I hope I do not send the wrong impression that this is a haunting saga of morbid memories, something that we automatically associate with darkness. Rather, this is a fond, though bitter-sweet recollection of people and events that guided me as I navigated the shadowy alleys of the past, a daunting feat that would have consumed me otherwise.
Charles Dickens started his "Tale of Two Cities" with words poignant with contrasting imagery, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". I will not attempt such a brilliant starting line for mine will surely bring a crushing letdown to the reader and will show a lack of respect to Dickens' immortal prose. For that reason, I also did not modify his all too-familiar title and call mine, "A Tale of Three Teachers", though it will resonate the truth.
Goethe described the teacher in metaphorical wisdom when he said, "A teacher is like a candle that lights others while consuming itself". Such a description sums up the all-encompassing nature of love, caring, service, and selflessness that a teacher who is true to his professional credo, should possess. But naivete is a trait unbecoming and I will not venture to profess that everyone who holds the title subscribes, let alone practices, those set of ideals. However, I believe it will be safe to say that some special genus of homo sapiens have emerged with their angelic mantle and called themselves "teachers". I know, because I had been at the receiving end of their acts of mercy.
I was barely five years old when I was introduced to a middle-age, bespectacled, lean, ram-rod straight teacher with a chignon-styled hair. From her thin lips and serious demeanor, I knew she had not practiced much the disarming effect of a smile. Her mid-calf pleated cream dress with its matching belt was as straight as her form and a black pump in stockinged feet completed her ensemble. I was a transfer student from a nearby Catholic school, where my stint did not last more than a month (but that will be the subject of another post).
and my mother brought me to her classroom to meet her after I was enrolled. Initially, I was wary,even a little scared of her but "awe" might be a better word. It was a different time in a different world where teachers were respected and held in the highest esteem, not only by their students but by the public. On that first day, Miss Francisca Sayat did something that made me feel she was not the stern demagogue I perceived her to be. After the usual introductions, she brought my mother and me to one corner of her very organized classroom and showed us a stack of books that she was going to distribute to the students on a designated date. The hard-bound books were all brand new and had that special just-off-the-press smell. I thought that was the start of my love affair with books and I remembered that unmistakable I-must-have-it-now feeling that came over me. Tugging at my mother's skirt to get her attention, I whispered that I wanted a book. Miss Sayat overheard what I was saying and she asked if I really did want one. My affirmation came in a small shy voice and then I saw her pick up a book on top of the stack. She said she did not normally give them out early but she would make an exception in my case. That was my first book, "Pepe and Pilar". This brother and sister duo lived in a small house with Father and Mother with their protective dog, Bantay, and they became part of my childhood learning experience. From then on, I was hooked by the written word.
But that incident was only part of the reason why this spinster teacher carved a lasting place in my young impressionable heart. I guessed on that first day, I had inadvertently peeled a layer of that austere facade that hit me with trepidation initially, and had a glimpse of the gentleness that was buried beneath the surface. I came to her class every day without fail, sat quietly behind a wooden desk on the first row, and listened with rapt attention to everything she said, from sitting straight with feet flat on the floor(her exact words), to obediently folding my hands on the desk in front of me. I got a lot of special attention as she often used me as model of good manners and exemplary behavior (which she would have been dismayed to know did not extend beyond the classroom door). Those were self-esteem-building moments which probably left me a little puffed up inside but I remembered having that intrinsic desire to excel and not to let her down. With the help of my father, I quickly learned how to read and had finished "Pepe and Pilar" probably before the others completely learned their ABC's. I was soon writing in cursive, practicing even, repetetive strokes every night guided by my father's hand. One morning, I came at the usual time but was greeted by something unusual. All the children, from first to fourth grade, were asked to gather in the wide, concave-shaped, grass-covered ground infront of the school. We all lined up as a class with our teacher occupying the rear and ready to issue a flick of the thin stick in her hand to any unfortunate child who would dare to defy the rule of organized behavior she demanded we maintain. I soon found out we were gathered to witness a school program. My five-year-old naivete had yet to discover what a school program was all about but I did not have to wait long. After a few numbers of some songs and dance routine performed by the older children, Miss Sayat approached me. Taking me by the hand and leading me toward the makeshift stage, she asked me to recite a poem we had just learned in class. After my name was announced on the microphone, I climbed up the steps, walked to the microphone, and without practice or preamble, recited in the most confident voice I could muster, "The Owl"! I still quite remember the simple cadence of its rhyme:
"Of all the queer birds, I ever did see,
The owl is the queerest, by far to me;
For all day long, she sits on a tree,
And when the night comes, away fly she!"
That was my pain-free introduction to the stage. I did not recall any feeling of stage fright or nerves while reciting that poem before a crowd of unfamiliar faces because I had a teacher who trusted and believed in me. Then one day, toward the end of the school year, another unusual thing took place. There was a switching of teachers on the day of the final exam though I did not know what it meant. To me, it was just another test like the countless ones I had taken where I always scored a perfect 100%. No big deal, I thought. But to my teacher, knowing the consequences, it probably was. Before she left the classroom when the other teacher came to take over, she bent down, looked me in the eye, and spoke in an earnest tone: "Do your very best", she said. I just nodded wondering why she said that since I always did so anyway. I did not have to wait long for the answer because on the last day of school, there was a twinkle of pride in her eyes as she handed me my report card and announced to the class that I earned the highest honors. Looking back, I did not think that the honor itself meant a lot to me at that time. Probably, the sense of hubris that usually came with such scholastic accolades had not yet been developed within me at such tender, unspoiled age. I thought the stronger emotion that assailed me with that announcement was more of satisfaction - that I lived up to her expectations, that I did not let her down.
I sailed through the succeeding years in grade school with relative ease as I continued to be in the honor roll. It earned me an unsought recognition in the village and everybody, especially the parents, dubbed me as "matalino" (smart) and I thought some kids hated me for that. But I did not care because those who tried to bully me realized that, as small and skinny as I was, I could give tit for tat... and more (but that will be in another blog).
Then I entered 6th grade. Whether it was a strike of irony or just plain coincidence, my teacher's name was the same - Sayat. However, she carried the title "Mrs." being the wife of the school principal. She was a lanky, soft spoken woman, with hair combed back and curling in the nape. She was not stern, like her namesake, but was rather pleasant with an easy, approving smile that endeared her to her class of Section 1, 6th graders. I was 10 years old, 2 years younger than a normal 6th grader and this year would prove to be a disappointing year for me on the scholastic front, for no fault of my own. This change would be better understood if I offer you a flashback of what transpired in the years before.
In the interim years from 1st grade to 6th grade, our financial situation deteriorated drastically. I remembered that we had a decent house and a pretty comfortable life when I was in 1st grade in the little neighborhood where my maternal grandparents and aunts and uncles lived with their respective families. I always had nice clothes, most of them embroidered, little purses, black shiny shoes, and plenty of toys that were the envy of other children. But thick, dark clouds gathered without warning in the clear sky of my youth. Sometime after that year, my father lost his job as the overseer of my godmother's (one of the town's richest) vast track of lands. I was too young to know what really happened, whether she sold her landholdings or whether my father did something. But I remembered that we lost our house and we had to live for a while with my grandparents. My father, who was not used to such deprivation and the embarrassment brought about by losing his job, was reduced from a flamboyant, self-assured man, to an intoxicated, wife/children-beating father who elicited fear in my heart during his drunken moods. Sounds like an old celluloid tear-jerker, right? But I lived it and have scars, though unseen, to prove it. From my grandparents house, we moved a few times - to a rented, plain, first floor of the Knights of Columbus building in town, to another barrio, then back to my grandparents - wherever my father, and even my mother, could find something that would bring some food on the table.
That was the backdrop of my 6th year in grade school. Regardless of the financial hardship that we were going through, however, I kept my attendance and my studies in the forefront of my concern. Five sisters came after me and three of them were born during those hard years. At times, my mother would ask me to stay home to babysit them when she had something to do but I would vehemently refuse. I would not be absent from school unless I was sick. Probably, even as young as I was, I knew that education was my only chance to get out of that rut. But attendance and good grades, I would find out later, were not enough to earn the desired final mark. We had a lot of projects to complete where money was needed - crocheted doilies, embroidered handkerchiefs, apron, cooking ingredients in Home Economics classes, etc. I was unable to produce a finished product in most of those projects and my grades went on a downward spiral. There was nothing I or my parents could do. You could not pump water from a dry well and when the choice was between food for hungry mouths, however scanty it was, or my school projects, the former would always win, hands down. I guess my name would come up during teachers meetings because I was dropped off the honor roll. It was odd considering my scholastic achievements during the previous years. They knew what brought my grades down and my teachers talked to me about incomplete projects, but they also knew money was the real issue. Towards the end of the school year my fifth grade teacher saw me on the hallway and talked to me. She was a good friend of my 6th grade teacher and she told to me that they were all sorry I would not be in the honor roll although I would be able to graduate (I was first honors in her class the year before). She said Mrs Sayat cried when they were talking about the financial hardship that deprived me of graduating with honors. I did not attend the graduation ceremony feeling that it would just be adding insult to injury. Knowing that I was a victim of circumstances rather than of lack of ability did not ease my despondency. In my report card, my 6th grade teacher wrote a note that would serve as a beacon, a tiny light that guided my faltering steps as I traveled the long and bumpy road that awaited me: "Remember that poverty is not a hindrance to success." It became my silent mantra, a tune of encouragement that reassured me when hopelessness threatened to bring down the best in me. Now, after more than 50 years, those kind, voiceless words still sing to me during moments of quiet reflection, and counting my blessings, I listen with a grateful heart (Continue to Part II).
Charles Dickens started his "Tale of Two Cities" with words poignant with contrasting imagery, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". I will not attempt such a brilliant starting line for mine will surely bring a crushing letdown to the reader and will show a lack of respect to Dickens' immortal prose. For that reason, I also did not modify his all too-familiar title and call mine, "A Tale of Three Teachers", though it will resonate the truth.
Goethe described the teacher in metaphorical wisdom when he said, "A teacher is like a candle that lights others while consuming itself". Such a description sums up the all-encompassing nature of love, caring, service, and selflessness that a teacher who is true to his professional credo, should possess. But naivete is a trait unbecoming and I will not venture to profess that everyone who holds the title subscribes, let alone practices, those set of ideals. However, I believe it will be safe to say that some special genus of homo sapiens have emerged with their angelic mantle and called themselves "teachers". I know, because I had been at the receiving end of their acts of mercy.
I was barely five years old when I was introduced to a middle-age, bespectacled, lean, ram-rod straight teacher with a chignon-styled hair. From her thin lips and serious demeanor, I knew she had not practiced much the disarming effect of a smile. Her mid-calf pleated cream dress with its matching belt was as straight as her form and a black pump in stockinged feet completed her ensemble. I was a transfer student from a nearby Catholic school, where my stint did not last more than a month (but that will be the subject of another post).
and my mother brought me to her classroom to meet her after I was enrolled. Initially, I was wary,even a little scared of her but "awe" might be a better word. It was a different time in a different world where teachers were respected and held in the highest esteem, not only by their students but by the public. On that first day, Miss Francisca Sayat did something that made me feel she was not the stern demagogue I perceived her to be. After the usual introductions, she brought my mother and me to one corner of her very organized classroom and showed us a stack of books that she was going to distribute to the students on a designated date. The hard-bound books were all brand new and had that special just-off-the-press smell. I thought that was the start of my love affair with books and I remembered that unmistakable I-must-have-it-now feeling that came over me. Tugging at my mother's skirt to get her attention, I whispered that I wanted a book. Miss Sayat overheard what I was saying and she asked if I really did want one. My affirmation came in a small shy voice and then I saw her pick up a book on top of the stack. She said she did not normally give them out early but she would make an exception in my case. That was my first book, "Pepe and Pilar". This brother and sister duo lived in a small house with Father and Mother with their protective dog, Bantay, and they became part of my childhood learning experience. From then on, I was hooked by the written word.
But that incident was only part of the reason why this spinster teacher carved a lasting place in my young impressionable heart. I guessed on that first day, I had inadvertently peeled a layer of that austere facade that hit me with trepidation initially, and had a glimpse of the gentleness that was buried beneath the surface. I came to her class every day without fail, sat quietly behind a wooden desk on the first row, and listened with rapt attention to everything she said, from sitting straight with feet flat on the floor(her exact words), to obediently folding my hands on the desk in front of me. I got a lot of special attention as she often used me as model of good manners and exemplary behavior (which she would have been dismayed to know did not extend beyond the classroom door). Those were self-esteem-building moments which probably left me a little puffed up inside but I remembered having that intrinsic desire to excel and not to let her down. With the help of my father, I quickly learned how to read and had finished "Pepe and Pilar" probably before the others completely learned their ABC's. I was soon writing in cursive, practicing even, repetetive strokes every night guided by my father's hand. One morning, I came at the usual time but was greeted by something unusual. All the children, from first to fourth grade, were asked to gather in the wide, concave-shaped, grass-covered ground infront of the school. We all lined up as a class with our teacher occupying the rear and ready to issue a flick of the thin stick in her hand to any unfortunate child who would dare to defy the rule of organized behavior she demanded we maintain. I soon found out we were gathered to witness a school program. My five-year-old naivete had yet to discover what a school program was all about but I did not have to wait long. After a few numbers of some songs and dance routine performed by the older children, Miss Sayat approached me. Taking me by the hand and leading me toward the makeshift stage, she asked me to recite a poem we had just learned in class. After my name was announced on the microphone, I climbed up the steps, walked to the microphone, and without practice or preamble, recited in the most confident voice I could muster, "The Owl"! I still quite remember the simple cadence of its rhyme:
"Of all the queer birds, I ever did see,
The owl is the queerest, by far to me;
For all day long, she sits on a tree,
And when the night comes, away fly she!"
That was my pain-free introduction to the stage. I did not recall any feeling of stage fright or nerves while reciting that poem before a crowd of unfamiliar faces because I had a teacher who trusted and believed in me. Then one day, toward the end of the school year, another unusual thing took place. There was a switching of teachers on the day of the final exam though I did not know what it meant. To me, it was just another test like the countless ones I had taken where I always scored a perfect 100%. No big deal, I thought. But to my teacher, knowing the consequences, it probably was. Before she left the classroom when the other teacher came to take over, she bent down, looked me in the eye, and spoke in an earnest tone: "Do your very best", she said. I just nodded wondering why she said that since I always did so anyway. I did not have to wait long for the answer because on the last day of school, there was a twinkle of pride in her eyes as she handed me my report card and announced to the class that I earned the highest honors. Looking back, I did not think that the honor itself meant a lot to me at that time. Probably, the sense of hubris that usually came with such scholastic accolades had not yet been developed within me at such tender, unspoiled age. I thought the stronger emotion that assailed me with that announcement was more of satisfaction - that I lived up to her expectations, that I did not let her down.
I sailed through the succeeding years in grade school with relative ease as I continued to be in the honor roll. It earned me an unsought recognition in the village and everybody, especially the parents, dubbed me as "matalino" (smart) and I thought some kids hated me for that. But I did not care because those who tried to bully me realized that, as small and skinny as I was, I could give tit for tat... and more (but that will be in another blog).
Then I entered 6th grade. Whether it was a strike of irony or just plain coincidence, my teacher's name was the same - Sayat. However, she carried the title "Mrs." being the wife of the school principal. She was a lanky, soft spoken woman, with hair combed back and curling in the nape. She was not stern, like her namesake, but was rather pleasant with an easy, approving smile that endeared her to her class of Section 1, 6th graders. I was 10 years old, 2 years younger than a normal 6th grader and this year would prove to be a disappointing year for me on the scholastic front, for no fault of my own. This change would be better understood if I offer you a flashback of what transpired in the years before.
In the interim years from 1st grade to 6th grade, our financial situation deteriorated drastically. I remembered that we had a decent house and a pretty comfortable life when I was in 1st grade in the little neighborhood where my maternal grandparents and aunts and uncles lived with their respective families. I always had nice clothes, most of them embroidered, little purses, black shiny shoes, and plenty of toys that were the envy of other children. But thick, dark clouds gathered without warning in the clear sky of my youth. Sometime after that year, my father lost his job as the overseer of my godmother's (one of the town's richest) vast track of lands. I was too young to know what really happened, whether she sold her landholdings or whether my father did something. But I remembered that we lost our house and we had to live for a while with my grandparents. My father, who was not used to such deprivation and the embarrassment brought about by losing his job, was reduced from a flamboyant, self-assured man, to an intoxicated, wife/children-beating father who elicited fear in my heart during his drunken moods. Sounds like an old celluloid tear-jerker, right? But I lived it and have scars, though unseen, to prove it. From my grandparents house, we moved a few times - to a rented, plain, first floor of the Knights of Columbus building in town, to another barrio, then back to my grandparents - wherever my father, and even my mother, could find something that would bring some food on the table.
That was the backdrop of my 6th year in grade school. Regardless of the financial hardship that we were going through, however, I kept my attendance and my studies in the forefront of my concern. Five sisters came after me and three of them were born during those hard years. At times, my mother would ask me to stay home to babysit them when she had something to do but I would vehemently refuse. I would not be absent from school unless I was sick. Probably, even as young as I was, I knew that education was my only chance to get out of that rut. But attendance and good grades, I would find out later, were not enough to earn the desired final mark. We had a lot of projects to complete where money was needed - crocheted doilies, embroidered handkerchiefs, apron, cooking ingredients in Home Economics classes, etc. I was unable to produce a finished product in most of those projects and my grades went on a downward spiral. There was nothing I or my parents could do. You could not pump water from a dry well and when the choice was between food for hungry mouths, however scanty it was, or my school projects, the former would always win, hands down. I guess my name would come up during teachers meetings because I was dropped off the honor roll. It was odd considering my scholastic achievements during the previous years. They knew what brought my grades down and my teachers talked to me about incomplete projects, but they also knew money was the real issue. Towards the end of the school year my fifth grade teacher saw me on the hallway and talked to me. She was a good friend of my 6th grade teacher and she told to me that they were all sorry I would not be in the honor roll although I would be able to graduate (I was first honors in her class the year before). She said Mrs Sayat cried when they were talking about the financial hardship that deprived me of graduating with honors. I did not attend the graduation ceremony feeling that it would just be adding insult to injury. Knowing that I was a victim of circumstances rather than of lack of ability did not ease my despondency. In my report card, my 6th grade teacher wrote a note that would serve as a beacon, a tiny light that guided my faltering steps as I traveled the long and bumpy road that awaited me: "Remember that poverty is not a hindrance to success." It became my silent mantra, a tune of encouragement that reassured me when hopelessness threatened to bring down the best in me. Now, after more than 50 years, those kind, voiceless words still sing to me during moments of quiet reflection, and counting my blessings, I listen with a grateful heart (Continue to Part II).
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