My Published Articles for ViewsHound: Reminiscing My Failures and Successes

Friday, April 22, 2016

Reminiscing My Failures and Successes

This week with Hillary Clinton winning the New York Primary signals that her quest for the White House is appearing to be imminent. Thinking of Hillary's presidency, makes me wish that before I conked out in this Planet Earth, I will have another chance to be invited to an event in the White House or perhaps received another official Christmas card from the White House as we did in 1995. Hillary's candidacy reminded me of an article I wrote about my failures and successes that I am reposting as follows:

The White House Tour and Annual Christmas Card Greetings from the Clinton's during Bill Clinton Administration were two events in our life here in US that my wife and I will always cherish and remember.

Have you ever looked back in your past and remembered your failures? Have you realized that without those failures you could not have succeeded? The common saying that you have to fail in order to succeed applies to the following past events in my life.

The first event in my life to support the above statement occurred during my elementary school days. When I did not receive the first honor award (I got 2nd honor award) during my elementary school graduation both my parents and I were very disappointed. My parents even contemplated filing an official complaint to the school superintendent against my teacher and principal for nepotism since the valedictorian was a close relative of the teacher and principal.

However, I convinced my parents not to do it. I told them I would work harder in high school to be number one, to show the teacher and principal they made a mistake in the selection process. The whole four years of high school, I competed with the top five honor students from my elementary school. Needless to say, I graduated valedictorian of our high school class. My classmate who was the valedictorian in my elementary school got the salutatorian award (second place). I was happy and felt vindicated. My teacher in elementary school congratulated me but without looking straight into my eye, when my parents invited her to my high school graduation party at our house.

The second event in my life illustrating the statement "you have to fail in order to succeed" was during my graduation with my Bachelors degree in Chemistry from the University of the Philippines in Diliman, Quezon City in 1955. When I missed graduating cum laude (with Honor) by just 0.24 points, I told myself I would pursue my Ph.D. in the United States to show my professor in Differential Calculus who gave me a "4.0" (condition) grade when I received only 69% in the final exam(I missed 1 point to get a C). I took a retest and passed it with flying colors.

In my chemistry class, there were only 15 of us and only one graduated cum laude. That showed how hard it was to graduate with honor in chemistry at that time. That grade of "4" certainly did deflate my ego and self-esteem. Two years later, my self-esteem was redeemed when I passed the National Board Examination for Chemists, taking 3rd place nation-wide.

My four years average including the "4.0" that I got from Differential Calculus was included in the calculation (not my passing grade of 3.0 after a retest the next day) turned out to be 1.99 (not high enough for honor). But if you calculate my four year average with the 3.0 that I got after the retest, my four year average turned out to be 1.74, enough to receive the cum laude (with honor) award.

When I found this out, I was so furious, I wished my calculus professor be run over by a car or misfortunes fall on her every day of her life. When I saw her in the hallway, I gave her a stare of hate (like an arrow that pierced her heart that did not stop bleeding until she died).

But I vowed to the whole world, I will obtain a Doctorate Degree in the United States to show to my Professor in Differential Calculus what she did to my ego. Looking back, I think I should thank her for what she did, because there were numerous times during my first year in Graduate School, that I wanted to quit. But once I remember the incident, it reminded me of the vow I made to myself not to quit at any cost.

The third event in my life illustrating you have to fail in order to succeed was the culmination of my 22 years of experience working for private industries here in US. I lost my first job in industry of my own free will. I wanted to receive a 20% raise in income as well as move to a warmer climate (West Coast of the US).

The second private industry job that I lost was due to the company moving and closing their agricultural research division and also consolidating their research facility in one location to save money. I lost my third job in private industry because the firm wanted to save money and also wanted to get out of the pesticide business.

My fourth job loss was the most heart-breaking episode in my career. I had only one day of notice. After working for the firm for 12 years with good performance, it took management only one day to tell me that they not need me any more, good bye, and to look for another job.

That feeling of anger, loss of ego, shock and envy (for those who were not fired) was indescribable and humiliating. I vowed I would never worked for a private firm again in my life. My determination to work for the Federal Government was achieved when I worked for the Food and Drug Administration(FDA) in the Fall of 1990.

David III and Me at the Portico of the White House Waiting for the Private Tour of the White House, 1995

Inside and Outside envelop of Christmas card from the Clinton's, 1995.

Working for FDA was the best move I have ever made in my career. My 12 years in the FDA was filled with awards, accomplishments and personal growth. Our life in the suburb of Washington, DC was filled with civic involvements, social and cultural activities, humanitarian projects and pleasant memories. The highlight of our stay in the Washington, D.C area was a private tour of the WHITE HOUSE.

Receiving a Christmas card from the White House for four years during the Clinton administration was the ultimate fulfillment of a Filipino student dream. Working for the Federal government was icing on the cake. Had any one of the four private firms not failed me, or had retained me as an employee, I would not have had the courage and incentive to work for Food and Drug Administration.

Fireplace inside the White House with me and Macrine in our winter Outfits

The above three events in my life showed that you have to fail in order to succeed. How about you? Can you recall a past experience in your life that inspired you to success? I will be delighted to hear from you.

Are you curious why my wife are in the Christmas list of the Clinton's during the Clinton-Gore Years? Not because we were registered Democrats but I believe because our youngest son was then working in the Office of the President Management and Budget and my youngest daughter was a Presidential Intern in the Vice President Office. Those days are gone and I believe we will never be in the Christmas list of any President or Vice President of the US now or in the future.

Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Friday, April 22, 2016

Reminiscing My Failures and Successes

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