Keep on Rockin’

December 2006



Dear Band,

I was in the crowd when you had your gig here in the bursting-forth city of Koronadal. I’m sure you did not notice me, for even if I was a stark anachronism there, the parking lot of the mall where you performed teemed with people.

Why am I writing this? I want to tell you that you are good and that you deserve the popularity you’ve been getting. I had to write because during your concert, I wasn’t able to express my appreciation. The best—and perhaps the one and only fitting—way of giving respect to the band on stage is to go with the music’s flow. But as you sang and drove the crowd wild that evening, I just stood on my spot, pliant as a brick wall.

There was nothing wrong with you guys. In fact, I wanted to shout, sing with you, and do some headbang, as did the uninhibited teenagers in front of me. The problem was me. I was simply not rockista enough.

In any rock concert, I would naturally be a square peg in a hole. You see, I’m the kind whose regular and ultimate social activity is having fun with books and other reading materials in the library. Until now, I still don't know what got into me when I decided to come with my dormmates to your concert.

My semi-stoic personality (if it’s not “monastic,” as some people label it) kept me from responding to your performance the way I ought to. But it’s also the same personality that would not allow me to shrug it all off. When I read an insightful and well-written book, I recommend it to my friends. When I hear an eloquent speech, I’m all-ears to the speaker and I try as well to apply the message to my life. The night you played, I found myself in the middle of a cool rock party. Too bad, sitting on a library chair for three hours every day had stiffened my muscled.

My scrupulous conscience is telling me that you might be wondering why a number in the audience did not seem to have any reaction. Don’t be bothered. Most of those phlegmatic people were middle-aged mothers grappling with grocery bags. The rest, who were younger, might just had something that held them back, like how my being introvert repressed my, ahem, rocker alter ego. No one booed you anyway, and even if some drunken nuts did, it would still not be proof that you weren’t good enough. You just had to look at the sweaty young things huddled near the stage, jumping mad while bellowing with you your song, “Sige lang sandal ka na / At wag mong pipigilan / Iiyak mo na ang lahat sa langit / Iiyak mo lang ang lahat sa akin . . .”

Okay, I’m being paranoid a bit. With chart-topping album sales and hectic tours, you may be too busy and not worried about anything at all. But in case doubt creeps in, you could take heed of these words from me. After all, you could every now and then lose self-esteem in the fickle entertainment industry, and in this crazy world, for that matter.

I am also writing this letter for myself. Like you, I feel fulfilled when I get to express myself. Like all dreamers, I wish to accomplish great things like, you know, touching other people’s lives and making a difference. I do it through writing. (I can’t carry a tune.)

I used to find it disheartening when my write-up seems to have no effect whatsoever to the readers. But now that I’ve been in the shoes of passive observers, I understand that it is not always my fault if the response to my essay or story is lukewarm. Yes, being seemingly ignored does not necessarily mean that my effort is futile or useless. Readers may not be raving about what I’ve written, but I could bank on the fact that since I write the truth and always for a good purpose, they get something from me. Hence, I will keep on writing—my own way of rocking the world.

In putting down these realizations, I hope to recall them if I’d feel rotten again when my articles receive poor attention.

I hope your bond grow stronger as you scale greater heights. Keep on rockin’. The next time I’m in your concert, I might already be a true-blue rockista.