I Believe

It sometimes bothers me that I feel like I have too much of a human-interest-bordering-on-emotional perspective of most everything in life. It bothers me more when I have to confront it in relation to other disciplines, journalism not being an exception. Of the four articles we had to read this week, of all the points raised there, that which affected me the most was the issue on having too much teaching from Realities in RP Science.

In the olden times, one’s profession became part of one’s name, eventually becoming the name by which the family went. Cartwright’s were cart makers. Miller’s were those who tended to the mill, and the grains. If professions were so important then, that it became part of one’s identity, I could not help but wonder about the political correctness of the designations of today.

There is a hierarchy in the academe. Educational attainment earns one the right to use the title of “instructor,”“lecturer,” or even “professor.” But what do these people really do? A senior from my course once asked me,”Have you ever had a good prof from our department?” In my head, I reviewed my whole academic stint and came up with but a handful of names of those who have seriously influenced me by their teachings. These are the few who truly still profess—those who strive to enlighten, to inspire, to impassion. They to me truly deserve to be called professors. Everyone else? Everyone else who exist without passion; everyone else who cannot make one dream? They may very well be just chismosas to me.

Allow me to end with a poem I had written back in the years enamored by the rebellion of youth.

I preach my Faith
Not just God's word.
It's my belief-- my own
Not the whole world's