Touching me where it counts

After having written about flatulence, involuntary bladder discharge and assorted pink parts all these years, my Catholic high school teachers could have had me exorcised me from their memories.

So I am unsure what possessed my senior year homeroom adviser (of many tasteful years, waistlines and hairloss prevention treatments ago), Dr. Evan Panganiban, to invite me as their resource speaker for the Kapisanan Ng Mga Guro Sa Pilipinas’ First Annual KaGuro National Teachers Convention on the topic “Teaching Minds, Touching Hearts, Transforming Lives” last Saturday at the Pamantasan Ng Lungsod Ng Maynila.

I was flattered and humbled and wondered what type of medication my teacher was currently taking, when I received the invite. But after consulting with my lawyers, I knew that this was an invitation well worth accepting.

So for the sake of posterity, for the sake of transparency, for the sake of Pete, allow me to share with all of my three female readers some excerpts of my talk on how my memorable teachers touched me in all of the right places.

I’d like to start my talk with a confession. 

I am very wary of speaking in front of hundreds of teachers. I don’t feel entitled to do so, especially since most of the books I have written are probably banned from your school’s libraries. Instead, I feel that it should be all of you here on this stage lecturing to me. I feel nervous because my fourth year social sciences teacher and homeroom adviser is watching me deliver this talk. But, most of all, I am worried that I will be graded on the content of my talk.

But did you know that before I was made to secure a proper NBI clearance, I was ever so briefly a teacher as well? After having spent 17 years in an institution run by the Christian brothers, I wanted to give back to the school that had raised three generations of my family. So while I was enrolled in a master’s program in creative writing, I taught public speaking and debate under the English Language Department.  When my economics professor, Dr. Tereso Tullao, found out that I was teaching for the English department, he prevailed upon me to teach a class of “Introductory Economics” under the Economics department (During that one term, I could feel Adam Smith’s invisible hand taking a firm grip around my throat as I learned more about economics in that one term of teaching than I did in all four years of college).

During my first day of class at De La Salle University, I was greeted by a little gift in my cubby hole from my high school religion teacher, Bro. Kenneth Martinez, FSC. It was a stampita of St. John Baptist de La Salle, the patron saint of teachers, and a wooden rosary with six decades (this type of rosary was a Lasallian tradition, with the sixth decade prayed in honor of the Immaculate Conception of Mary). Bro. Kenneth had scribbled a little note in exquisite Palmer handwriting that welcomed me to the great tradition of teaching and, more importantly, the fulfillment of my Lasallian education.

I recall telling the good Brother in passing of my desire to teach, but it didn’t occur to me that he would not only remember it, but help me celebrate it. That was when I realized how our own personal successes — however we may define success — is the success of our beloved teachers as well. (Bro. Kenneth eventually became my ninong during my wedding. Para siguradong pasado na ang anak kong lalaki ko sa admission test). 

A few years (and a couple of lawsuits) later after my teaching stint, I was invited by my high school alma mater, La Salle Greenhills, to give another talk on “Being a Christian Gentleman” (a topic that I am theoretically familiar with). While awaiting for my turn to speak, I was handed a little folded note by one of the teacher-proctors. At first I thought it was a note from the principal’s office informing me that I was barred from giving the talk for security reasons (and to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if I got one). When I cautiously opened the note, it was a handwritten message from my Grade 3 English teacher Ms. Chona Barraquias! But why? Did I fail to complete an academic requirement back in Grade 3!? Did I have to stay after class!? Would she make sumbong to my yaya?

In that note, Ms. Barraquias shared how she remembered me as a precocious (which is probably the Christian Gentleman way of saying makulit) nine-year-old boy who was petrified to represent his class in the upcoming Grade 3-wide Elocution Contest because he was still haunted by his loss in the previous year’s Talumpatian.

“It’s not about winning, RJ. In life, sometimes we win and sometimes we lose,” she gently encouraged my nine-year-old self. “It’s about living up to the potential that God has given you.” That year in Grade 3, Ms. Chona trained me religiously after school to deliver the epic piece “Casey at the Bat” with all the gravitas that a nine-year-boy could muster. Finally, come elocution day, I swung away at Casey’s bat as if my young ego’s survival depended on it. And though I may not have hit a home run with my piece, I slid into second place, a moment that has stuck in my mind’s eye and in my mom’s Betamax collection of home videos.

“I’m so proud to see how far you’ve come from your elocution days,” wrote Ms. Chona. 

When I finished reading the note, I had to stop myself from choking up. Not so much because I was thankful that I would no longer have to visit the principal’s office. But it was more because I was grateful to be reminded of Ms. Chona’s gentle mentorship that nurtured my confidence to eventually become the professional host that I am today.  

As I pieced this talk together, I tried to recall all of my memorable teachers from grade school to high school to college to graduate school, and string together what common denominators they shared that had left a lasting impact during my formative years. And then it struck me: you almost instantly remember your teacher’s names. It doesn’t matter how much weight you put on or how many ridges have been etched onto your forehead or how many hair plugs have been embedded on your scalp, you still remember their names as if they had just scolded you in front of the whole class yesterday.

It also occurred to me that truly memorable teachers are those who inspired you to craft a vision for yourself and to continuously pursue it to its fruition.

I never dreamed that I would make a career out of writing. In Grade 2, I thought the apex of my literary accomplishment was when my English teacher Ms. Rita de los Santos submitted my “How Cookie Monster Became Cookie Monster” origin story for publication in the grade school literary journal (a copy of that journal has since been bronzed, framed and mounted on the family altar by my mom).

Little did I know that that piece of fan fiction slash copyright infringement were my literal baby steps towards becoming a writer. That bacterium of writing talent had been further nurtured by my freshman year English teacher Ms. Marlene Fagela who encouraged me to craft one-act plays and short stories for class; by my junior year journalism teacher Ms. Myrna Dilig who honed my feature writing skills and invited me to serve as editor in chief of the school newspaper; and by my upper-year English teachers Ms. Alma Rose Kagaoan and Ms. Violeta Refuerzo who gifted me with a rigid appreciation of modern and classical literary works.

When I reached college to pursue a decidedly non-creative course, I was fortunate to have taken an English elective in creative writing under Dr. Isagani Cruz (a.k.a. writing god)  After submitting a whopping 10 poems, one short story and one play to fulfill our course requirements, Dr. Cruz suggested that I was a “writer-in-progress,” but that I had to “work harder at polishing my writing skills” (and also that I should move on from my Cookie Monster obsession). After those words sprung forth from his lips, I knew that my germ of a writing career could turn into a full-blown infection. 

And I’m sure all of my English teachers are proud of me after churning out books with titles like the modern classic Is It Hot In Here Or is It Me?, the page-turning It Only Hurts When I Pee and the soon to be part of the high school curriculum Playing With Pink Parts.

Another common denominator among my memorable teachers: they taught me that my failures were just stepping stones to future success.

And nothing equated more to future success than high school math. My grades in high school math were equivalent to the approval ratings of most government agencies: they were barely passing.  It didn’t help that I was in a high school honors class full of math whizzes, while I was merely retained in that class for aesthetic purposes. In particular, I barely made it through the math classes of my fourth year teacher Dr. Irineo David with my grade average, my brain cells and dignity intact (I believe it was in his class that I first experienced the signs of progressive hair loss). 

Apparently, his class not only focused on math, but also on history as well. Because it was in his class that I ever received a grade that fell in the dreaded line of seven (which is the academic equivalent of a contracting MERS-CoV in an honors class). Despite that, Mr. David told me to persevere in the class. “Don’t worry about the grades,” he assured me. “The grade is just a number.” (Can it just be an imaginary number, Sir?) “It is the learning that is important. You will see, everything will turn out all right.”

Aside from his mathematical prowess, I didn’t realize Mr. David also had the gift of prophecy. Because when I entered college, my math grades exponentially improved. So much so that I wanted to check if my teachers were on medication or under Mr. David’s paycheck. Little did I know that the rigorous training and discipline he had drilled into me during high school allowed me to teach math as a host for ABS-CBN Foundation’s Math Tinik a few years ago (which I understand is also one of the signs of the end times).

Thanks for almost failing me, Mr. David. Sayang, you should have failed me even more so that I could have become the next Mark Zuckerberg.

I don’t remember much of my high school trigonometry (if at all), Mr. David. I don’t remember the historical details of World War II, Ms. Evan. I don’t remember the poems of John Donne, Ms. Alma. But I remember your names, I remember your kindness, and I remember your good hearts.

My dear teachers, before the authorities bodily remove you from this stage, I hope you give me an A for this talk. Or whatever the equivalent is in K+12. God be with you inside and outside of the classrooms.

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