The Scholarship

Some women escape their lives by dreaming of another place. For one woman, the escape came not through dreaming but through a plan — a plan that began with five pesos in her wallet and ended with a one-thousand-yen bill in a foreign airport.

I did not know that my husband had been busy planning something else. Shortly after we got home from the hospital, he said he was going to his hometown for a reunion and town fiesta. He was not even sure how long he would be gone. He could not take a single day off for his wife giving birth alone in the hospital, but now he was planning an indefinite vacation. I thought he was insensitive, and I would be better off without him. My mother was there to look after me and the new baby, so nobody stopped him.

He came back with sad news about his family. He said he learned that they had borrowed money from someone and used their house and lot as collateral. He felt obliged to pay the debt as the only man in the family.

I had no idea if he was telling the truth. When in doubt, I would do myself a favor by not arguing with him. His excuses and defenses always made my sanity feel like a liability. He would make me wish I had no brain to understand what was going on, because he would stick to his version of the truth no matter what.

Since returning from that trip, he had been looking for an agency that could send him abroad without having to pay too much. But it was I who had to shoulder his expenses — until he finally decided he was willing to pay an agency to work in Taiwan. The fee was several tens of thousands of pesos. He went back to his hometown and renewed the family loan. He paid the old debt, gave some to his family, and handed what was left to the agency. In no time, he had flown to Taiwan. Just as he said, his priority was to pay his family's debt. He would call me collect, and the money he sent was barely enough to cover the telephone bills.

Meanwhile, I could not pay the outstanding balance for my daughter's tuition, so I could not enroll her. I wanted to give her the best education I could, but I had gone bankrupt again. My brother Junjun had stopped his studies and decided to look for a job. I could no longer run to Vilma for help — she had gone with her boyfriend, a security guard, despite my every attempt to stop her. She was the prettiest in the family, soft-spoken and shy. I thought she deserved someone better and was still too young to marry. But it was basically my fault. I had failed to be a good example for my siblings.

Then a neighbor who worked at a nearby private school mentioned they were looking for a part-time Mathematics teacher. Children of staff could receive a significant tuition discount. That was what I needed to hear. I told her about my daughter's situation and asked if she could enroll with records from the previous year to follow.

When the first day of school came, my daughter and I went together. She was enrolled in elementary while I was assigned to teach Mathematics in high school. I taught at the private school in the morning, at the public school in the afternoon, and gave tutorial lessons at night when requested. Despite these three jobs, I thought it best to finish my Master's degree — I was only short of the thesis, having completed the academic requirements when I was still single.

Getting a schedule for the thesis defense required fees and food for the panel. I had been asking Marlon to send money for weeks, but he ignored my pleas up to the last day, claiming he had none. I managed to borrow from a co-teacher who handled the school cooperative's funds. Then, to add insult to injury, Marlon's mother and younger sister arrived from the province not long after. His mother had a toothache and wanted to see a doctor. They spoke over the telephone, and just a few days later, she received money from Marlon — more than what I had been asking for. When I voiced my feelings, he called me a demon for questioning his duty to help his mother.

I let it go. He was working abroad, and it would be better if he was free from worry. So I would tell him encouraging stories on the phone, and he would gladly believe he was making a great difference in our lives. In some ways, he was. I did not have to deal with him every day, I had one fewer mouth to feed, and I could use the money he would have asked from me had he not left.

To my surprise, my mother arrived from the province before my graduation day. She said she already knew how to find her way to my place. I was getting ready for the ceremony when she took some of my clothes from the cabinet and stood in front of the mirror, holding them against her body and smiling. When I asked what she was doing, she said she wanted to march with me.

I had assumed no one brought family to graduate school ceremonies — the students were mostly middle-aged, employed, and independent. But when we arrived, every other graduate had someone beside them. Thanks to my mother, I did not have to walk alone. She was there with me — wearing makeup, my black skirt, and my favorite blouse.

The following school year, I enrolled in a doctoral degree at the school where I taught part-time. Then one night, the phone rang. I knew it was Marlon. He had just one thing to say: he was coming back, but would not tell me why until he got home. I hired a vehicle to pick him up at the airport. He brought a component stereo, a wristwatch for me, and chocolates for the children. According to him, his contract was terminated because he hit a coworker who had been bullying someone. I did not see any point in asking further questions. With him back, my vacation was over.

A former co-teacher had moved to the province and left behind a house in the suburbs, which she had gotten through a housing loan. Her brother, our school custodian, was looking for someone interested in it as a buyer or tenant. Another colleague had a house one unit away, also available for rent. My landlord was bound to ask us to leave sooner or later because of my consistently delayed payments, so I began to consider the place.

I was home one day when I suddenly thought of starting a kindergarten school. A retired teacher near my daughter's old school ran one out of a single room — it was unregistered, but she had many students. If she could do it, so could I.

I visited the subdivision. Big houses lined the road near the entrance, but farther in were rows of identical small units, back to back, like toy houses compared to the ones by the gate. The area was crowded and full of children. On the other side of the subdivision, I found a small school reportedly owned by a teacher. Despite the tiny lot, the place was very promising. My only concern was where to get the money to begin.

I traveled to the province where the lot owner had transferred. She agreed to formally hand over the housing loan — on the condition that I pay her a certain amount and take over the balance. I came with barely enough, but she signed the documents on a verbal promise that I would give the rest to her brother. She said I was unbelievably lucky. Even the sky seemed to agree — we saw a falling star together that night.

With the documents in hand, I started working on the house. It was wearing a neglected look and needed a complete makeover inside and out. Near the subdivision, I found an open stockpile of hollow blocks, sand, iron bars, and other construction materials. I walked in and asked for the owner — a very simple-looking man. I introduced myself, told him my plan to open a school, and asked, without any pretension, if he could provide materials on credit, to be paid from enrollment fees or my salary if things did not work out.

I was not really expecting a positive response. I just acted on instinct. I did not have many choices, so I might as well try, even if it seemed impossible. Amazingly, he agreed. I would just give a list of materials whenever I needed them, and they would be delivered by his men.

We moved into the unit next door and called my father and brothers from the province to help with construction. My brothers-in-law came too. While working on the registration and other requirements, I was deeply involved in the labor — mixing concrete, tiling the floor, designing the flower box in front. People in the neighborhood were surprised to see the owner doing the work herself.

Marlon's role was to cook. He would walk around with his chin up as if telling everyone he was the boss — and that was not far from what he would claim. He said I could never have borrowed money from anyone if he had not worked abroad, and therefore I owed him the school. When he was in Taiwan, one of the stories I told him to make him feel good was that businessmen were perhaps more willing to lend because they knew he was there. It never crossed my mind that those words of encouragement would later be used against me. He also had his eye on the leftover steel bars, which he planned to sell by the kilo for spending money. When my brother found out, he made sure to maximize every piece so nothing was left over.

Because the school was built during summer vacation, we finished with time to spare. A niece of my co-teacher came to help decorate and make the place look like a real classroom. She had a degree in Education but had not passed the board exam. She stayed with us and slept at the school at night.💡This school — Cinderella — will reappear throughout her journey, always at the center of her toughest decisions.

When the first day of school came, I could hardly believe it was real. The school was air-conditioned. There were two rooms and a receiving area, the walls properly decorated, stools and tables where my students had their textbooks, and they were wearing the uniforms and IDs I designed. Their parents had seen the big tarpaulin I placed in the area or a leaflet I distributed.

The first teacher became very sick and eventually left. I later learned from her aunt that she was not sick — she was pregnant. A replacement came, a woman who said she had come from a monastery. She was very kind to the children, but some parents did not like her accent. She eventually volunteered to leave. I was then left teaching at my own school in the morning and at the public high school in the afternoon, with tutorials at night and on weekends.

One of my night tutees lived inside a military camp. I had to walk from the gate to their house, and the helper always served me dinner — it was always delicious. But those were the nights I would burst into tears on my way home. I had been physically and emotionally exhausted since getting married, yet my life was still miserable. Marlon would not work. He would wait for a parent to come pay tuition just to take the money. He had already sold the component stereo from Taiwan and spent it on his vices. He came home drunk every night and forced himself on me, no matter how tired I was. I would secure food for the family for the next day, but he would eat it all.

He was so selfish and greedy that even my children despised him. My daughter would not let him walk her to school. My son was less than three years old when he said he wished Marlon was not my husband.

The following school year, Marlon's sister arrived with two college friends. They had just graduated and were inexperienced. I took all three because they were not demanding high salary, they needed a place to stay, and there would be conflict if I refused. Thanks to the smart students in the first batch, the number of students had increased significantly. I showcased their reading skills on graduation day, and it gained the school a level of popularity. With the new teachers handling classes under my close supervision, I had more time for my own studies and career.

I was at the library of the graduate school one day when I got to talking with a couple who were part-time teachers. I did not really know them, but they must have heard something about my situation from the other staff. One of them suggested I apply for the Monbusho Scholarship in Japan. A friend of theirs had been to Japan as a scholar, and they gave me her phone number.

I called, and she was accommodating and supportive. She taught me how to get to the Embassy and how to clarify my questions about the process. After seeing the application procedure, I was frustrated. I could secure every document to prove my qualification, but the recommendation letter from my school principal would be nearly impossible. Principals were routinely reshuffled, and ordinary classroom teachers rarely had the chance to speak with them. What they knew about us usually depended on what the people around them would say. Still, I asked for a set of application forms and a list of requirements, hoping I could use them someday.

I did not have to wait long. A new principal was assigned to our school. They said she was rich, and she obviously was — she had a nice vehicle and a driver. But that was not what I admired. She seemed confident and strong, reminding me of my favorite professor. Unlike other administrators, she would walk the campus alone and peek into classrooms. I became her secret admirer.

I was at the corridor, walking to my next class, when I noticed she was right behind me. I greeted her politely, and her response was completely unexpected. She said she had been wondering why some staff spoke negatively about me when she herself thought I was doing good. She did not just know me — she had been watching me. Since then, I was inspired to try harder, and she would announce my achievements whenever she learned of them.

With a good track record, I thought it was the right time to try the Monbusho Scholarship. I talked to my department head about my plan and, once I got her approval, went to the principal's office. She was fully in favor and wished me luck. I submitted all the required documents.

Months later, I received a letter saying I was qualified for the written examination and the interview. The written exam was basically a test of English proficiency, and I thought it was manageable. It was the interview that shook me. After reviewing my documents, they asked how I saw myself ten years from now. I said I would be managing a bigger school — because the school I owned, which they seemingly had a hard time believing, was still very small. They said I should focus more on public education if given the chance.

I got another letter with the final result. I did not make it. When I told the principal, she said I should try again — I might get lucky next time. That same year, I won the Search for Outstanding Public School Teacher in Mathematics and the award for Exemplary Mathematics Teacher. I planned to use them to strengthen my next application.

But then my dream deflated like a balloon. The principal was transferred to another school — and she took my hope with her.

The new principal had been with us for months when something unusual happened: the former principal came back. I had never seen a principal assigned to the same school twice. Just as she had taken my hope when she left, she returned with my dreams. I saw her coming back as a work of God — a sign that He had heard my prayers and was getting ready to answer them. I used to ask God to lift me from my situation by taking me away from my husband. I had suffered so much emotionally and physically. If I was born to suffer, I would rather suffer for strangers than for this man who was not related to me by blood but only by the stroke of a pen, yet who acted as if I were a piece of his personal property.

The timing was perfect. The recommendation letter had to be signed within a few months of its submission. I requested a new one, now including my two recent awards. She said I was lucky she had come back, and I could not agree more. I submitted everything before the deadline.

Just like before, I received a letter saying I was qualified. This time, I prepared differently. I imagined every possible question and rehearsed my answers. When my turn came, I was still nervous. Most of the panelists were familiar faces, each holding a copy of my file. They asked about my documents, nodding as we went. Then came the pause — and the final question. To my surprise, it was exactly the same question from the year before.

I could have echoed the kind of answer they had wanted to hear the first time. But that was not what I had prepared myself to be. I talked about how I saw myself as an inspiration for others. I started by telling them about my humble beginning as a coconut farmer's eldest child, how I earned my education, and how I had succeeded in my profession despite the extremely competitive environment in the city. Then I directed them to my profile to show how my future could look if I were given the chance to study in Japan. When asked how I intended to inspire others, I said: "I don't know yet. I might write an inspirational book."💡That "inspirational book" she mentioned offhand? You're reading it.

Seemingly impressed, one of them asked why I was only applying now. I said it was actually my second time — they were apparently not aware. When asked what I thought was the reason I did not make it before, I answered honestly: "I guess I did not pass the interview."

I left the room convinced that my life was about to begin a new chapter. My mind was filled with possibilities. I was sad at the thought of leaving my two young children, but I was too excited to finally be separated from my husband. I knew the monthly allowance for scholars was substantial, and I could send a big portion of it to pay our debts and make up for my absence.

The letter came. I passed. I had to wait for one more — to find out if a university professor was willing to take me. Among the choices listed in the handbook, the one that caught my attention was Akita University, described as a place famous for a shrine with a statue of the Lady of Akita, believed to be Mother Mary.

My choice was right. A professor accepted me. At the Embassy briefing, the other grantees were from prominent universities and colleges — no one knew mine, so I had to explain where it was located. We were told to bring around one thousand dollars as pocket money. But I had neither a passport nor a dollar. Because my registered private school provided the supporting documents, I qualified for a private passport. Everything fell into place at the perfect time. I got my passport with a student visa — and I never paid a single peso for it. I thanked God for the principal who had come back to sign my second recommendation letter. She was no longer at our school by then. She was replaced by a new principal waiting for retirement.

My close friends from other departments were happy for me. Because we were the low-profile group at school, the news did not spread far. My co-teachers in the Mathematics department were understandably not pleased — my study leave meant one fewer teacher, and they would have to divide the workload with extra classes.

My children were used to not having me around, and they were too young to understand what a scholarship meant. I was going to leave them with Marlon and entrust the school to his sister. I had already been having difficulty with the finances, and she would blame her brother for it. I trusted them in the classroom, but I could not imagine what would happen when I left.

Marlon was thrilled with the idea that I would be sending money every month. What worried him was the mounting bills for electricity, water, tuition, and debts at the grocery store that had to be settled before my departure. I was able to pay some of it, but I also needed clothes and a suitcase. Marlon's sister managed to borrow money from a relative — supposedly for my pocket money — but I used it to pay the bills instead.

By the time I reached the airport with my father and husband, I had only five hundred pesos in my pocket. Thinking I would not need it in Japan, I tried to give it to my father. He refused, saying I had better keep it. Marlon tried to take it, but my father stopped him — she might need to buy something inside, he said. I prepared to go in. They stood outside until they could no longer see me.

I had never been inside an airport before, much less ridden an airplane. I saw groups of pilots and flight attendants walking elegantly, just like in the movies. Then I noticed a money exchange booth. I remembered the five hundred pesos in my pocket. I approached the window and asked to exchange it for yen. The teller gave me a one-thousand-yen bill and some change in pesos.

The scholars were seated near each other on the plane. Some seemed relaxed and familiar with everything aboard. At least one of us was still pretending she was not nervous, keeping an eye on what the other passengers were doing so she could imitate them.

The instructions for passengers started, but my mind was not there. I was thinking of how it all started — and how things had suddenly turned in my favor. I remembered the night I got off the public vehicle in front of the Catholic Church, about two hundred meters before my stop. I went inside and sat on the left side. Some people were saying the rosary; others were on their knees.

I had been very depressed. If not for my children, I would not have gone home to see how miserable my life had become despite everything I had done. I talked to God, weeping bitterly, telling Him how tired I was — physically and emotionally — and begging Him for help. I had always prayed; it was my best source of strength, and I was willing to wait. But I wanted to know if God was listening. I prayed for a sign — anything that would make me believe it was from Him.

Then, out of the blue, a tall man wearing a one-piece white linen cloth and sandals walked past me on the left side. He walked to the front near the altar, appeared to touch something near the place of the Virgin Mary, then turned and walked through the center aisle toward the main entrance. His face looked kind and holy. He could have been a missionary who happened to be there — but that he appeared at the exact moment I asked for a sign was more than enough. I knew then that help was on its way.

And it was. I was finally leaving the husband who had made me a fool. The love letters from Hong Kong that I used to find and read — I had believed they were for his friend from work, because he was addressed as "Babe." They were his. He had gotten the woman pregnant, and their child was born just after I gave birth to Michael. The child's picture had been displayed in their living room when I made a surprise visit — but it was quickly removed. I learned the truth from my brother's girlfriend. They had thought I should know.

The captain spoke, and the airplane began to move. I did not know where to hold when it took off, but the passengers around me were reading, talking, or sitting still with their eyes closed. I imitated the latter and said a quiet prayer. I could almost hear the beating of my heart.

Then the quiet time came. The lights were turned off, and everyone was sleeping — or appeared to be. I was very much awake. I thought of the scene at the airport — Marlon trying to take the money that my father had refused to give him. Up to the last minute, he had failed to show any sign of concern. But finally, I was on a plane taking me to another part of the world, far away from him. It was only for a year and a half. But who knew what could happen during that time?

The lights came on again, and the captain announced we were starting to descend. The sound of the engine thinned, and my ears felt as if air were trying to escape them. After the plane tilted side to side, it made a smooth landing, and some passengers clapped. Through the windows, I could see a large building labeled Narita International Airport.

Our group moved together. We fell in line at immigration, where my passport was stamped "used" on the visa page and "arrived" on the next, with the date: October 1, 1998. After collecting our luggage and passing the checkpoint, we were led to a room. There was a simple welcome remark from an official — and then each of us was given thirty thousand yen. What a welcome.

The atmosphere was a clear indication that I was no longer in the Philippines. Men and women in suits, conversations in a language I did not understand, and characters everywhere I looked that were not familiar. We boarded a bus and were taken to a hotel near the airport. I was assigned a room with two other grantees, one of them a medical researcher headed to the same university for our Japanese language course. When we felt hungry, we went down to buy something — but when we saw the prices and mentally converted them to Philippine currency, we decided we were not really hungry. We shared the biscuits she found in her bag.

The following morning, we checked out and boarded what they called a bullet train. I had never been on a train before, so I could not compare it to anything, but it was incredibly fast. As we traveled, scholars got off at different stops. Every familiar Filipino face disappeared until only the medical researcher and I remained.

After hours of travel, we reached the last stop. A vehicle was waiting for us outside and took us to the Tohoku University International Residence for Foreign Students. We were welcomed at the lobby by staff and volunteer workers. The one assigned to me brought a package of groceries and essential items without which it would have been hard to start. They helped us fill out forms, explained the symbols in the manual, and showed us the bathroom, the coin laundry, and the common areas. Then the key to my room was handed to me.

Room A-105. First floor, Building A.

When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was the view from the window — a perfect vantage point for watching who came in and went out of the building. On the right side of the door was a gas range; across from it, a sink and a small refrigerator. A cabinet, a cupboard, a bed, a television, and a study table — everything neatly arranged in the narrow room, still leaving enough space for comfortable movement.💡This view from the window — and this room — will matter more than she realizes.

I unpacked and placed everything in its proper place. I cooked something from the groceries the volunteer worker had prepared. I could not thank her enough for her kindness and polite gestures. We parted with much nodding and waving, and I found my very limited knowledge of Japanese language and culture surprisingly useful.

She left the Philippines with five hundred pesos, a private passport she did not pay for, and a faith that had been tested in every conceivable way. The woman who once arrived in Manila with nothing now arrived in Japan with even less — and yet with more certainty than ever before. Every hardship, every humiliation, every night of weeping in the church had been steadily building toward this departure gate. The ticket was not just to Japan. It was to the unknown — and she was finally ready for what she did not yet understand.