way to grow up, but often now I wonder what I missed along the way.
A twist in the story happened when, during the penultimate grading period of my senior year in high school, I got a rank of 2. I was taken by surprise; I felt so stupid for having let my guard down and for having allowed the person next in rank to overtake me. But being a disciplined student, I couldn’t get angry at my teachers or any of my classmates. With my track record broken and my ego bruised, I stormed the school chapel during lunch break and complained to God. After all, I was always “best in religion,” so how come He allowed this to happen?
Being the only person inside the chapel, I knelt at the very front pew and buried my face in my hands, pelting the tabernacle with a one-word lament over and over again, “Why, why, why?”
This happened in November, and it was customary at our school during this month for priests and religious brothers who taught religion to distribute small envelopes containing a sheet of lined paper on which our parents were supposed to write the names of departed relatives and loved ones. These lists were then returned within the week with some cash donation enclosed. They were to be offerings for Masses.
After pouring out my complaint to God in the chapel that
Pow. I was struck by lightning.
For what seemed like eternity, I was dumbstruck; I couldn’t move. The silence in the room rang in my ears. How true, after all, that all medals, honors and achievements mean nothing in the grave. What a simple yet profoundly liberating realization. After thanking God profusely and apologizing for daring Him to answer immediately (which He did dramatically), I stepped out of that chapel a different person. Although that truth would have to unravel and re-assert itself in the years to come, it gave me peace that day.
Peace, because I didn’t have to be obsessed with recognition anymore; chasing it as if it were a prize beyond worth. This didn’t mean, however, that I would swing to the other side of the pendulum for a life of careless abandon. In fact, I moved on to reclaim the top spot in my class by the final grading period of my last year in high school. Rather, it meant that after giving my best, it didn’t matter to me anymore how my effort compared with those around me. I was my own measure of success and I learned to share in the happiness of others’ achievements as well.
That simple truth that I found in the chapel was not just a piece of factual information; it was a way of seeing that opened my eyes to other truths. In that same year, for instance, I was nominated by my school to the annual search for the “Ten Outstanding Students of Makati.” During the final round of questioning, a power outage struck the city so the interview proceeded by candlelight.
When asked by the judges how I would value knowledge, I said, “Lucifer, being a former angel, probably knows about God more than any one of us here, or more than any human being, even. But that knowledge didn’t save him.” With a face half-illumined by a candle’s flickering light, one of the jurors half-jokingly replied, “I think we have a future Pope with us.”
I won the award.
It has been more than 27 years now since I was struck by lightning, but I remember its lesson every time graduation season comes around with its procession of eager young achievers in togas, impatient with the world and with long speeches, ready to take on the world. It comes back to me also towards the end of the year, as we light candles in November for those who have died before us.
We all have biblical episodes in our lives; our personal annunciations, epiphanies, persecutions and resurrections. Among the most memorable ones in my life was when, like Saul on his way to
When it was my turn onstage to graduate from high school that year, I pinned the medal on my mother.
