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"How are you related to Serafin Lanot?" That all-too-familiar question greeted me the first time I met Francisco Arcellana in a class he handled. The subject was a survey of Philippine literature in English. The question would half-irk me because I, in my younger years, impatiently awaited the day I would be able to get out of the shadow of my father, poet-essayist-journalist-astrologer Serafin Lanot. But Arcellana was my teacher, and when I politely answered him, he asked me to send my father his regards. The year was 1961 or '62. I had Franz as teacher only once, and it wasn't long after that that Franz, as he wanted his students to call him, and wife Emerenciana, or Emy, came to visit my parents at our house, and a series of exchange visits ensued. Perhaps the renewal of friendship came naturally because my father had been hearing the names of my classmates from me, several of whom were sons or daughters of people my father had known or studied or worked with. For instance, Arcellana's eldest Isko, now Frankie, was my classmate at the University of the Philippines Elementary School and UP High. The second child, Beth Arcellana, was a year later at UP High. Then, I met gradeschoolers Mayi and Juaniyo during the writers workshop in Baguio in 1965. Mayi only recently told me that she used to come to Tamaraw Publishing House, Inc., run by my father, for two years to have her college newsletter printed. (The press was on the first floor of the house where we lived in Quezon City.) Being quite shy, Mayi never bothered to see me. There was one time my father invited NVM Gonzalez and Narita, and Franz and Emy, to visit Carlos "Botong" Francisco, Papa's close friend, in Angono, Rizal. There, NVM played the guitar, Franz lolled in a hammock, my father discussed Botong's paintings, the wives took turns serving food, and I quietly took pictures. On the whole, the women shared with each other personal stories, while the men reminisced under the mango tree and guffawed until the stars came out. In December 1964, our batch of English majors joined the annual UP Lantern Parade. We broke tradition by displaying Playboy centerfolds and attacking the English department, and by carrying placards in protest of the Vietnam War. We were a very small, closely knit group, but it stirred some higher-ups to conduct an investigation. At that time (when there was no Creative Writing Center yet, put up by Franz), the Department of English was divided between the terrors and the writers. And the faculty was summoned to explain why we were getting a grade of 4 or 5 while at the same time we were obtaining a grade of 1. The terrors defended the low grades, while the writers, including Franz, defended our talent. Maybe the perplexed inquisitors wanted to find out whether we were geniuses or idiots. Our batch, incidentally, was composed of Erwin Castillo, Ricardo Malay, Franklin Cabaluna, Tess Daffon, Priscilla Navarro, Wilfredo Pascua Sanchez, Jun Lansang, Jun Terra, Isagani Cruz, Jimmy Abad, Jenny Romero, Katalina Rosaldo, Jose Nadal Carreon, Gelacio Guillermo, Jorge Arago, and other eggheads and rubble rousers. Franz was galante with grades. In fact, he gave me a high grade that I felt I didn't deserve, since I was a lazy student. But our barkada, which became very close to Franz, was a regular habitue of the UP Main Library, where we tried to outdo each other in reading and discovering new books. We were familiar with almost all the short stories and poems being published at the time-by Nick Joaquin, Bienvenido Santos, Wilfrido Nolledo, Kerima Polotan, Gregorio Brillantes, Edith Tiempo, F. Sionil Jose, etc. One day, Franz assigned his class to submit a paper on writers and their work or works. Each student was to select a subject. One chose Nick Joaquin, another Estrella D. Alfon, yet another NVM Gonzalez, and so on and so forth. Then, Willie Sanchez said, "I'll do Franz." Franz announced: "Finally, someone will do me! Willie will do me! Willie will do me!" and he burst out laughing. Soon, the whole class was rocking with laughter-the whole class, that is, except me. I sat smiling, perhaps trying to project a girl-of-the-world image. Simply, I didn't know what the joke was. When the first UP Writers Workshop, which Franz organized, was to be held in Baguio, Franz asked me why I didn't apply. I explained that my mother wouldn't allow me to go. Because Franz wanted me to be a workshop fellow, he and Emy went to our house and talked to my mother until my mother grudgingly gave me permission to attend the workshop. My father, who was about to return home from a tour of government printing presses around the world, telegrammed for me to go to Baguio. Most memorable is the time Franz suddenly, without warning, whipped out of his pocket a copy of a poem of mine, which was published in the Philippine Collegian. I listened, astounded and dumbfounded, when twice he read my poem "Litany." He then proceeded to ask the class what the piece was all about. He deconstructed the work and peeled correctly the meaning, symbol by symbol, and discussed how the medium was appropriate to the message. Franz was not prone to flattering. My son Kris, who later also became Franz's student, told me that Franz once advised someone thus: "You should throw your manuscript in the wastebasket!" The student said, "But, sir, isn't that anti-intellectual?" Franz retorted: "Of, course not, because by throwing it away, you are using your head!" Franz never failed to attend my book launchings, unless he couldn't really make it. When he failed to come to the launching of my latest book of poetry, Witch's Dance, he asked me to give him a copy so that he could write a review. Since he had stopped driving and walking to UP, and had ceased altogether going on his long walks, I went to his house to give him a copy of my book. He thanked me profusely and repeated that he would write about it. Seeing he was quite weak and in bed most of the time, I told him it was okay if he couldn't find the time to review Witch's Dance. I only hoped, I added, that he would like the book. "I'm sure I'll enjoy reading it, of course, I like your poems!" he answered. I believed him, because every time he read a poem of mine, like those that came out in the Sunday Inquirer magazine, he would come up to me when he would see me at UP, and say, "I like your poem, it's very good, it's very, very good." That was something, coming from Franz, a brilliant fictionist and a fine poet. Aside from being an exciting teacher, Franz, who was born in Santa Cruz, Manila,on September 6, 1916, was also a journalist as well as recipient of literary and academic awards and recognition, such as, among others, the Palanca; Art Association of the Philippines Award in Art Criticism; Manila's Patnubay ng Kalinangan Award for Literature; Doctorate in Humanities, honoris causa; and National Artist for Literature. Who can forget his powerful stories, "The Yellow Shawl," "Divide by Two," "The Mats," "The Flowers of May," and the rest? Most of his characters are silent but intense. His narrative, which may grip the reader with suspense, is not tainted by prolixity or verbal sludge. But
over and above Franz's being a writer and a well-loved mentor and
friend, he was indeed a kind spirit and a generous soul.
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