By Psykhe Azarraga
A few months back, my Mom gave me a box of clippings of my old column write-ups from more than 20 years ago. I felt a bit nostalgic.
My old Flavors of Life pieces from the early 2000s often carried little interruptions labeled “Ed.” I thought of them back then as friendly tap-on-the-shoulder moments—a bit of humor, a counterpoint, a wink from the margins.
Only later did I realize how rare that was: having an editor whose voice was allowed to step inside the column instead of hovering above it. Those “Ed” comments were by Gerardo “Gerry” Pagharion or simply “Gerry P.”
He had quirks of his own, the kind that could be both endearing and mildly exasperating. He could be annoying at times, but never cruel. More like a Tito who criticizes you in the morning, but brings you merienda in the afternoon. Beneath the teasing, there was real affection. That’s exactly how I will always remember him: caring, sharp, and impossible not to like.
And talented? He truly was. Gerry could have won a shelf full of awards if he had cared about that sort of thing. I watched him work and edit so effortlessly, as if precision were his first language. He was an editor in the truest sense of the word, one who could shape meaning without erasing the writer.
Under his editorship, The Capiz Times felt almost literary. News stories breathed. Columns sparkled. He didn’t just fix grammar or spacing; he fixed rhythm. That’s what I remember most—the quiet rhythm of his pencil on paper, like music only writers could hear.
I was young, maybe too honest, writing as if the world were still kind and readable. I would hand him a column or a news story written with complete sincerity, sometimes bordering on naïve truth-telling. Instead of sanding off the edges, Gerry would write beside it, not to correct but to converse.
Those side comments made their way to print, which meant my column wasn’t just mine. It was ours. And that was fine with me. His voice became part of my growing-up narrative, an invisible hand guiding me without condescension.
Rereading “Life Is Beautiful” now, a piece I wrote more than twenty years ago, I can hear him again. I imagine Gerry P. leaning over my draft, pen in hand, half-smiling. He probably thought I was too sentimental. He was probably right. But he let it stay anyway.
Columns today rarely have conversations. But mine once did. And somewhere between my innocence and his experience, a voice was born—one made of laughter, reflection, and writing.
Gerry is gone now. Almost forgotten by most, perhaps, but not by me. I’ll always remember him as the editor who made my words bolder, my columns braver, and my young-writer self a little more certain.
Gerry P., the editor who marked in red, argued in blue, and cared in between the lines. A vocal machine gun when provoked.
