Why Should Guys Have All the Fun? E-Book

Loida Lewis

• Herausgeber: John Wiley & Sons
• Kategorie: Bildung
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 328

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Widowed mom shatters notions of how trailblazing CEOs look and act If Crazy Rich Asians and a Greek tragedy had a literary offspring, it would be the spitting image of Why Should Guys Have All the Fun? The true story of resolute immigration lawyer and activist Loida Lewis, Why Should Guys Have All the Fun? begins with Loida's adventure-packed Philippine upbringing. A torrid love affair with brilliant, irascible financier Reginald Lewis follows, as does regal living in Manhattan and Paris, and gut-wrenching loss, all before Loida shockingly commandeers a multibillion-dollar, multinational conglomerate and leads it with aplomb. You'll learn how she dealt with her husband's untimely death at the age of 50 and how she managed to raise two independent daughters even as she shepherded a multinational corporation to record earnings. Readers will also find: * Explorations of how the author overcame her severe depression after the loss of her beloved husband * Discussions of how faith and perseverance helped Loida overcome the myriad challenges and obstacles in her path * How the author, a Filipina-American woman, navigated a business world dominated by hard-charging white males A fascinating and engaging memoir from one of America's leading female executives, Why Should Guys Have All the Fun? is an inspiring and uplifting true story of how an ordinary person can rise to achieve extraordinary things.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

1 The Girl from Sorsogon

The Past Is Prologue

High Expectations from Papa

Business Lessons at the Dinner Table

At Ease with Affluence

2 “Here Come the Nicolases!”

Choosing a Path

A New York Minute

The “Meet Cute”

The Second Date and Good‐Bye

3 “I Have a Headache!”

Mr. Persistent

Becoming More Intimate

A Second Good‐Bye

Back Together, Forever

The Big Day

4 Dragons and Monsters

The Honeymoon Is Over

Susmariosep!

My Devotion to My Marriage

5 Lover/Mother/Lawyer

Starting a Firm

Not Starting a Family Just Yet

Becoming a Family

Being Tested, as a Mother and a Lawyer

6 Fighting Tyranny and Discrimination

Going Up Against the Philippines Government

Fighting Is Not Without Monetary Costs

Wartime Collateral Damage

Schooling Uncle Sam

7 Mogul Madness

In Pursuit of Money

Expanding Our Family

Becoming a Real Estate Mogul—“Landed Gentry, Here I Come!”

Trying to Keep Up

Real Estate with a Conscience

8 “You Represent Me!”

Getting into a Fashionable Industry

Quietly Learning the Business

Thanking God for Our Blessings

9 The Life of Riley

Leaving the INS

Leaving New York

10 Loida Never Fails

Stepping Out

11 Some Rain Must Fall

More Distressing News

Waking Up

12 Losing My Soulmate

A Bogus Celebration After Devastating News

The End Comes

13 Unfinished Business

Documenting His Legacy

Moving On

14 From Mrs. Lewis to Madam Chair

15 Liquidity Crisis

16 Puts and Calls

Coming Up with $350 Million

17 Winding Down TLC Beatrice

You Can't Win Them All

MATTERS OF THE HEART

18 Progeny, Philanthropy, Politics

19 Photo Gallery

Acknowledgments

Other Books by Loida Nicolas Lewis

Other Books by Blair S. Walker

Books about Reginald F. Lewis

Index

End User License Agreement

Guide

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Table of Contents

Begin Reading

Acknowledgments

Index

Wiley End User License Agreement

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LOIDA LEWISANDBLAIR S. WALKER

WHY SHOULD GUYS HAVE ALL THE FUN?

AN Asian American Story of Love, Marriage, Motherhood, and Running a Billion-Dollar Empire

Copyright © 2023 by Loida Lewis and Blair S. Walker. All rights reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

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Library of Congress Cataloging‐in‐Publication Data is Available:

ISBN 9781119989837 (Cloth)

ISBN 9781119989844 (ePub)

ISBN 9781119989851 (ePDF)

COVER DESIGN: PAUL MCCARTHY

COVER ART: (PORTRAIT) © E. LEE WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY (FLOWER) © SHUTTERSTOCK | BONCHAN

DEDICATION

Ad majorem Dei gloriam(To the greater glory of God) – St. Ignatius Loyola

TO

Leslie Malaika Lewis

Christian Roy Vincent Hamadun Harelimana Lewis Sword

Savilla Joy Innocente Niyonkuru Lewis Sword

Gavin Rodney Sword

January 26, 1973–April 27, 2022

Co‐parent with Leslie

Father of Christian and Savilla

TO

Christina Savilla Nicolas Lewis and Daniel Noah Halpern

Calvin Reginald Lewis Halpern

Sasha Lewis Nicolas Halpern

Macy Savilla Lewis Halpern

PROLOGUE

“All things work together unto good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.”

—Romans 8:28

Lord, please destroy the cancer that's sapping the life of my beloved soulmate. Father God, have mercy in the name of Your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Slowly lifting my head from my clasped hands, I make the sign of the cross and then open my eyes onto the sumptuous interior of 834 Fifth Avenue, a breathtaking, 15‐room, two‐level East Side co‐op apartment across the street from Central Park. New Year's Day 1993 was celebrated a few days ago, meaning my family and I have lived in 834 Fifth Avenue less than a month.

My husband, Reginald Lewis, purchased and oversaw the decoration of this exquisite $12‐million abode, which holds four upstairs bedrooms, a dining area capable of seating 24, antiques that include two eighteenth‐century French writing desks, and masterpieces from artists such as Romare Bearden and Picasso.

I'd sell it all in a heartbeat, if that would obliterate the inoperable brain cancer my spouse is bravely battling.

Ditto Reginald's private jet and our majestic, multimillion‐dollar rental home in Paris, where Reginald guides the fortunes of an international food corporation he acquired five years ago for $1 billion.

Wealth has never been my be‐all and end‐all. At the moment, my top priority is saving the love of my life, the father of our daughters, Leslie and Christina.

If God gave me a choice in the matter, I'd gladly exchange my life for Reginald's. He's the rock our family is anchored to.

My thoughts are interrupted by the voice of our butler, Lucien Stoutt: “Mrs. Lewis, the Reverend Angelo Lando is downstairs.”

“Bring him upstairs, Lucien.”

Easily the best‐known faith healer in the Philippines, my homeland, Lando (not his real name) gives me a firm handshake after striding confidently into the master bedroom. A slightly built man who's pushing 60, he has jet‐black hair and looks to be about 5‐foot‐6. Lando's accompanied by another Filipino who's carrying a black leather bag. I'm guessing it contains what Lando needs to perform psychic surgery on my husband.

As Lando approaches a massage table that's been draped with towels for my spouse's procedure, I draw in a super deep breath and hold it for a second, then exhale slowly.

This desperate faith‐healer gambit is my idea, not my husband's.

Few individuals are as analytical, fact‐based and no‐nonsense as Reginald, who turned 50 last month. When he decided against chemotherapy and radiation treatments in order to protect his diminishing brain function, I secretly wept because I would have opted for both of those regimens.

But once it was clear that Western medicine's top cancer‐fighting weapons were off the table, I began looking into the Philippines’ rich history of nontraditional medical treatments.

Faith healers do booming business back home. And the best of the best has flown to Manhattan from the Philippines for the express purpose of saving my darling husband.

Reginald initially wanted nothing to do with “that bullshit quackery” as he characterized it, but now that his weakened left side has left him barely able to walk, he's reluctantly agreed—explaining why Reginald is lying face‐up on the massage table, wearing shorts that a towel has been draped over.

Joining me, Reginald, Lando, and Lando's assistant in the huge master bedroom is my brother‐in‐law, Tony Fugett, who's traveled from Baltimore to assist his stricken sibling. Someone who's been a godsend since his brother has taken ill, Tony is looking at Lando with unabashed skepticism that borders on hostility.

Clad in a white Cuban shirt and dark slacks, Lando isn't wearing a mask or gloves but has a thick gold ring on his left hand and a hefty gold bracelet on his right wrist.

Picking the black leather bag from the floor, he suddenly thrusts it toward the ceiling and calls out in a booming voice:

“Mga espiritu! Alisin ang lahat ng negatibong energies mula sa katawan ni Reg Lewis.”

Not understanding Tagalog, the native language of the Philippines, my husband and Tony are clearly baffled.

I'll tell them later what Lando has just bellowed: “Spirits! Remove all negative energies from Reg Lewis’ body.”

Now Lando begins silently kneading Reginald's stomach, before making a quick north‐to‐south incision using only his hands. Torrents of bright red blood begin flowing down Reginald's sides, staining the white towels protecting the massage table.

Alarmed, I peer at my husband's face to see if he's in excruciating pain, but miraculously he seems to be doing just fine. Lando runs his hands and fingers through the massive incision he's created, then starts pulling bloody entrails out of Reginald's midsection … even though my husband's cancer is attacking his brain … I really want to believe this, I really, really do.

But it doesn't take long to see Lando is relying on impressive sleight of hand and is substituting animal entrails for the cancerous material he's supposedly extracting from my soulmate. As Lando continues his routine, it's clear to Reginald, Tony, and me that the renowned faith healer is merely an opportunistic charlatan, but we allow him to finish his “operation.”

When it's over about 15 minutes later, Reginald calmly and courteously thanks Lando, who I direct Lucien to escort downstairs.

Lucien, Lando, and Lando's assistant are barely out the bedroom door before Tony, who has a temper like his older brother, pops off. Noting that Lando was “palming” Reginald and little else, Tony is dead set against Lando receiving his $20,000 fee.

Reginald, who's now sitting upright on the massage table as I numbly wipe fake blood off his stomach and chest, is equally adamant that Lando is getting paid.

“Why am I paying him?” Reginald asks quietly. “Because there was a promise of hope. Is this amount of money worth the promise of hope?

“Yes!”

Hope. I'm armed with something considerably stronger than that, namely, the unparalleled might of my Lord and Savior. I'm able to see Angelo Lando's visit this morning for exactly what it is: a test of my faith.

Nothing I just saw weakened my allegiance in the slightest, which is what God wanted to learn before He blesses my spouse and I with a miracle.

“Darling, we're going to beat this,” I tell Reginald as I look him in the eye. Upon hearing this he wraps both arms around me, and I can practically feel the determination emanating from his fierce heart.

With God in our corner, there's no way the malady sabotaging my husband's brain can win.

1The Girl from Sorsogon

Like most ultra‐successful entrepreneurs, my father, Francisco J. Nicolas, Sr., has a knack for peering into the future.

When my mother, Magdalena Mañalac Nicolas, was lugging me around in her belly, Papa sensed that my brothers, Danilo and Jose, would soon have a little sister. Whenever a hunch takes root in my father's hyperactive brain, he leaves nothing to chance when it comes to turning that hunch into reality.

That explains why Papa scours the Philippines in search of a picture of brunette Hollywood actress Deanna Durbin. A huge star during the 1940s, Durbin clearly has something that resonates with my dad, because after locating her photograph, he brings it to our house in the town of Sorsogon and hangs it in my parents’ bedroom, right in my expecting mom's line of sight.

He believes that if Mama gazes upon Durbin's image day in and day out, I'll have to come out a girl! Perhaps one resembling Durbin, a cute, young White woman with an ample forehead, high cheekbones, and winsome smile?

If this sounds off‐the‐wall, eccentricities and willful ways are part of Papa's charm. Weeks before Mama's due date, Papa strolls onto a Sorsogon field where several water buffalo he owns are kept. After carefully inspecting the beasts, my father hand‐picks one to fulfill the sacred duty of pulling a cart that will transport him and Mama to the hospital for my birth.

You can't let a water buffalo full of negative energy pull your wife and newborn child around town, right?

When my mother's contractions begin the morning of December 23, 1942, the designated water buffalo is hitched to our cart, and my parents set off for Sorsogon Provincial Hospital. With World War II under way and the Philippines besieged by Japanese occupiers, most Filipinos aren't driving cars, in part because Japanese soldiers have no qualms about commandeering every operational civilian vehicle they encounter.

So, my solidly upper‐middle‐class parents ride in an animal‐drawn cart to the medical facility where Dr. Saturnino Lopez helps me draw my first breath. Despite being born into noteworthy affluence, my first ride is in a creaky wooden cart that trails a smelly water buffalo! War and pestilence are great equalizers indeed.

As we head home from the hospital, my parents and I roll past smiling, waving fishermen and farmers, the primary residents of Sorsogon Province. Papa, who's built a lucrative lumber and furniture business in Sorsogon Province, is universally admired thanks to his kindness and generosity.

Mama, on the other hand, elicits province‐wide fear and trepidation, thanks to her terrifically exacting nature. Like Papa, Mama also thought I was going to be a girl, which is why she put up with Deanna Durbin's cheerful, intrusive gaze while waiting to deliver me.

I spend the bulk of my childhood in a huge two‐story concrete house that's the most prominent dwelling in the town of Sorsogon, as well as the only one with a drugstore, bowling alley, gasoline station, billiard tables, a lumber business on the first floor, and living quarters on the second.

As children are prone to do, I spend a lot of time quietly observing the interpersonal dynamic between my parents. There's no question Mama is every bit as strong‐willed and set in her ways as Papa. That sets the stage for a lot of bickering, which is usually due to their differing management approaches when dealing with the many workers our family employs.

One particularly spirited quarrel kicks off after a carpenter arrives at our house to tackle a project but fails to bring the tools he needs to do the job properly. When Mama discovers this, she immediately begins pummeling the poor man with blistering sarcasm.

When my father hears the commotion and has the audacity to object on the carpenter's behalf, this sparks a disagreement that's considerably louder and more fiercely contested than the usual knock‐down, drag‐out shouting matches Papa and Mama are always having.

Papa always sides with the poor, the oppressed, society's have‐nots. I embrace this same worldview, as do my brothers and my sister, Imelda, who was born a few years after me. But like Mama, I have a hard time dealing with people who are incompetent, inefficient, and lacking in focus and common sense. I just happen to be more tactful than Mama when encountering someone's inadequacies but, like her, I can also be stern and uncompromising.

Lest I leave the impression that my early days are dominated by strife and turmoil, my childhood is actually very joyful. My parents may have markedly different personalities, but they deeply love each other and always sing from the same sheet music when it comes to loving and nurturing their children.

The Past Is Prologue

During those times when my parents aren't around, it falls on my older brothers Danilo and Jose to show me how the world works. Their lessons tend to be more entertaining than Papa's and Mama's, so I'm over the moon when an opportunity arises to hang out with my brothers and some of their buddies in a Manila neighborhood where Mama's parents own a big home.

An energetic and inquisitive 5‐year‐old attempting to stave off boredom on a blisteringly hot summer day, I'm about to discover that the Almighty has ordered one of His most vigilant guardian angels to watch over me. As I play with Danilo, 10, Jose, 7, and their pals alongside an empty dirt road, far in the distance a tiny plume of tan dust materializes and silently grows larger as it creeps toward us. We all watch this development with eager grins.

Traffic has been sporadic in the Philippines since World War II ended two years earlier, thanks to the fact that a large number of roads and bridges are pockmarked with massive bomb craters. The national economy is pretty bombed out, too, leaving Filipinos without much disposable income for purchasing and maintaining cars, trucks, and scooters.

Consequently, the sight of a vehicle coming our way has my brothers and their friends chattering excitedly. How better to spice up an unremarkable Philippine day than with a Kamikaze dash in front of an oncoming car!

“Takot ka ba, Loida?” (Are you scared, Loida?) my brothers and their friends taunt in singsong Tagalog, our native tongue. “Takot ka ba?”

No, not in the least. Not many things generate fear inside pre‐pubescent brains, including scenarios that could easily result in grievous bodily harm or death. Likely assuming that I'm too petrified with fear to join them, my brothers and their buddies flit across the dirt road well in advance of the fast‐moving vehicle, which is almost upon us now and resembles a landlocked olive‐green battleship trailing a brownish wake.

A U.S. Army truck.

“Takot ka ba?” Here's your answer, fellas!

Intent on pulling off a daring sprint that will be the stuff of legend and that will make these silly boys stop equating frilly cotton dresses with timidity, I start running as fast as my little legs can propel me. About four paces into my mad dash, the world unexpectedly goes topsy‐turvy. The blue of the sky and brown of the dirt road begin to intermingle in rapid‐fire fashion, punctuated by a terrifying CRUNCH! When the herky‐jerky kaleidoscope finally stops turning, I find myself sprawled awkwardly on the ground, listening to blood‐curdling screams from my brothers as a roiling cloud of thick brown dust nearly obscures the sun.

I also hear soul‐rending wailing that could be coming from only one person—my mother. How did she get here?

Mercifully, a little greenish‐blue apron that was draped over my dress got entangled in one of the truck's huge wheels, resulting in my right foot getting crushed, but saving me from being completely smashed beneath a gargantuan tire like a cyan‐colored bug.

Perhaps due to the onset of shock, I don't feel any pain as I listen to the truck's diesel engine clatter to a stop, followed by the sound of several deep, anxious‐sounding voices. In no time, Mama is hovering over and comforting me, and she's quickly joined by a group of dark‐complexioned men who have close‐cropped black hair and are clad in green military uniforms. From my vantage point on the ground, they all look to be at least 10 feet tall.

They're babbling excitedly in an incomprehensible language, but it's clear from their tone of voice that they're nearly as frightened as I am. One of the soldiers quietly squats beside Mama, before picking me up with a combination of tenderness and strength I've only felt at the hands of my father.

I must have passed out at that point, because the next thing I remember is being in a hospital bed inside a U.S. Army medical facility, feeling an eerie numbness on my right foot.

After getting discharged, I spend several months hobbling around in a white plaster cast that encases my foot and ankle, a small price to pay in light of what could have unfolded. My injury transforms me into a neighborhood celebrity whose friends and family sweetly scribble touching messages on my cast.

A post‐crash activity I've come to enjoy is watching my parents put the fear of God into my brothers Danilo and Jose, who are admonished repeatedly for not taking better care of their little sister. While I do get a kick out of this, I feel sad whenever I think back to the mournful sounds that came from my Mama and brothers while I laid crumpled in the dirt. I don't ever want to be a source of pain or discomfort for my family again.

There's a saying that goes “the past is prologue,” which definitely proves to be true where my mishap is concerned.

First, getting mowed down by a huge military truck and escaping largely unscathed is confirmation that God holds me firmly in His loving, protective embrace. Moving forward, I never doubt that the Almighty is my strength and my shield, just as Psalm 28 states.

Second, that fateful day won't be the last time an African American man sends me flying head over heels and then helps restore my equilibrium with quiet inner strength and compassion.

Third, I learn it's a dumb idea to rubberstamp a plan simply because males have signed off on it. Because even my young mind instantly understood that running in front of that truck might not be the brightest thing to do. Using my accident as a yardstick, in the future I give my feminine intuition much greater weight when mapping out potential courses of action.

High Expectations from Papa

The man who views himself as the king of foreshadowing, Papa, naturally has his own unique take on my accident. To him, my escape from death is simply God's affirmation that I'm going to be a great lawyer, in keeping with Papa's dreams for me. My father attended the University of the Philippines College of Law for two years, but was making so much money from his burgeoning lumber business that he left law school before graduating.

According to my father, I'm tailormade for a legal career, thanks to being articulate, fast‐thinking, and someone who gets along with the impoverished and the wealthy equally well. It never occurs to me that Papa might still be a wannabe attorney, even though the Nicfur Furniture business he started in 1940 has prospered impressively.

Papa's keen interest in my future highlights one of the main parenting differences between him and Mama. A pharmacy school graduate, she's a doting mother who's one of my main confidants. Unlike Papa, Mama seems more inclined to allow for free will when it comes to the professions her offspring pursue.

With my father, I get a sense that everything he says and does around me is with an eye toward preparing me for a future he's carefully mapped out. Think Richard Williams and his painstaking programming of tennis superstars Venus and Serena. Papa has a similar, big‐picture approach to childrearing.

But here's the thing—as a child, I don't view Papa's nurturing and high expectations as something that's unpleasant or wearisome. I welcome it, especially when you consider that I'm not able to see him most of the week. Monday through Friday he's in Manila running his furniture‐manufacturing business, so my siblings and I cherish the weekend time we get to spend with him, following a commute that calls on Papa to fly an hour by plane from Manila to Legaspi, followed by a two‐hour car ride to Sorsogon.

The Nicolas kids continually joke about our father's “brainwashing.” He's sized up the world, gotten a feel for his children's strengths and weaknesses, and has given us loving shoves toward the path he feels we're best suited for. And I don't think it's a coincidence he always singles out vocations that would prove useful to an entrepreneur like himself!

Regarding his desire for me to be an attorney—what top businessman wouldn't want a daughter who can offer topnotch legal expertise to his enterprise? Papa says my brother Danilo should major in commerce in college, so he can eventually take the helm of my father's companies. Jose is encouraged to focus on civil engineering, which would make him an ideal candidate to take over Papa's construction company at some point.

Papa never pushes Imelda, otherwise known as Mely, toward a particular career field. In my father's estimation, my beautiful sister's looks will enable her to eventually marry a banker … a development that could unquestionably benefit Papa down the road.

Meanwhile, he decrees that Francisco, Jr., the baby of the family who's known to all as Francis, would make a wonderful architect. Might that be so Francis can help out with Papa's construction and furniture‐manufacturing firms?

Business Lessons at the Dinner Table

Being raised by Francisco J. Nicolas, Sr., is akin to growing up in a finishing school for entrepreneurs. A lot of his lessons take place on the spacious, second‐floor balcony of our house. The entire family is usually present, enjoying a panoramic view of the town of Sorsogon as we devour a sumptuous Saturday dinner Papa has shown our cook how to prepare.

After we finish the main course and one of our maids clears the dishes, we move to the balcony. The family starts munching on apples and grapes as Papa beckons his offspring to form a semicircle around him. What better place to quiz us about running a business and creating affluence?

“Tell me,” Papa asks gravely as our smiling mother looks on. “What are the five secrets of success?” Without waiting for an answer, he begins ticking them off. My siblings and I know this stuff backward and forward but wouldn't dream of stealing Papa's thunder.

Number 1 is hard work! Papa was only 11 when he lost his father and was then sent to live with a rich uncle who owned and operated several businesses. My father never misses an opportunity to let us know that he worked his tail off to transform himself into an entrepreneur on par with his kinfolk.

Number 2 is common sense/resourcefulness. Papa spits out anecdotes that showcase his common sense and resourcefulness in business scenarios.

Number 3 is determination, or tenacity, which always prompts Papa to remind us: “If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.” Then he segues into examples of how his determination to avoid failure enabled him to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

Number 4 is thrift, my father's term for managing money so that it makes even more money. Papa may be a generous soul, but at the same time he spends his hard‐earned cash prudently. If anyone doubts this, all they have to do is peer over the balcony and look down the side street where my dad's car is parked. He could easily buy a new one but refuses to do so when there are plenty of cheaper, well‐maintained used cars available.

Number 5 is faith in God, never a problem in our household, given that we live next to a Catholic church where the parish priest, Mons Florencio Yllana, is Papa's best friend.

I've easily listened to the five secrets of success thousands of times and can recite each verbatim, along with the anecdotes Papa relies on to buttress whatever case he's making. I never tire of his wealth‐building advice, though, because I know he wants his kids to live successful lives.

At Ease with Affluence

Papa has other aspirations for me, aside from becoming a lawyer. That is why when I turn seven, he builds a movie house in Sorsogon that he christens the Loida Theater. My father confides to Mama that he can see me eventually running for public office after I become an attorney, so having a movie theater with my name on it will build name recognition that will prove useful later!

Thanks to my parents, particularly Papa, self‐esteem is never in short supply during my childhood. Combine that with the fact that I love to learn, and the groundwork has been laid for epic academic achievement. Consequently, I'm the salutatorian in my class at Burabud Elementary School, a public school in the town of Sorsogon.

But in time I'm surprised to discover that Mely, who's two grades behind me and also attends Burabud Elementary School, is every bit my equal academically. After Mama observes how her girls routinely obliterate the competition at Burabud Elementary, she concludes we're not being properly challenged.

So, after I move up to sixth grade and Mely graduates to the fourth grade, Mama enrolls us in St. Agnes Academy, a private, all‐girls Catholic School in Legaspi City, which is a two‐hour car ride from the town of Sorsogon. Mama doesn't seek her kids’ opinions about this dramatic move, she simply executes it.

My mother attended St. Agnes Academy when she was in elementary school, had her First Communion at St. Agnes, and wants to expose my sister and me to the school's academic rigor, as well as the Benedictine sisters' spiritual influence. Their mantra, “Ora et Labora” (Pray and work) is deeply ingrained in my and Mely's brains. At St. Agnes Academy, we find ourselves in a daunting new environment, living in a huge dormitory with 75 other girls enrolled from elementary to high school. I become lifelong friends with many of my classmates.

Instead of going home every day, now we return to the town of Sorsogon only once a month. My no‐nonsense take on obedience and morality is on display during one of those brief Sorsogon visits. All of 12 years old, I've learned that a businessman in my hometown has gotten a green light to open a topless bar in the central part of town. This makes my youthful skin crawl because I envision the business overrunning my sleepy hometown with prostitutes and their disgusting customers.

I encourage about 15 of my friends to sign a petition to keep a depraved sin den from appearing in the middle of town! Not content to leave things there, I also lead a silent protest in front of the municipal council members who approved the topless bar. My lobbying is successful, and the plan for the topless bar winds up getting canceled.

None of my family members seem surprised to see me, as a pre‐teen, organizing a protest worthy of an adult. In fact, my father grinningly informs me afterward that I'm demonstrating why he sees me becoming a lawyer and a politician.

I may be flourishing at St. Agnes, but my younger sister routinely sneaks into my dorm bed at night due to homesickness. When Mama gets wind of this, she pulls Mely out of the school and moves her into a highly rated Sorsogon pilot school, leaving me at St. Agnes by myself.

How do I deal with this potentially destabilizing development? By burrowing under the covers of my dormitory bed and using a flashlight to study after the dorm lights are extinguished. I'm not going to allow Mely's departure to keep me from getting the grades I need to be No. 1 in my class!

While many people might call me demure, I cherish competition, including going head‐to‐head with some of the Bicol Region's brainiest girls! I wind up the salutatorian of my sixth‐grade class and valedictorian when I get my high school diploma from St. Agnes.

Along with acing my studies, during my stay at St. Agnes I dutifully digest two incredibly powerful books that Papa asked me to tackle: The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale and How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie.

How I manage to find time for extracurricular reading, classes, cheerleading, piano lessons, acting in school plays and being elected St. Agnes’ student council president is beyond me. No one ever thinks of overachievers as needing to slow down, but by the time I get out of St. Agnes, I'm feeling pretty burned out.

I need a break … and can't think of a better time to take one than during my first semester as a college student!

2“Here Come the Nicolases!”

I've decided to become a nun. I know Papa won't be happy to hear of this because it will upend his plans for me to become a lawyer!

From the days when he used to sit me on his knee, it's been understood that law and politics are to be my calling. That is, until I went off to college and messed things up. Well, it can't be helped because, after all, it's my life. It's hardly as though I'm looking to pursue a vocation that will besmirch the family name.

Plus, shouldn't it count for something if I make myself happy, while simultaneously following what I believe is God's path for me?

I haven't actually entered a nunnery yet, so I've still got time to figure out how to spin things in a way that makes everyone feel good about my decision. Until then, I'm not sharing my nunnery aspiration with anyone.

Not my siblings, not my friends, and especially not Papa.

Choosing a Path

Thanks to my sterling high school grades, I wind up with a plethora of attractive college options. St. Theresa's College, which is in Manila, gets the nod over another school in the same city, St. Scholastica's College. St. Theresa's wins partially because it's closer to Papa's Nicfur Furniture store, which has a small apartment behind the showroom. The apartment will be my home during my stint at St. Theresa's College.

After mistakenly assuming I could stop studying nonstop like I did in high school, and still get top grades. I discover the error of my ways when my first‐semester report card arrives. Although I earn 90s in philosophy, literature, history, and mathematics, I receive a 77 in Spanish. Huh? This grade enrages me because it erases any chance I have of being classified magna cum laude or summa cum laude upon graduation.

For three doggone centuries, my country was considered a Spanish colony, until the United States took over the colonizer role around 1898, aborting the Philippines’ nascent revolution against Spain.

Spanish was widely spoken throughout the Philippines up till World War II. In fact, Mama's father—Don Roman Mañalac—speaks only in Spanish, as does Mama, whenever she speaks with him. So my ear is definitely attuned to the language, yet it still manages to trip me up. Spanish classes are mandatory at all Philippine colleges and universities. Good grief! My ire isn't directed at my instructor but at myself for failing to resort to my usual study habits.

After my less than impressive grade in Spanish, I return to my tried‐and‐true study routine with single‐minded intensity. Plus, I join the Sodality, an organization that honors the Blessed Virgin Mary. And on Fridays, I work with a group that delivers food and clothing to Manila's impoverished and homeless residents.

As if these weren't enough, I also write for the school newsletter, “The Theresian”; lend my talents to a literary publication known as “The ORION”; sign up for a poetry reading group whose members include male students from Ateneo de Manila University; and join a group called “Girls’ Friday” that's composed of college women involved with Student Catholic Action.

Despite that strenuous academic/extracurricular load, when commencement day arrives, I receive a liberal arts degree in humanities with cum laude honors. I also get a Catholic Action Award during commencement, to my great surprise!