The Only Scribe in the Family

I do not come from a family of writers. My dad was a seaman, and my mom was a dancer, both currently retired. My older sister works in human resources, and my younger sister works as a flight attendant.

So, where did I get the deluded idea to pursue writing when I sprang forth from two individuals who did not find vivid hallucinating and writing them down on a page enjoyable

It was probably from reading a lot of books.

Other than the fact that my parents aren’t writers, they also aren’t readers. I don’t recall even seeing my parents read a book. 

Well, that’s not exactly true, at least in my mom’s case. I’m sure she read parts of the Good Book (sticking with the New Testament), but she mostly consulted Bible guides. 

But even though they didn’t read, my parents pushed my sisters and me to read. 

Like any other Filipino kid, we started with fairy tale books and illustrated Bible stories. I stuck to the Old Testament stuff because, let’s face it, they were the most entertaining. I kept re-reading The Ten Plagues, Lot’s Wife, Samson and Delilah, and Noah’s Ark. My favorite was Jonah and the Big Fish. I skipped the New Testament because I didn’t find Jesus’ miracles that interesting, and the Holy Trinity too confusing. To the five-year-old Dannah, big deal if the water turned into wine? Give me burning cities and giants getting their asses handed to them by small boys!

I even remember all the books we had back then were covered in my younger sister’s crayon scribbles. She colored in everyone’s eyes with a purple or black crayon. Sometimes it looked like they were all scratched out, like how kids in horror films do it. She was only three.

Eventually, I graduated to X-Men and Archie comics. Then my mom got this subscription from a friend who sold abridged classics for young readers. I was reading a watered-down version of Dracula and Jurassic Park in the fourth grade. Then I went on to read full Stephen King novels.

The first series I finished was Harry Potter, and then I skipped the Twilight books because they were nothing like Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles–although I erased the words “devil” and “Satan” with White Out across the books because I was very religious back then, and it scared me. 

My nose was buried in a book. I would read in the car, in between classes, and before I sleep. I would even read during sleepovers at my cousin's place. Because of this, I was dubbed the nerd in the family, but I honestly didn’t care.

Then one day, after watching Final Destination for the first time, I decided to write a story about a group of teenagers being hunted by a serial killer who liked to behead his victims. I wrote it in a notebook, drew a silly cover on it with silver gel pen to accentuate the axe, and let my sisters and classmates read it. I was freaking 11 when I wrote that dark shit. I remember having fun while writing the chapters, and reading them now makes me chuckle. I barely spoke English back then, but I wrote the whole thing in English – grammatical errors and all (that hasn’t changed).

It was then that I knew I wanted to be a writer.

As I grew older and started meeting other aspiring writers and diving deeper into this world, I’ve come to understand more of my origins.

Sure, I feel envious of those who were inspired by their family members who were also writers or those who had close connections in publishing to help jumpstart their careers. I felt like I had to learn everything about the writing industry on my own because I didn’t know anybody who was in the lifestyle or business of being a writer.

But then it hit me in my 30s. Despite the fact that I did not come from a family of writers, I did come from a family of storytellers.

We weren’t so involved on my dad’s side, but my mom’s side of the family absolutely loves telling stories. In fact, the crazier, the better. 

There was a story of how we were related to a Spanish Duke. My mom would repeatedly recount her days living in Japan, dancing at hotels, and trying out raw horsemeat that a rich bachelor had paid for her as a meal. Another story was of an aunt who thought they were bewitched to fall in love with someone else. There was also the time that one of our distant uncles got cursed by elves, enlarging his arms to the point that they looked like tree trunks (a story that they insist is true). His arms were normal last time I saw them, so he may have appeased the elves with a small sacrifice.

They would get into theatrics and character – eyes would bulge to emphasize anger, voice low for suspense, stage blocking across the room to paint scenes. The stories are family history that’s allowed to be discussed, or mostly gossip, but that is besides the point.

The way they tell their stories is mesmerizing, and they also evoke emotion and discussion afterward–again, mostly gossip.

Although they don’t have the slightest inkling of writing them down, they knew how to tell stories.

It made me realize that I’m not an anomaly after all. 

I know how to tell stories and I know how to write them. Maybe I’m just an improved and latest version from a long line of storytellers.

And I’m 100% sure I’m not the last. My cousin’s daughter had asked if I could give her tips on writing, because she had started to write poetry and short stories. I was thrilled for her! We spent four weeks just talking about writing, which was nice. It comforts me that she doesn’t have to feel the way I did back then, and it’s nice to know that someone related to me who belongs in the next generation is interested in writing.

Now that I know where my origins of writing and storytelling are from, what will happen to these whimsical and sort-of-true stories my family keeps repeating during our large reunions?

I realize now that it’s upon me to start writing my family history and their complex stories. No one has ever written them down, and my parents, aunts, and uncles are hitting the age where their memories are starting to fail.

If I’m the scribe of the family, then I must keep and hold these records. They are such colorful stories, and they help me make sense of where my identity aligns and deviates from them.

And the best part about not coming from a family of readers and writers is that I can write it the way I see it: the good, the bad, the crazy.

Am I worried that I’ll offend them and get excommunicated? Can I get away with it? I don’t know. They’ll have to read it first.