One Word at a Time

At 20, I must say that the longest love affair I've ever had was with a guy named Webster, an Oxford-educated American, who lived in random houses and has been around the world for quite sometime now. Every moment I’ve shared with him was an exciting one -- mind-blowing, even. He has always been someone I can depend on, someone wise and wonderful, someone I cannot live without.

Yes, in this literate lifetime, nothing has expressed my existence as succinctly as my trusty dictionary.

Dictionaries are not only placed in dust-laden shelves; these books are precious treasures. Our house is riddled with volumes of all sizes: from the 1970 edition of Collins English Gem (the smallest); to the ubiquitous black-and-red Merriam-Webster pocket version which I have kept since Grade One; the standard-sized red M-W that I have enlisted for primary usage; and the magnanimous Oxford Advanced English which at its thickness and built could pose as a dead ringer for the Holy Bible. ‘Twas the techno age that these compendiums have been reduced to handhelds and software, but I still love the smell of musty yellowed paper in the morning.

My romance with dictionaries came slowly but naturally. I have been that child -- alone, swept in a cascade of print -- not very keen with toys. I do not know to whom I inherited this, but then Mom and Dad discouraged neither. I would get a new hardbound Disney storybook every month to fill my collection. Trips to the mall were never complete without a visit to the bookstore. I loved reading as much as watching cartoons or sketching fancy ball gowns, but it wasn't until elementary that I developed a craving for words.

Soon, like all girls in that age, I had been bitten by the Sweet Valley-Nancy Drew-Hardy Boys mania -- friends would swap these pocketbooks like taboo paraphernalia on boring class lectures. My unfamiliarity of children’s games was amply compensated by escapades to the school library, where I was always bound to find some obscurely enticing book. I read classics like "The Great Gatsby", "Far From the Madding Crowd" and "The Old Man and The Sea", and became familiar with its characters and plots – well, some of them I didn't understand then. It also inspired me to tap into writing -- silly metric poems I composed day-long that always rhymed in the end, and mini-novellas that for some reason went unfinished after two chapters.

It really wasn't until Grade 4 that I truly realized what a dictionary was worth. It was just another Spelling drill one afternoon in class, and because it was my favorite subject I always wanted to ace the pre-lesson tests. Somehow I had a weird gift for 'sensing', not spelling, words -- I'd hear one, and a part of my brain would go all John Nash-like -- processing it, letter after letter, and I'd quickly consider whether it was something I had read or not, or maybe it was closely spelled with another familiar word.

I consistently got high marks on those drills, and my English teacher Miss Subala told me that I could give the annual school spelling bee a shot. I was new to that area -- I had never participated in some kind of academic contest, and this love of reading led me to one! I was feeling tense on the day of the competition, since most of the contestants were the intelligent, 'seasoned' challengers. I was so nervous that I couldn't hear the teacher pronouncing the words. Suffice to say, my first attempt on spelling bees was a dismal one.

My Dad, having learned of my newfound ‘talent’, started giving me "spelling training" the summer after, just so to prepare myself for next year's contest. He'd pick up a dictionary, and read at least ten words for me to spell. He told me to read more newspapers. Reading tastes began to evolve, and this was the time I started my John Grisham mania. I scanned through foreign dictionaries in the hope of finding some exotic words we might use. And we have this old vocabulary builder book that we used for spelling – such unheard-of English words that even if I didn't know the meaning, I would be able to spell anyway. And believe me, the Webster was my favorite book then -- I'd flip through it everyday, even sneaking before I went to sleep! I sure was a “word nerd” in my quirky way.

The boot camp did pay off -- I placed second in the Grade Five level that year. I was surprised enough I’d gone that far. Several months more of Dad's nightly drills and a bit of luck and a prayer, I won the gold medal in the Grade Six category. That was the first time I’ve ever felt so good in my life, really! (Thank you, Sergeant Dad.)

Having had a flourish in my elementary spelling success, I was given a chance to participate in outside competitions twice. It was something I’ve always wanted to do, envisioning myself in a sort-of “ Battle of the Brains” set up. Although I was only a finalist on the first try, I was able to finish second on the second time. I was a little disappointed with myself because I could’ve done more. Those misspelled words occasionally come to haunt me – caboose, euchre, lagniappe… I promise to devour my dictionary, Ma’am.

Beyond spelling bees, dictionaries have been every student’s go-to reference book. We seek for its wisdom at every vocabulary-building exercise, procrastinated term paper, and caffeine-induced book report. For me, it is a wannabe writer’s best friend. I usually consult the D-man or its cousin, the thesaurus, for every query I have whenever I run out of synonyms. (I sometimes falter over how to say “cool” three other colorful ways.) Writing since has become my passion, and I owe a great part of that on my nurtured love for the dictionary. It has always been there, just waiting for me to give it another once-over, perhaps in tow for the next great Palanca, Pulitzer, Nobel-winning piece. Perhaps.

Inadvertently, I also owe it for my crossword-puzzle addiction, my CNN viewing habit, my love of trivia game shows, my fascination for all things French, my clandestine foray into online journals, and why the editorial is my favorite newspaper section. I owe the dictionary for sharing a bond with my family, gaining new friends, having people recognize my capabilities; and most importantly, giving the sweetest definition of all: myself.

Every now and then, I’d encounter a difficult word while reading (recently it was rodomontade) and I honestly couldn’t resist the urge to just look it up in the dictionary. Even in this day of ‘instant’ everything, nothing could ever beat the old-fashioned joy of reaching into the shelf and taking that bulky volume out. The thrill of leafing through the pages and finding it’s right there. You discover its meaning, reading it slowly and sensuously. And your brain registers, hoping to create an imprint in the recesses of your memory, and your life. A beautiful experience, one word at a time.

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Note: This essay was published in The Philippine Star, Sunday Lifestyle Section dated June 8, 2008 (page H3) as the week's winning entry for the National Book Store "My Favorite Book Contest".