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Tribute to a Writer and Teacher
by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo

I was never a student of Franz Arcellana. I met him when I came to U.P. in the early seventies to accept a teaching position in the English Department. I knew him only through his stories—through “The Yellow Shawl” and “The Mats” and “Divide by Two”. But Franz had known my husband, who had grown up on campus, and had been his student. And he had known my husband’s parents well, who had been his neighbors. He made me feel welcome in the Department, and in the University. And he made me feel welcome in the U.P. Writers’ Club, which he revived.

I didn’t stay in U.P. long that time, because my husband accepted a job which took us overseas. When I returned to U.P. after 15 years, Franz was already a National Artist. He had set up the U.P. Creative Writing Center, and the Creative Writing Program. He welcomed me into the program, and later, into the Center. So, although I was never his student, I, too, came under his influence. I, too, learned from him. But I think the lessons I remember most do not have to do with writing. They were lessons in humility.

I came to him once to seek advice about the Creative Writing Program, of which I had been made the head. It seemed to me we had come to an impasse. We had realized that most of our students would never be good writers. What standard were we to use in granting the degree? Were we supposed to fail them if they didn’t measure up? Franz answered without hesitation. “Fail them? No, no! If they can be competent, that is good enough. Your job is just to teach them to do a little better what they know how to do.”

The other incident took place only a year ago. I was complaining to Franz about how Manila had not inspired our own writers in English to produce great fiction of the city, the way New York or Chicago or Paris or Rome had inspired writers of the west. He was pensive for a few moments, and then he replied quietly, “I tried, you know, but since you notice the lack, I must not have succeeded.” His simple humility shamed me into returning to his work, to reread his stories, and I realized that the failure was not his, but mine. Or my memory’s.

There is among his lesser known stories one called “How to Read”. It is about a poor young man called Zacharias, who earns his living through what used to be called “buy-and-sell”. Failing to raise money for his wife’s impending delivery, he decides to peddle his ten well-loved books in Plaza Goiti. Of course no one is interested in his books. So, after taking a meager meal, he goes to the Sunken Gardens, stretches out under an acacia tree, and rereads each book over again. And, as he dips into his precious horde… “There was the sun in the afternoon; there was the blue sky clear like God’s eyes; there was the tree and its shade; there was the green grass and the feeling of earth; there was the twilight and then the miracle of the afterglow; there was the evening falling like a sable shroud and there was the cape of the night.” Zacharias goes home, content in the knowledge that the books are a wealth in themselves, a treasure beyond compare.
I thought then that the story might well be a parable of Franz Arcellana’s life.

Franz by Dr. Francisco Nemenzo
Tribute to a Writer and Teacher by Cristina Hidalgo
The realest Franz by Jose Dalisay
For Francisco Arcellana, National Artist by Gilda Cordero-Fernando
Memories of Franz by Marra PL Lanot

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Updated September 25, 2002
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