Stranger than Fiction

Susan S. Lara

I met Marj Evasco during the Silliman University National Writers Workshop in 1979. I had just learned the phrase “shock of recognition,” and straight away thought (mistakenly, it turned out) that I knew what it meant: the sense that I had known her for some time. Over the years, we have traveled together; attended, often organized, conferences, sat together in workshop panels, co-edited a creative writing textbook, celebrated each other’s successes, wept over the other’s losses, kept each other from harm, raised our fists in protest marches, tapped our feet to the same beat, watched countless movies, sunrises, and sunsets.

We had wondered about certain synchronicities in our lives but had no idea how far back our connection goes. It was only around six or seven years ago that we discovered a connection that harks back to an earlier generation: her grandfather and my father worked in the Department of Education almost at the same time. They were both sent to the United States on an observation and study tour, but we did not know if they did so together. We did not have any doubt that they had known each other, but because we had no way of knowing for sure, since both of them had passed, it remained a conjecture and a fascinating possibility.

In the last couple of years, though, Marj has started researching the lives of her father and grandfather. One afternoon, back from one of her trips to Bohol, she shared over lunch with me and our “witch sisters” Grace Monte de Ramos and Nadine Sarreal the stories she elicited from her elders. One of her aunts told her about the time Marj’s lolo worked in the curriculum division of the Department of Education, and something clicked in Marj’s mind: she remembered me saying my father was chief of the curriculum division of the Bureau of Public Schools at the time when National Artist Alejandro Roces was education secretary. She asked her aunt if she remembered the name of her lolo’s supervisor, but her aunt said no, it was 50 years ago, and she had already forgotten. When Marj said, “Was he a Severino?” her aunt said “YES!” Then Marj asked what year her lolo traveled to the US on a study tour, and before she could share her aunt’s reply, I chimed in: “1954!” She nodded.

There, at last: the shock of recognition. And everything just fell into place.