Who inspired you to dream?

Who inspired you to dream? Who inspired you to be yourself? Who made you believe you could possibly do it?

In high school, I never dreamed I could be a writer or a doctor. I just wanted to survive the school day, and get away from bullies.

When I was a teenager, I had to deal with inferiority issues, solitude, and fear. But I learned that the more you appear weak, the more people will try to bully you.

However, during my fourth year in high school, I encountered a teacher who changed my life. She was Mrs. Bambi Lara, our English teacher in Xavier School, Greenhills.

For the other students, she might have been their ordinary teacher, but for me, she was a mentor, guidance counselor, and inspiration rolled into one. It didn’t hurt that she was one of the prettiest teachers, too.

Life was pretty bland in the early 1980s, when one day, Mrs. Lara (as we called her) told us to write an essay every week. She asked us to submit it every Friday, so she can go through it over the weekend. Mrs. Lara promised to read every essay and give her personal comments and constructive criticisms.

She called it a “Friday paper” and it was a great innovation by a high school teacher. Our class groaned and moaned for the extra schoolwork, but in reality, it was Mrs. Lara who had to work hard as she had to read around a hundred essays per week.

I later found out that Mrs. Lara was one of the few teachers doing this Friday paper thing. Other English teachers may take a cue and try Mrs. Lara’s strategy.

For one particular week, Mrs. Lara asked us to write a “stream of consciousness” essay. She asked us to write anything that comes to our minds, like in a dream-like state. There’s some psychology to this as Mrs. Lara tried to facilitate the creative writing experience.

And so each week, we had to think of a topic, and write at least a 500-word essay on it. I can remember writing about a challenged boy who tried to finish school, or a simple poem on world peace. Really corny stuff.

I’m sure if my essays were submitted to any other teacher, I would probably just get a satisfactory mark. But Mrs. Lara was different. She was wonderful. Ooh, did I mention that already?

When my essays came back, my heart would skip a beat as I read her comments written in bright red ink. “Willie, you are a good writer. I had fun reading your story. The twist in the ending surprised me. Keep it up.”

Suffice it to say that I was over the moon. Every week, I would get my blue Bic ballpen and a full Cattleya pad paper, and write and re-write my essay for that Friday. And on Mondays, Mrs. Lara would return our essays, and I would again get sincere words of praise and encouragement. I probably wrote 10 essays in all, but the last one I wrote was the hardest.

It was a few days before high school graduation, and suddenly it dawned on me that there would be no more Friday papers. No more Mrs. Lara. No more words of encouragement. And I would be on the lonely road to college. Now, I know how my life went downhill after that, but that’s another story.

I was in a bit of panic as high school graduation neared. I was already in the success “zone,” or so I thought. Was it just my imagination?

Then there was this tiny incident that happened. I remember a high school batchmate approaching me in the corridor one day. He said, “You know Mrs. Lara talked about you in our class the other day.”

“What, me?” I stammered.

“Oh yes,” my friend continued. “Mrs. Lara said that there was one student in another class who was a very good writer and yet he thought he was just ordinary. Our class insisted that Mrs. Lara tell us who this guy was. You know what? Mrs. Lara said the person was you, ‘Willie.’ You were the one.”

I was dumbfounded. Through a haze, all I could recall was my friend snickering and thumping me affectionately on the shoulder.

That was decades ago. Now, all that is past. And after high school, I would never get to write another essay for 20 years. Not until I met another mentor named Dr. Rafael Castillo, who rekindled my passion for writing.

In 2003, when I attempted to write health articles for a newspaper, the same doubts crept back. But slowly, deftly, the memories of Mrs. Lara’s Friday paper came back. Was it still in me? Well, it was like riding a bicycle again.

And so, when I write my newspaper columns today, my readers and editors think I am writing for them. Well, yes and no.

I do love my readers and want to make them happy. But in my mind, I am still this clumsy teenager who has to submit his next Friday paper to the most wonderful and inspiring teacher he has ever known. A teacher who believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself.

As I write this now, I still don’t know what Mrs. Lara saw in my mediocre essays. I also don’t know why I felt good writing every week. All I know is that the feelings were real, and that I will always be grateful to her.

And so, to Mrs. Bambi Matias Lara, who is now fully retired after devoting 45 years of her life to teaching, here is my latest essay. It’s my Friday paper, Ma’am. And it’s for you.