5 BEST MEMOIRS THAT I’VE READ

I READ voraciously. Whenever a reading craving strikes, I readily succumb to whatever book is within arm's reach—a habit that firmly qualifies me as a bookworm. My literary appetite is eclectic, and I will dive into any title that piques my curiosity. I do, however, have a distinct hierarchy of preferences when faced with too many choices at once: historical novels, award-winning masterpieces, and books that have been adapted into cinematic triumphs.

Lately, I have discovered an added delight in narrative non-fiction—first-person accounts that unfold with the gripping pacing of a novel. I am continually thrilled by personal truths captured on the page. I appreciate these perspectives not only from world-renowned authors, thinkers, and celebrities, but also from ordinary individuals examining their own paths through life. I am equally fascinated by writers who mythologize their own histories, unspooling exploits known only to them, and by those who begin as absolute underdogs but emerge as experts in their fields.

I am speaking, of course, of the memoir. While the terms "memoir" and "autobiography" are frequently used interchangeably, they are fundamentally different. Unlike an autobiography, which is heavily laden with the specific dates, chronologies, and facts of an author's entire life, a memoir does not anchor itself strictly to a timeline. Instead, it provides a curated record of selected events and distinct phases that stand out vividly in the author's memory. It is a true story built with a real-life plot, characters, settings, and subplots, focusing intently on a slice of the writer’s past that carries universal appeal.

To me, the finest memoirs must read as beautifully as great fiction, rich with wit, emotional honesty, and experiences I can relate to in my own life. They should weave together anecdotes under a unified, transformational theme, delivering a profound emotional impact that makes an ordinary reader care. Finally, the prose itself must be exceptional.

Over the past few years, I have crossed paths with five captivating memoirs that permanently altered the way I look at the world, proving that any life lived honestly is a life worth reading. Organized in the chronological order of when I read them, here are my top five selections:

1. Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen

      When I first picked up this book, I mistook it for a traditional novel—the very text that inspired the Oscar-winning film starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. In reality, it is a lyrical memoir penned by a Danish baroness whose real name was Karen von Blixen. After divorcing her unfaithful husband, Blixen took on the daunting task of managing a Kenyan coffee plantation entirely on her own.

      The book offers a vivid snapshot of her life in Africa, serving as a poetic love letter to the magnificent landscapes and the vibrant local communities that touched her soul. Beyond her deep bond with the land, I was profoundly moved by her tender relationship with Denys Finch Hatton, a British big-game hunter and traveler. Though Blixen leaves the exact nature of their romance beautifully ambiguous, it was a profound, bittersweet affair. Finch Hatton used her farm as a home base, and together they would soar over the African plains in his biplane.

     Their bond was tragically cut short when he died in a plane crash. Reading her words, I felt an intense empathy for Blixen’s deep anguish and infinite longing—grappling simultaneously with the loss of a man she adored as a soulmate and the financial collapse of her beloved coffee farm. It is a slow, meditative read, but its immersion into the majesty of the continent makes it a thoroughly rewarding masterpiece.

2. One L by Scott Turow

     This journal-style narrative details Scott Turow’s grueling experience as a first-year student at Harvard Law School, where freshmen are universally dubbed "One Ls." I first heard of this book when it was enthusiastically recommended by a guest speaker during my own orientation as a freshman law student at a premier university. However, I didn’t actually open it until my third year, well after I had been academically dismissed from my first school and forced to transfer elsewhere.

     Even so, reading it late was far from a waste of time. It allowed me to look back and understand exactly where I had faltered and what I had lacked during my own freshman year. Turow perfectly illustrates why the first year of law school is the most critical juncture in a future attorney's life. From the outset, you must survive sheer terror, bouts of depression, academic hazing, a crushing workload (such as briefing twenty cases for a single two-hour class), and deeply intimidating professors.

     One of the most memorable segments details the brutal realities of the Socratic method, where professors grill students with circular questions that yield no clear answers. It was a painfully familiar experience for me. Turow brilliantly captures the intense anxiety of facing a single final exam that holds the power to decide your entire professional future. Ultimately, the book is about much more than legal education; it is a profound study of human nature operating under extreme, exhausting pressure. It remains an absolute must-read for any law school applicant or anyone who has ever contemplated entering the legal profession.

                                                          

3. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

      I was unfamiliar with Maya Angelou until I witnessed her recite her breathtaking poem, "On the Pulse of Morning," at the 1993 inauguration of US President Bill Clinton. When I finally read her seminal memoir more than fifteen years later, I was stunned by the sheer gravity of what she endured. The book chronicles her journey of overcoming a deep-seated inferiority complex, profound childhood trauma, and systemic racism to emerge as a dignified, self-possessed woman, a celebrated playwright, and a multi-award-winning poet.

     Over the years, I have read numerous historic accounts and works of fiction detailing the generational trauma of slavery, the quiet resilience of Black Americans facing oppression, and the horrors of sexual violence, lynching, and segregation. I explored these themes through masterworks like Alex Haley’s Roots, Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon and Beloved, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, and Richard Wright’s Native Son. Because Angelou’s memoir navigates this same post-civil rights cultural landscape, the historical realities she described did not shock me.

     What did feel entirely fresh and remarkable was experiencing this world strictly through the eyes of a young girl, tracing her life from the age of three to her early teens in a small, rural 1930s community. Angelou writes with an astonishing blend of strength, candor, poignancy, and grace, utilizing a powerful command of language that paints vivid emotional landscapes. It is a magnificent piece of literature, though its heavy themes make it best suited for mature readers.

    

4. Red Azalea by Anchee Min

     My deep love for historical fiction originally led me to Katherine, a novel about a young Chinese girl and her American teacher. That book ignited a deep curiosity within me regarding what daily life was truly like in China during Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution, which eventually brought me to the works of its author, Anchee Min. This curiosity inspired me to pick up Red Azalea, Min's frighteningly honest account of growing up under the oppressive shadow of Maoist rule.

     Her story is a testament to inner strength and resilience in the face of rigid Communist dogma. Min masterfully navigates complex issues of ideological conformity, gender, sexuality, public humiliation, and political subterfuge, weaving a real-life drama that unfolds with the complexity of a television series. As a child, she was conditioned to be a model communist and was eventually sent to a harsh labor camp to work the rice fields. In keeping with the regime's strict ban on individualism, workers were forbidden to speak, dress, read, write, or love freely. Despite the immense danger, Min entered into a secret romantic relationship with her female supervisor at the camp.

     Later, she was handpicked to train as an actress for a propaganda film adaptation of one of Madame Mao’s political operas. However, Chairman Mao passed away before production could finish, and Madame Mao was subsequently sentenced to death. It was during this political collapse that Min fully realized she, like millions of others, was merely a casualty of a fractured political culture. Recognizing that a better life lay elsewhere, she managed to escape China for America with the assistance of a trusted friend. It is an utterly fascinating piece of history.

5. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

      I knew practically nothing about this book or its author when I first spotted it in a bookstore. Had it not been for the gleaming, gilded seal on the cover declaring it the Winner of the Pulitzer Prize, I likely would have walked right past it—and I would have missed out on experiencing an absolute gem of literature.

     The book is an intensely honest narrative of a young Irish-American boy growing up amidst severe poverty. It chronicles his heartbreaking struggles with his father’s debilitating alcoholism, his mother’s desperate battles to keep the family afloat, the tragic deaths of three of his siblings, and the casual cruelty of relatives and neighbors. What makes this book a triumph, however, is that McCourt recounts these miseries with immense eloquence, remarkable forgiveness, and an astounding sense of humor and compassion.

      Set during the Great Depression in New York and the subsequent war years in Limerick, Ireland—where the family relocated after failing to make it in America—the story is told entirely through the innocent perspective of the author's younger self. McCourt effortlessly makes you laugh and cry within the span of a single page, keeping you fiercely invested in his family's survival. While it highlights the devastating global realities of abject poverty and unemployment, the memoir ultimately stands as an inspiring monument to human hope and triumph rather than a chronicle of misery. It easily earns a full five stars.

JUST to round up my top ten, I must also confess an appreciation for the following autobiographical books: From Barrio to Senado by Juan M. Flavier, Nothing Is Impossible by Christopher Reeve, The Measure of a Man by Sidney Poitier, America is in My Heart by Carlos Bulosan, and Born on the Fourth of July by Ron Kovic.

I harbor a deep desire to pen a memoir of my own someday. I want to write one if only to help me make sense of my own journey, confront my personal truths, and discover fresh perspectives on the path I have walked. But for now, I find immense joy and solace in finding pieces of my own soul mirrored in the lives of others through their beautifully written memoirs.  

PO-ON: SELF-SACRIFICE AND NATIONAL UNITY

BEING an Ilocano myself, and having grown up knowing much of our history and language, I take great pride in having read F. Sionil José’s Po-on (Dusk), the first novel in the five-book series The Rosales Saga. Reading it evoked the same profound sense of pride I felt, as a Filipino and a member of the Malay race, after finishing the English translations of Noli Me Tángere and El Filibusterismo, the two classic masterpieces by José Rizal.

While the setting of Rizal’s companion novels is the fictional town of San Diego, the issues they raise transcend any specific locale. They depict the collective struggle of Filipinos against the abuses of the Spanish friars and expose the deep-seated ambivalence of the local ruling class. It was a snapshot of a time when the Philippines was still under the colonial thumb of Mother Spain.

Sionil José’s Po-on, on the other hand, begins in Cabugao, Ilocos Sur—my home province—before shifting its focus to Rosales, Pangasinan, the author’s birthplace. The narrative initially captures the plight of the Ilocanos at the hands of cruel Spanish officials during the twilight of their regime, before moving into the dawn of the American conquest following the Spanish-American War. Ultimately, the heart of the novel delivers a powerful message regarding nationalism and the very definition of our identity as Filipinos.

The novels of both Rizal and Sionil José confront the harsh realities of poverty, broken governance, and human rights abuses during the colonial era, aiming their sharpest criticisms at the corrupt, potbellied friars who oppressed the native population. However, while Noli and Fili view these struggles through the eyes of an ilustrado (Crisostomo Ibarra, later transformed into Simoun the jeweler), Po-on approaches history through the perspective of a poor indio named Istak (Eustaquio Salvador/Samson). Istak is forced to lead his family on a desperate exodus from Ilocos to Pangasinan to escape the wrath of the authorities after his father kills a tyrannical parish priest. The family's tragedy-laden journey draws a striking parallel to Tom Joad’s family in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath—they eventually reach their promised land, but only after making immense sacrifices in the name of duty.

Moved by the powerful, intense narration of Po-on, I felt a sudden pang of conscience. I regretted having read so few emotionally charged works by our own nationalist authors—stories that truly reflect our past, our present, and our future. Before discovering Po-on and Rizal’s twin novels, my exposure was limited to Gagamba (also by Sionil José), Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco, and an anthology of short stories by the Mindoro native N.V.M. Gonzalez. Yet, none of those works spoke so directly to the history of the resilient and frugal Ilocano people like Po-on does.

We Ilocanos are scattered across all corners of the country and the globe, accounting for a vast majority of Filipino immigrants worldwide. People often say this diaspora is a result of our geography. The Ilocos Region, or Ilocandia, is one of the narrowest strips of land in the country. Sandwiched between the West Philippine Sea and the rugged Cordillera mountain range, the region offers very little arable land for a highly industrious population. Surviving in such a harsh geographical environment is a challenge. It is no wonder we are stereotyped with traits vital for survival: tenacious industry, perseverance, resilience, frugality, and a pioneering spirit. Because space is at a premium, Ilocanos are almost duty-bound to migrate in search of better opportunities, working not just for themselves, but to uplift their entire clans.

In Po-on, Sionil José highlights a darker catalyst for this migration: the political persecution of Ilocano indios under Spanish rule. Long before Istak’s story took place, the Spaniards found the Ilocos region incredibly difficult to tame. Ilocanos were among the first ethnic groups to stage organized revolts against colonial authorities. Two of our nation's most remarkable uprisings occurred there: the Basi Revolt of 1807 and the 1762–1763 rebellion led by the lion-hearted Diego Silang of Aringay, which was bravely carried on by his wife, Gabriela Silang, after his assassination. The Silang revolt, prominently mentioned in Po-on, was fueled by deep grievances against Spanish taxation and abuses. Though short-lived, those early uprisings set a precedent that wouldn't be mirrored again until the final decades of Castilian rule during Istak’s lifetime.

Even though an exceptional, kind-hearted friar raises young Istak like a son—teaching him how to pray, write, and speak Spanish and Latin—the colonial system generally forbids indios from entering the priesthood. Thus, despite his advanced education, Istak is forced to return to his family to work the soil. Misfortune strikes when his father, Ba-ac, begs the town's new priest to admit his son to the seminary. During their argument, Ba-ac realizes this new friar is the exact same man who had previously ordered his arrest and brutal punishment—hanging him by his arms—on a false accusation of malingering from forced road labor. In a flash of blind rage, Ba-ac strikes and kills the priest with a heavy crucifix.

The family is forced to flee instantly, taking hidden back roads to evade Spanish guards. Traveling alongside other displaced relatives who have been driven off their ancestral lands, they become fugitives. Along the perilous trail, they cross paths with feared tulisanes (bandits) and brutal Spanish patrol officers. Amidst these harrowing dangers, the story weaves poignant threads of love and devotion—particularly between Istak and Dalin, his devoted wife and savior—while celebrating family solidarity and traditional values.

By the end of the novel, the narrative shifts to the arrival of the American forces. The Filipinos quickly discover that these new occupiers are just as cruel as their predecessors, witnessing American soldiers torture and abuse the local population. Don Jacinto, a sympathetic landowner who helps Istak's family establish a small farming village in Rosales, is deeply involved in the revolutionary underground. Istak eventually joins the cause, especially after an encounter with a revolutionary intellectual known as "The Cripple" (Apolinario Mabini), who seeks refuge at Don Jacinto's estate.

Ultimately, Istak is tasked with a dangerous mission to deliver a vital dispatch to President Emilio Aguinaldo. His journey leads him to Tirad Pass, where he joins the historic, tragic last stand of the revolutionary army. It is there that Istak is shot and killed by American troops.

Istak dies a true martyr, his final moments glowing with patriotic fervor. He dies understanding that love for one’s country—a love that demands total sacrifice—is essential to discovering the true meaning of existence. He brings honor to his people by proving to the foreign invaders that Filipinos are capable of laying down their lives, not just for the survival of their clan, but for the freedom of the nation.

Sadly, this standard of patriotism seems confined to history. We now live in a confusing era where many Filipinos dream of becoming Americans or Europeans, and a tragic number of our politicians are entirely bereft of patriotism in their service to the nation. The words spoken by The Cripple in the novel still ring with absolute brilliance and chilling truth: “There is so much that the past can teach us... Diego Silang more than a hundred years ago, what did he prove? That with a brilliant and selfless leader, we can be united the way he united the north. And united, we can then make Filipinas strong, formidable...”

Of course, today we no longer have foreign colonizers to fight, but we are still surrounded by wars. We are fighting a war against poverty, rampant government corruption, broken leadership, and a never-ending struggle for true national unity. Po-on serves as a stark reminder that our dream of producing selfless leaders who understand the value of sacrifice, alongside a citizenry united for the common good, remains unfulfilled. It is an absolute must-read for every Filipino who wishes to understand the heavy price paid for our freedom, and the glorious, complex history that defines us.

THE TRUE MEASURE OF A MAN

WHAT is the true measure of a man?

This is a question I had never really bothered to ask myself until I stumbled upon the book The Measure of a Man: A Spiritual Autobiography by Sidney Poitier. I didn't choose to read it because of his massive fame as Hollywood’s first African-American leading actor—in fact, I have never actually seen any of his movies. Instead, I was drawn in simply by the compelling title and the prominent Oprah’s Book Club logo stamped on the cover.

I expected this legendary icon and revered actor to share the metrics he used to gauge the meaning of his own life, and what it truly takes to be considered a real man. In selecting the memoir, Oprah Winfrey herself noted that Poitier is "the measure of one of the greatest men I think who has ever been on our planet".

Published in 2000 when Poitier was 73 years old, the book offers a fascinating look into his personal and public life. It is filled with deep ruminations on spirituality, sharp commentary on poverty and racial prejudice, insights into the film industry, and lessons on family values and upbringing. Reading it feels exactly like "having a conversation with a revered older relative," as one back-cover reviewer beautifully put it. His ideas are accessible and grounded, and he never forces the reader to agree with his worldview.

Looking back on his celebrated journey, Poitier evaluates his character through various lenses: as a man, a son, a husband, a father, and an artist. He discusses the foundational lessons he learned on the tiny Cat Island in the Bahamas, where a deep sense of "groundedness and belonging" was permanently woven into his identity. He credits his parents and his childhood with equipping him with an uncompromising sense of right and wrong, alongside a fierce self-worth that accompanied him throughout his life.

He narrates his trajectory from a poverty-stricken childhood in the Bahamas through a turbulent adolescence in Nassau and Miami, eventually tracing how he arrived in New York and achieved stardom in Hollywood. Along the way, he provides a firsthand perspective on the American civil rights movement, the societal shifts that led to the acceptance of people of color, and the profound philosophical influence that Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi had on his life. Through sheer talent and determination, he broke down color barriers in film and theater, overcoming incredible odds to carve out his legacy in American cinema. Over his career, he starred in more than forty films, directed nine, and wrote four. His landmark projects include TTo Sir, With Love, and Lilies of the Field—the 1963 masterpiece that earned him the Academy Award for Best Actor, making him the first Black actor to win the prestigious award.

Interestingly, the book dedicates only a small portion to his failed first marriage and how it fractured his relationship with his children. Yet, his transparency as an estranged father trying to navigate parenting is both instructive and inspiring. He shares a brand of wisdom that can only be earned with age, writing openly about his mistakes and describing forgiveness as a "sacred process". In admitting his imperfections, he risked looking vulnerable or unsuccessful, but this transparency only highlights the raw honesty and purity of intention behind his luminous memoir.

Every man, at some point, must endure misfortune or heartbreak. However, these exact trials carry the potential for profound growth and ultimate happiness. This concept aligns perfectly with the true measure of a man articulated by Martin Luther King Jr.—a figure Poitier deeply admired—who famously said:

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

Notably, I didn't find Poitier arguing that a man should be measured by his physical stature, the fierceness of his voice, or the dominance of his words. Nor did he suggest that worth is found in a bank account, the size of a house, the model of a car, the number of people under one's control, or a college degree. To him, the true measure of a man is his ability to provide for his children—a core piece of advice passed down to him by his own father.

Family was unequivocally the anchor of Poitier’s life. He fought to maintain his dignity, honor his parents, and become the best father he could possibly be. This is perhaps the most profound theme of the book, and it is one I agree with completely. A person who functions as a good father to his children is a man of immense stature. Being a decent person is a baseline way of living, but mastering fatherhood is a continuous, conscious effort. A truly great father possesses a deep spiritual understanding that his daily choices directly shape the well-being of his family.

As I read, I found myself asking: How can I raise my three children to become the kind of individuals described with such conviction by Poitier? What is my own personal measure, particularly as a father?

Now that my wife is gone and I am left to raise our three children alone, I find myself craving this kind of deeper reflection. I need lessons on how to anchor my family, and the memoir of a successful family man like Poitier provides the perfect blueprint. For me, the most critical part of being a good father is simply showing up and doing the work. It defines who I am, dictates what I do, and measures my ultimate success in life. The old proverb, "you are only worth as much as you have to give," feels incredibly fitting for my lifetime role as a parent.

My children need a doting, loving father who can step in to fill the painful void left by their mother—a truly formidable task for any ordinary man. They need a trusted confidant and a benevolent guide who is actively present in their lives; someone who pays attention, stays genuinely interested in their world, shares experiences with them, and asks about their day.

I often hear other parents say they want to shield their children from the hardships they went through, which frequently leads to overprotecting them from any semblance of risk. For my part, I refuse to let my children suffer needlessly, and I will never leave them vulnerable in a chaotic world. Yet, even with my protective wings wrapped tightly around them, I know I must not deprive them of the opportunity to learn, unlearn, and relearn life's vital lessons on their own terms. As a single parent, balancing protection with independence is the absolute biggest challenge I will face for the rest of my life.

Two of my three children are boys who will someday grow into men in their own right. I want them to learn that true manhood isn't about being a barako (macho) figure. It is about building authentic character. They need to know how to speak the truth and express their emotions honestly.

Expanding on Poitier’s scale, a real man must be fundamentally secure in his own skin, remaining unwavering in his convictions even when society challenges his principles. More importantly, he will ultimately be measured by how he treats the women in his life, how he honors his commitments, and how fiercely he protects his palabra de honor (word of honor).

To me, that is the true measure of a man.