Almost eight years ago, after graduating from college, I made the impulsive decision to move to Bacolod City. I had lived in Metro Manila for most of my life, and I had no family or friends in Bacolod. I had very little background knowledge of the place besides chicken inasal; I didn’t even know if it was in Visayas or Mindanao. But one day, as I heard my friend talk about her life in her hometown Bacolod, and the stark social inequalities on Negros Island, I felt inexplicably drawn to the place. I was an idealistic, aspiring teacher, and full of vague ambition to “make a difference,” and so, the Spirit moved me to Bacolod.

It was on August 18, 2014 when I flew there. I was so excited about the move that I did not feel emotional at all about leaving home or my family. The trip from the airport to my new home was breathtaking, with clear blue skies and miles and miles of sugarcane — a contrast to the tall buildings, traffic, and smog of Metro Manila. I was impressed by how laid-back the atmosphere was compared to the fast-paced life of the city.

Upon arriving, I was excited to adapt to my new environment. I picked up a book about the history of Negros Occidental, downloaded some Hiligaynon language modules to learn the dialect, and applied for teaching jobs at some schools. It became urgent for me to communicate with the locals in the local language, Hiligaynon or Ilonggo. Once, when I rode a jeepney and asked for the change of my fare, I did not yet know the Ilonggo word for “change,” so I just used the English word. The driver scornfully complained about having Tagalogs in his jeepney. Embarrassed, I then realized that I would always be seen as an outsider, a Tagalog or a Manileña.

I became more determined to learn Hiligaynon because I did not want others to feel uncomfortable and feel obliged to code-switch when talking to me. During group conversations at home or at the workplace, I would listen carefully, then ask the person beside me the meaning of an unfamiliar word, or I’d have my phone nearby, so I’d Google the meanings of new words. As I built my vocabulary, I would then test out these words in conversations, and my friends would correct me if I used them wrongly. Now, I think I can hold an entire conversation in Hiligaynon, although my friends say I have an Inglesera accent.

The highlight of my life in Bacolod was my teaching jobs. I mostly taught senior high school students. For three school years, I handled students who were public school graduates. It was a difficult but wonderful learning experience for me, because I met disadvantaged students who were determined to finish their education despite their poverty. Many times, I learned and was inspired by their example. One semester, I taught a Creative Nonfiction class, encouraging my students to write their life stories and submit them to a national newspaper. We were overjoyed when five of them got published, each with a moving narrative. Getting into the lives of these students made me realize how privileged I was, and how I had to use my privilege to help others.

I also spent some years teaching junior and senior high school students at another private school. Compared to my previous workplace, most of these students came from middle- to upper-income households. When I taught literature, I had them create original Hiligaynon storybooks for public elementary school students from Grades 1 to 3, who were being taught in their mother tongue. My students wrote their own mother tongue stories and made beautiful illustrations for the storybooks. The final outputs were donated to a public elementary school, and during the pandemic, we held an online storytelling with the elementary students using the storybooks. It was quite a fulfilling experience for my students, who were able to create something not just for a school requirement, but a material to benefit other students. 

More recently, during the pandemic, my friends and I started a small soup kitchen to prepare meals for the homeless around Bacolod City. I did this partly because I wanted to invite some of my students to volunteer, whom I had not yet met personally due to online classes. We would spend some Saturday mornings cooking meals for about 30-40 people, and drive around Bacolod handing them out to the homeless and street-dwellers. This was a great opportunity for me to get to know my students, and also for the volunteers to bond in a face-to-face activity, which was a welcome respite from online classes. Moreover, seeing the sheer suffering of the homeless is always a sobering experience, and it started conversations among the volunteers about how we could help them more. In retrospect, I realized how I as an educator can give my students opportunities to learn and reflect on social justice, and perhaps discover their vocation to help the underprivileged. 

Living in Bacolod for more than seven years has enriched me personally, socially, and professionally. It made me realize that my worldview had previously been so “Luzon-centric,” when the Philippines is made up of so much more. It has given new depth to my vocation as a teacher because I witnessed firsthand the need for quality education for the disadvantaged. Although I cannot confidently say my teaching stints or my small initiatives were able to “make a difference,” living in Bacolod definitely has made a huge difference in me. – Rappler.com

Lex Adizon recently began a new teaching job at her alma mater, PAREF Woodrose School in Alabang. During her young adulthood, she has written numerous essays for a national newspaper and Rappler, and has encouraged students and colleagues to write and get published as well.