LJM journalism school never like a boot camp

SO THIS is how it feels to lose your commanding officer, your leader, in the middle of the battlefield. You are disoriented and scared. You are distraught and vulnerable. You just want to raise your arms in surrender.

When I gave my eulogy for our editor in chief, Letty Jimenez-Magsanoc, LJM or Ma’am Letty to most of us, on behalf of the Inquirer reporters on the second day of her wake, I was a mess.

I spoke right after the moving video showing photos of LJM, so alive and beautiful. It wasn’t fair, I told our central desk chief, Juliet Javellana, as I took the microphone.

I didn’t want to speak. All I wanted to do was cry and let out the pain of this indescribable loss.

Passion

LJM was a most ideal commanding officer. She just didn’t give out orders to her foot soldiers. She nourished our passion for journalism, nurtured our talents and looked after our welfare.

Each time we came back to her with the mission accomplished—a fantastic story, a marvelous scoop—she credited us for a job well done.

When we came up short of her expectations, she never raised her voice at us or humiliated us. Instead, in that husky voice of hers, she gave words of encouragement that motivated us to make up for our shortcomings and do a better job next time.

Last October, editor Ruey de Veyra cornered me at the Research Department. “Just the person I was looking for!” he said, beaming.

Ruey told me he wanted me to write a feature story on the four pillars of the Inquirer—LJM, Eggie Duran-Apostol, Marixi Prieto and Sandy Prieto-Romualdez—for the 30th anniversary supplement of Inquirer, which was to come out in December.

“Madali lang yan!” Ruey told me.

But Ruey, whoever said writing about great people—these iconic women I look up to—was going to be easy? I got cold feet and two weeks later, I told Ruey I couldn’t do the assignment, giving the then upcoming Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation meeting of leaders as an excuse.

Little did I know that I would end up writing this—a tribute to LJM, one that she would no longer read or hold in her hands.

Mentoring

LJM had mentored easily more than a hundred journalists. Up until she passed away on Christmas Eve, she had more than 40 Inquirer news reporters and photojournalists nationwide under her tutelage, a number of whom had the opportunity to work closely with her.

We are often asked how we put the paper together. Let me explain the process in the simplest way possible:

Reporters have specific assignments we call beats (i.e., Malacañang, Senate, military, health, environment, Church/religion). We look for news in our respective beats by covering events, interviewing people, reading documents, investigating. We write the articles and send them to the news desk. The photogs, for their part, take pictures.

The editors, led by LJM, vet the most relevant news and photos that should be on the next day’s paper.

The primary questions we should ask ourselves as reporters when we pursue a story are: Why should our readers know about this? How does this affect their lives?

Discerning

LJM was a master in discerning what the people must know for them to live freely, without fear, and yes, happily as Filipinos.

She had exacting standards for people in government, expecting elected leaders and appointed officials to serve the public with utmost integrity. When they fail, just read all about it in the Inquirer.

Details

And of course, when we write our stories, LJM and all Inquirer editors expect that we do them the Inquirer way: Pay attention to details; be accurate; be fair; find the right angle; highlight the story behind the story; write with “landi,” with “kembot,” which meant write the article in the most captivating way possible to keep the readers interested, and give justice to the story.

As has been told over and over again—and we will never tire of listening to it—LJM and Ma’am Eggie led the band of brave journalists who fought martial law and what sweet victory it was for them when, with the help of their pens (green ink for LJM), the dictatorship was toppled in the bloodless 1986 Edsa People Power Revolution.

Finally, freedom and democracy after more than 20 years.

Martial law babies

I look at my fellow Inquirer reporters now and I realize that we are actually comprised of martial law babies and post-Edsa babies—with a handful of pre-martial law babies.

Give or take another five years, Inquirer reporters born in 1986 and after would likely outnumber those who had recollections of how it was to live under the gun.

I think it is safe to say that LJM was aware of these overlapping generations in the Inquirer newsroom. With her deep and immense experience, she simultaneously trained the “older” journalists and the “younger” ones.

Post-Edsa journalists are lucky to be in the Inquirer—to have the Inquirer—where we cultivate our dreams and hone our talents as newsmen and newswomen.

LJM instilled in us the rudiments of old-school journalism while we adapt to the advancements in technology and social media that influence current journalism trends.

Know history

It was important to her that we all know our history and being young isn’t an excuse not to know the past, especially if you are a journalist, or want to be one.

She wanted our stories to always be in the proper context of history because that is how we put meaning in them.

Are times less exciting for today’s journalist? I’m sure LJM would say, definitely not, even if the circumstances and events of the past decades may be vastly different from what we are experiencing today.

In fact, I can even hear LJM say we have much more responsibility in our hands as journalists today because of the freedom of the press that we enjoy.

We may not be under martial law, but there are still corrupt, inept and abusive officials, criminals and bigots who should be made accountable for their actions.

Philippine society is also evolving and certainly, LJM wanted us to record that.

Feel good Sunday

There are also tons of good news to share, which was why LJM always encouraged us to write feature stories for “feel good Sunday” and even for daily positive news.

Because reporters are mostly out in the field, we aren’t in the newsroom often. But LJM was always in touch, especially when our stories were for Page One. When she had questions, or needed clarification or wanted more quotes, she spoke to us directly.

Accessible

The icon that she was, LJM was very accessible. Reporters could send her a text message any time. And she called us back when she missed our calls.

She collaborated with us. For stories that needed extra attention, she asked us to drop by the office, at times, her house, to discuss these. She was open to our ideas and she helped develop angles that she wanted pursued.

LJM made every reporter feel relevant in the paper and every story published, important, such that when we see our bylines in the Inquirer, we feel that we have contributed to society.

Concerns heard

She fought for us and our stories. She made sure our concerns were heard, from the increase in transportation allowance to the purchase of new laptops.

I read the budding journalists’ short tributes to LJM in last Saturday’s ToBeYou section, and my heart broke knowing that these young ones would no longer have the chance to be mentored by this great human being—a privilege indeed that Mr. & Ms. and Inquirer reporters had.

LJM school of journalism

The LJM school of journalism was never like a boot camp. But we have to be quick in picking up the lessons from our interactions with her, if we want to be reliable, dedicated journalists.

The highlight of every Inquirer reportorial staff meeting was LJM shuffling into the room, holding the next day’s paper in 60-percent print out.

Hits and misses

It didn’t matter if it was 11:30 p.m. or midnight because we had to wait for LJM to finish editing the paper. We were always excited to hear from the Chief. She’d point out our hits and misses—but more often than not, she emphasized what we did well rather than dwelled on our lapses.

She always ended with words of wisdom or motherly reminders, her way of rallying her troops, encouraging us to go get those stories.

Watching her in action was learning from the master. The LJM kind of interview does not have long “pasakalyes” or backgrounders. Questions were asked directly but always politely, with flair, and in impeccable English. She engaged an interviewee in a conversation that usually has the latter end up saying more than they should, or at least find it difficult to lie to her.

Punchier

We know if LJM was the one who edited our copies because we would see the little details we buried deep in our stories up in the lead that made the article punchier and more compelling.

Jocelyn Uy, our health reporter, remembered 12 years ago, when she was still an editorial assistant, a lesson she learned from our boss:

“I would read to her on the phone all the summaries that came in before the ‘lista’ (list) was printed. One time—I was a newbie in the newsroom then—she asked me a question, a follow up to a news item that came out that day. I was stumped and didn’t have a clue at all what she was talking about. Then she said in her distinctive voice, ‘Don’t you read the paper?’ From then on, I always made sure that I had gone through the entire paper before starting my shift at the news desk.”

In love with job

“Ma’am LJM knew how to push you to become better without being harsh. When I went out in the field two years later, I always thought of that encounter to remind myself to be always sharp, to strive for excellence. She made me fall in love with my job and with the Inquirer over and over and over again despite the ups and downs,” Jo told me.

One time, LJM saw me at the office after a few days of missing work.

“What happened to you, Niks?” she asked me from her editing table, flanked by the desks of other editors.

I told her I had a bad cough and cold that kept me at home. Then LJM replied: “Yah, me too. I have a bad cold now but I have to put the paper to bed.” She didn’t castigate or reprimand me. But I got the message, hehe.

She wanted to use a photo of the Marines stationed at Ayungin Shoal whom I covered when I went there with other journalists to do a story on the maritime dispute with China.

“Niks, you remember the picture, right?” LJM asked me on the phone. “Can you identify the soldiers from left to right?”

I did remember the photograph, but I told her I had to “double-check my notes” for their names. It was a euphemism for “I don’t recall.” She knew it right away, and said, laughing: “Ikaw talaga, pero kapag gwapo naaalala mo ang pangalan!”

Always remember—memorize—the important details. Always.

One of our younger reporters, Maricar Brizuela, recalled that LJM “loved to look up for synonyms when she closes the paper at around 9 or 10 p.m., teaching us that even the best in the Inquirer still consult a dictionary for help.”

“I’ve always known her in the newsroom as a humble but strict voice. She makes sure that we deliver nothing but the best for the readers,” Maricar said.

Developing a team

LJM knew how to develop a team. She liked hosting dinners at the office and at her home, turning it into a chance for us to bond outside of work. I saw genuine disappointment in her eyes when a lot of reporters couldn’t make it and extreme joy if at least 10 showed up.

It was on these occasions when our boss let her hair down and demonstrated how downright funny she was.

On her birthday a few years ago, we surprised her with a dinner at the office. As she entered the conference room, we sang “Happy Birthday” and Nathaniel Melican, who was then the newest Metro reporter, handed her a large bouquet of flowers.

After she said thank you to Nate, LJM looked at us, gave us a wide smile—and turned to Nate again to ask: “And you are?” Everyone burst out laughing, including LJM and Nate!

The following year, we asked Nate to hand LJM the bouquet again for her birthday, and right away, LJM told him: “I know who you are!”

In one of our last dinners at LJM’s Valle Verde home, Marlon Ramos, who covers the antigraft court, and I were helping ourselves to a vegetable dish when Marlon quipped: “Si Ma’am kaya naggayat nito?”

As if on cue, from behind us, that familiar raspy voice answered: “Hindi na ’no!”

Personal lives

LJM made it a point to ask us how we were doing, whether in our beats or in our personal lives.

“I loved how Ma’am LJM reached out to us and showed that she cared for us not just as reporters but as individuals … . She was always busy but took time to get to know us, even through short chats. She attended colleagues’ weddings and condoled with those who lost loved ones. I really appreciated that she came to my dad’s wake even though she wasn’t feeling well that time and stayed to offer words of comfort,” Leila Salaverria, our Senate reporter, said.

Endearing

Endearing is the only word I could think of, when last year, LJM gave Jo, Leila and I her vintage pairs of jeans—believing that our waistlines were somewhere between 20 and 24 inches.

LJM was particularly interested in my love life—or lack of it. She told me she wanted to stand as ninang at my wedding (should it ever take place) and last year sent me this text message:

“I’ll pray for you, dear Niks, you find him within this year. As long as he is forthright, hardworking, terrifically good-looking, and exceptionally bright … . Otherwise, just be a single mother to one or two kids.”

The recollection of all these wonderful memories is a balm that soothes our aching hearts.

I told former Inquirer reporter, Blanche Rivera-Fernandez, how hard it was to let go and move on from the pain of losing LJM.

“You’re stronger than you think. Make her proud,” Blanche assured me.

Ma’am Letty—your troops are ready to go back to the frontline.

We will make you proud.