Blacksburg On My Mind

Around this time of year, my thoughts usually wander off to Blacksburg, Virginia, that small town where Virginia Tech (VT) is located. (For locals, the distinction between town and school need not be made, because Blacksburg and VT are so much a part of each other that they can be considered one and the same.) Many months back, people probably wouldn't know where or what VT was, more so Blacksburg. Of course now, because of the tragic April shooting that happened there, most people know about the school and the town in which it is located. Sad to say, most people know Blacksburg and VT only for this reason.

I can't honestly say I know the place and its community very well. After all, I stayed there for only two years, and there were months within those years when I was actually somewhere else. I also can't say I was able to explore the town's every nook and cranny, every little pathway, every secret. I was, at that time, too young and too self-absorbed, preferring to look inward and deal with imagined anguish, to really see the new world opening up before me. And while I did hang out lot, I can't claim of having established deep and lasting relationships with any of the people whom I met when I was there. This was probably due to my inability at that time to open up to people, my fear of disappointing them or being disappointed by them.

Despite all these, my time in Blacksburg is probably one of the most magical periods of my life. I had lived away from home for the most part of my life, so the idea of being alone and independent was not new to me. But my time in Blacksburg was the first time that I was THAT far away from home--from my best and closest friends, from everything that was clear and familiar, from everything I held dear. It was the first time I was ever completely alone, completely independent. It was totally scary, and there was a huge part of me then that didn't want to do it. But common sense won out, so I packed my bags, and I was there. And in spite of all my years in Manila, I was once again this 'promdi' who was unsure and uncertain, utterly naive.

Thinking back now, perhaps, that's what made it all so delightful. It was as if everything I'd seen on TV and in the movies was coming true, and I, I was the star. I remember sitting on this big rattan chair at the balcony of our apartment one chilly morning just a few days after I arrived. Still in my pajamas and holding a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a cigarette in another, I gazed at the already big, old trees at the back of our apartment, dreamt of barbecue parties and football and kegs of beer, and sighed. At that moment, I believed, with all my heart, everything was exactly as it should be.

I remember getting ready for my first football game. I remember being in the stands and grinning stupidly as I posed for pictures. I remember dancing to the 'Hokie Pokie' in a sea of orange and maroon, under the blazing sun. I did not understand a single thing that was going on in the field, but I was perfectly content. "I am a Hokie," I told myself, "and this is what school spirit means." There was so much excitement in that first game it could not be replicated. Thus, it was also the last and only football game I was to see, whether live or on TV, but I sure was around for the pre- and post-game merrymaking.

I remember jumping, giddily, happily, without a care in the world, into a stack of leaves piled high near Williams Hall, at that time the English Department building. I didn't know autumn leaves could stack up so high and feel so soft. I remember walking round and round VT at dusk those days of autumn, my first one, eternally fascinated by the burning colors of so many big and old trees, forever marveling at the sound my feet made on the scattered leaves, and wondering, just for a moment, how I could have lived without such beauty in my life. I knew then what it meant to fall in love--in the most basic of ways, without complications.

I remember bringing to school a peanut butter sandwich and an apple, carefully tucked in a little brown bag. At lunchtime, I would sit underneath a tree, unpack my lunch, bring out my book for the day, and start eating as I read. Other times I would find myself carrying a bagel, with either cream cheese or peanut butter, a banana, and a thermos of coffee. Soon enough, I would realize how pretentious it all was and how it wasn't really filling--this brown bag and sandwich and fruit thing--so I laughed a little bit at myself, then went back to rice and whatever Filipino dish I could concoct out of the available supplies in the 24-hour supermarket close to my apartment.

I remember walking in the snow in a pea coat and with a beret carelessly placed on my head. I remember gazing up at the swirling flakes and hugging my books tightly to my chest. And then, in my head, I was singing 'On My Own,' I was Eponine, and I was lost and alone and in love with someone I couldn't have. I laughed so hard after that. It was so silly. And one very cold Friday night, walking back to the apartment and trying to be cute and funny, I lost my balance, slipped, and fell. I still remember that painful thud--heard it as I felt it--the sound of butt hitting hard ice. It was painful, but I soon found myself laughing, perhaps to cover my embarrassment or maybe in realization of how silly I was behaving; and then, I just continued to lie there, amazed at seeing, from that angle, all that whiteness shimmering in the dark.

I remember that moment when I knew, finally, what 'spring' really meant: it was rows upon rows of yellow and pink tulips in full bloom where yesterday there was only a dry, brown plot of land. It was people smiling again and asking you how you were doing that fine, fine day. It was students shedding off their sweaters, their tops, and sunbathing all over campus, whether on cement or grass or sand, it did not matter. I remember wondering why they would want to stay outside and soak in the sun, when I, on the rare occasions I would venture out, would walk fast to any form of structure that could shield me from the sun and the heat.

I suppose the magic of Blacksburg for me is tied, first and foremost, to the seasons and all the beauty and silliness that each season brings, as it was the first time I was ever in a country with four seasons, and second, to certain activities that I had never experienced before. The fact, too, that Blacksburg is a small town, with all the quaint charm associated with small towns, added to the magic of the whole experience. Imagine a town where the main road is called Main St, and on a Friday night, while out to party, you only have to walk from North Main St to South Main St and already, you will be able to do a round of all the bars. Imagine a town where people say 'good morning' and 'how do you do' to and wave and smile at strangers they encounter in their morning walk. But also part of the magic comes from being introduced to a different educational system, one that is definitely more rigid and structured, but also more laid-back and open and accepting, one that teaches exacting discipline, but also offers endless possibilities, one that is classical in orientation, and yet very modern and technologically advanced.

I remember being in a two-week orientation for Teaching Assistants (TAs), before everything started, where we, as TAs, were introduced to the English Department, the classes that we were going to teach (English 1105 and English 1106, the freshman composition sequence), the grading system, the syllabi that we had to follow and the ones that we had to make on our own. I remember being very impressed with and quite terrified about how it was all very structured and guided. The reading assignments and writing deadlines should be given to students way in advance--on the first day of class, in fact, when you handed out the syllabus, because your syllabus should already include all these assignments and due dates. Besides these, your syllabus should also reflect your own philosophy of writing, which would then guide your grading criteria, which should also be in the syllabus.

I remember being totally anxious about the whole syllabus thing, so imagine my fright when they told us we were to choose a reading from the assigned textbook and demo-teach a particular lesson using that reading. At this time, I'd been teaching for almost 3 years, so the idea of a demo teaching shouldn't be so scary. But it was nevertheless. I remember thinking how ironic it was to teach English to native English speakers when I, myself, was a not a native speaker. I know there were about a hundred things wrong in that thought theoretically, but at that time, it was the only thing I could think of. I have a vague memory of the demo teaching itself, but I remember getting unexpectedly glowing comments from fellow TAs and the faculty advisors assigned to our group. I thought then that, perhaps, I could actually do this TA-ing thing, and maybe, even do it well.

Then classes came. I remember entering the classroom and being blinded. They were all white, my students. I suppose I never thought of that--of how a class composed only of white kids would look and make me feel--given all my other concerns. There were one African-American and three Asian TAs (me included) in my batch, so I wasn't exactly expecting an all-white class. And my thought, at that moment, "God, they all look the same. I'll never be able to tell them apart." Again, there were about a hundred wrong things in that thought, but there it was, my one thought. Oh, there was also the urge to run outside and never come back. I might have done that, too, if not for the kindly senior professor in the room across the hall, who upon seeing me and perhaps noticing how frantic I looked, waved and smiled, as if to say, "Carry on!" And carry on I did. To this day, I thank him for that moment, for giving me what I didn't think I needed at that time: a wave and a smile from a stranger.

In the days to come, I would begin to make distinctions: there was Ethan who was blonde, and there was Ethan with the red hair and freckles. There was Matthew who looked a little bit like Josh, except that Josh would smile and talk more in class. There was Jenny, a brunette, who always wore sweats to class, and the other Jenny, who was also brunette, but never wore sweats. And still another Jenny, who had short blond hair and a giggly personality, and who introduced me to Dave Matthews. In the next semesters, I would have one or two African-American and Asian students, making the classroom a little bit more dynamic. I remember thinking that these kids were so different from my UP students in their dreams and hopes and struggles, and yet they were the same in their attempts at finding 'a writing voice,' in finding a place for themselves on campus, and as I laughed to myself, sometimes even in their split infinitives. I still remember that one moment when a student, commenting on a remark I made in class, said, "Sweet, Ms. Salonga. Really sweet." I was confused at first, then I figured out what he meant. It was sweet indeed.

But there was another classroom, too: one where I wasn't the teacher but the student. I remember the daunting task of reading Milton for an ultra-conservative professor, while at the same time reading 'Representations of the Body' for a feminist professor. I remember trying to stay awake in a Twain/Crane class at the same time that I tried to refrain from being over-enthusiastic in my Austen/Byron class. Because of the Anglo-American literary tradition underlying the MA English curriculum in VT at that time, (which is not the case now), we had to take courses from both the English and American literary tradition, one from pre-1800 and one from 1800 onwards. There were theory courses as well and genre studies courses. Then there were the composition and research methods courses, which we had to do as TAs.

And these were the courses I loved best. I remember being (and allowing myself to be) seduced by postmodernism in my theory class. I remember falling in love with the essay form and nourishing dreams of being an essayist one day in my genre studies class. I remember going backwards and forwards through Winterson's canon in my research methods class and loving every moment of it. I remember the very first time I opened my mouth in class to speak, not to introduce myself or ask something about the syllabus, but to contribute to the discussion, the fear of being dismissed, not listened to, or worse, not being understood at all, and the relief of having been told I had a valid point--in fact, a point worth reconsidering in light of recent developments in contemporary theory--and the joy of having generated a discussion afterwards.

Outside of Williams Hall and over to the other side of the campus, I remember how my eyes went wide with shock when I found out that the library was open until midnight and that I could eat there while I read or worked, that I could borrow 100 books at a time and keep them for three months unless they were urgently needed by someone else, which never happened anyway, and that the books were actually on the shelves. I remember my disbelief when I was told I could have a book the VT library did not have borrowed from whichever part of the world (or the US, at least in my case) by simply filling up an online request form, and the sheer wonder of that moment when the books started pouring in--one from Hawaii, the other from California, still another from Washington DC.

It was another shock to see all the available computers at the library, in every department building. Then I found out about the Math Emporium, which housed about 500 computers available for use by any VT student, was open 24/7, and was about a 10-minute walk from my apartment. I remember entering that place for the first time. Seeing all the monitors spread out nicely in the huge floor area, my mouth almost watered, and I thought: "If UP only had 1/4 of this." There was one unwelcome surprise though: learning that I had to photocopy everything myself. Used to the convenience of dropping photocopying jobs at the Shopping Center in UP and picking them up the next day, I was not prepared for the hours I had to spend photocopying. Looking back now, though, I suppose it has prepared me for all the photocopying that I'm doing now.

All of these, and yet, there's still so much I remember: running, always running to catch my bus, charmingly called 'Tom's Creek' ('Tom's Creek B' to school, 'Tom's Creek A' back to the apartment); a bar called 'Top of the Stairs,' because it was literally on top of the stairs, where I first heard bluegrass; talking to a war veteran about American foreign policy in the The Underground, where I met a bartender named Todd; the University Bookstore where I spent hours and hours browsing books and where I got all the journals I kept during that time; the Lyric Theater on South Main St where I saw a movie that defined who I was, slept through a Shakespearean drama by a theater company who would 'do it with the lights on' through no fault of their own, and got 'devirginized' in a Rocky Horror Picture Show production; running to Kroger, the 24-hour supermarket close to our apartment, at midnight, to get cigarettes, or just before 2am, so I could get white zinfandel as well; Honeysuckle Road, and that one summer I spent there almost every day--running, briskwalking, running--trying to achieve a goal just to spite someone; and that one miserable afternoon where I just decided to sit under a tree somewhere downtown, because I was tired from all the walking and was feeling wretched, and on top of all that, I didn't know where I was or where to go.

Of course, there are dark pictures, twisted ones even. But they don't really have a place in this memory, and if truth be told, I hardly remember them anymore. And really, all the unpleasantness doesn't have anything to do with Blacksburg or VT at all. The place itself remains untouched, and holds for me a certain wonder, to which I come back again and again. Today, it's Thanksgiving over there, and right now, I'm remembering my very first Thanksgiving dinner.