Five days and it’s already my big sister’s wedding, and I can’t help but think about strange things. Here I am with the rest of my siblings, finally going to see our oldest sister enter a new stage in her life which is not to say that it hasn’t already been like this, but the ritualistic aspect of it makes it feel real, and feel frighteningly transitional.
Cynically, they’re just going inside a church in fancy clothing, kiss in front of God and three hundred people and slice a creamy loaf of bread and celebrate. However, the fact that this is happening strikes me odd in a formidable sense of apprehensive delight.
What this makes me realize is that my brothers and sisters and I will finally enter the stage of diverging into our own families—of spreading our gene pool and going out into the vast, uncomfortable world of millions of different families.
We are finally growing older, and that makes me a bit scared…That, to me, 1/3 of my family’s lifetime has already passed. A new generation of youth is already blooming. I am no longer the youngest in the family. I am starting to see more and more of my late mother in my big sister. My dad and the rest of my uncles and aunts are all showing their age.
As I am writing laying in the living room couch, I can’t stop myself from being flung into an introspective state of beautiful obscurity. Life is moving, and seeing it is indeed wonderful to witness.
The first line of any story must be startling and seductive. It must seduce anyone who glances at it. That means to say that the sentence that introduces a story must “hook” your reader into your story.
Simple enough, right? But as my brother Frank gave The Collegian editors and writers a task to make their first line seductive, they reached an impasse in creativity. Embarrassment perhaps?
Anyway, Frank wanted them to start a story which goes as follows:
'A poor town (I forgot the name of the town) in Isabela now subsidizes the burials of its citizens who otherwise cannot afford to do so.'
Nobody could come up with something enticing. One of the writers muttered a prematurely finished idea and fell short at finishing his statement. The room felt still.
"Sirit na ba?" (Do you give up already?)
Frank takes over the silence and gives them this surprise:
"Now that [this town]’s government is subsidizing its people’s funerals, the citizens of [town] are no longer afraid to die."
There were of course other parts of his lecture after that tidbit, in which he explained the ‘nut graph’ (the thesis of the story where you say what you actually wanted to say), followed by the body and conclusion of the article.
I was sitting on the wayside of that hot humid room, paying half-attention to him talking while I was distracted by my iPhone. When he said his first line, I was startled—as was the goal.
More importantly for me, I was seeing my brother in action. I knew of his ability and already sizable popularity among his colleagues, but actually witnessing him spur out intelligence like that to his students was like watching somebody else completely.
I respect my brother a lot, and I could only expect great things in his future. He’s about to become a licensed lawyer soon, which gives him two options to either teach or to practice law or to do both.
Frank Lloyd, my big brother. Someone who I really look up to. To think that in our younger days we despised each other only to see our adult relationship now make a 180 degree turn.