My Side of the Story

 My Side Of The Story

Of all the lessons I learned while in this career in public service, this is perhaps the most useful, that which helped me navigate through the roughest of times: do not assume that things will never change. 

I was born into public service; my lineage from both sides of my parents trace back to ancestors who served the people. So when I was given the chance to work for government 30 years or so ago, I rolled up my sleeves and plunged; the fact that I was born into luxury, no matter. Mud on my signature shoes, manicured nails chipped, sunblock residue clouding my vision as sweat dripped from my forehead into corner of my eyes; nothing stopped me from meeting farmers and their families, see to what they need. I was to be the best, even if I were stationed in some forgotten place, as a clerk. On top of all that, I was earning a living for a family of six, whose lives were turned upside down post-EDSA revolution. With drama in the family day after difficult day as my backdrop, I found my sanity in my work in government.

Many helped me, gave me a leg up, to "rise from the ranks"; from my family, from mentors who offered technical expertise, to friends in politics. My family has a name, and the men behind the name: my grandfather and my father mainly, were good people. Such that even after their death, we in their next generation, gained from the goodwill they have forged with those who remain to be strong forces in their world. This, despite the fact that no one among us entered politics. I worked harder than anyone can imagine, improved my skills each time an opportunity to learn new things was presented to me, depriving the time my children needed me most in their younger years. I had to prove I was worth all the help. 

But the organization in which I belong and from which I serve,  is riddled with politics. There were times when I was younger in this service that I wondered what we really existed for: our famers, or the power. Often, we at the field level, the frontliners in rural development interventions, are the ones caught in the crossfire. We are like chesspieces in this game they play at the central office. Some of us in the field play along, at times looking like idiots to please and to "belong". Others simply do the job, as usual, and focus on getting things done. 

Our central office is managed by many, and turnaround in office policy and thrusts frequently change, depending on who the President is at a certain point, entrusts the responsibilities. With those responsibilities is the authority to decide whether you, at any field level position, are worthy of and apt for the post you hold. One would assume that this decision is reached by evaluating performance, but most of the time, it is determined by other factors; like if you are of the same political "color" they represent. Mostly, if the top management simply does not like you for being too candid about your views, like cows in the field, you are "marked" as a commodity. They either keep you or they sell you out; moreso, if you are interested with a promotional position that any one among "them" is also eyeing. 

And if you are not "tahimik" or you are not a "yes" person, you represent a red flag to them. Never mind that you gave all of your life to the service, and are quite excellent at the job. 

Then the weird stuff happens to you: anonymous text messages and letters unsigned are sent to them apparently by "concerned citizens", throwing everything at you, yes, including the kitchen sink. Lies upon lies are concocted about who you are, and many believe them because they have to. They send men to investigate, harrass you and your friends at work, questions are asked about you, even the most private ones. They imply many things but mainly that you are corrupt, and therefore undeserving of any respect. The objective is simply to get you out of the way. No regard is given to you or your feelings, or your family's. The hard work you put in for decades, they reduce to nothing.

But you fight, knowing that you did nothing wrong. You do not come off as though with clean hands, but you let them know whose are dirtier. You call on family, friends, and connections in "that" world, to help and save you from the force they use to keep your head under water. Oh they will let you up and allow you to breathe once in a while, but only to show you their muscle. And so you keep the pain and the hurt you feel to yourself, bury the million pieces of your broken soul deep down, because you need to stay: for the farmers who really are the reasons for your being in the service. And, second, for your survival. You keep the tears from falling even if they threaten to at any time during your day, and down pills to force you get some sleep at night. You tell yourself that you love your job, that all will pass soon enough, repeatedly, until you almost believe it. You think of your children, and how they would feel if and when they hear about the lies said about you, and then slide down to that dark place and curse yourself for choosing public service over them. You try your hardest to keep on, and muster all the guts to keep your head above the water.

Once you become a target, you always will be the one they need to "quiet" down. As if the "demolition job" they set out to do weren't enough, they would play mind games with you, enough to keep you up at night and surface insecurities. You, in turn, would yield to their wishes. It is the only way to self-preservation. You pick the broken pieces of your self-respect, and do as you are told, keep quiet. You do the job, because it is your duty, and duck, disappear from the radar as best as you can. Lest they will come for you, yet again.

And then others, from somewhere outside of your world looking in, will tell you how stupid you are to "play" with them. Professing self-righteousness, they rub salt on the wounds you are slowly healing, and cheapen all the struggle you went through, or still going through. Instead of understanding you and offer empathy, they hand you cynicism. Instead of honoring your wounds, they prey on you like you are a sell-out. Your good intentions are simply shoved to the sidelines, where it does not matter. 

There comes a time when the story takes a comedic turn. You feel relief  that perhaps now, you wish the hands will stop drowning you into the water? That maybe, the peace  that you have been longing for will be within reach. At the end of the day, that is all you wish for, really. Not some accollades or recognition of what you have done for the service, and what you have accomplished as a parent, from holding on the dear life, to your work. You just want peace within, which has eluded you for the longest time. You no longer want anything, at the very least a promotion, but to be in this plateau of constancy at work, and more importantly, in your life. 

I feel that I am reeling still, from the roller-coaster of events which happened in my 30 years or so in public service. And I still yearn, day after day, for that calm and stillness which I failed to achieve because of my desire to be good at work and raise my children as best I could. And it does not help that others who matter to me, render judgement about how I lived it. But I breathe, in and out, the air from which I draw strength. That air which my God has generously blessed me with even if at times I question I do not have enough to breathe in, and I suffocate. I look to the future with the strength I have in me, gone from dying to its fiercest. The cycle goes on and on. My God simply carries on as He honors me. And so should I.