Notes from a neophyte teacher
I sometimes catch myself saying to my class of 30 college-level seminarians, “I’m new to this so bear with me.” And I cringe each time I do, remembering my mother’s advice to minimize (or entirely exclude) apologies when talking in front of a large audience. I have roughly a week left before I put a close to the semester, my first one teaching English, or what the school’s academic committee has entitled “Creative Writing,” after my postgraduate degree. But I’m not relieved that the sem’s about to end, and I’m not one to wax sentimental over the passing of time. What I am is worried, or maybe even scared, that they didn’t learn a thing from me.
Teaching came to me as a third job. I was first Butch Dalisay’s research assistant for a biography project, then a copywriter for a boutique ad agency that catered mostly to clients in real estate, and now I teach and write. Admittedly, teaching was not at the top of my list for possible career choices, or I avoided it. Staying in the comforts of the academe’s ivory tower is also not perceived as the most credible (or the most financially rewarding) choice for young people like me who crave some drastic form of change. But at times, these choices conveniently take care of themselves.
When I took up Creative Writing as an undergrad course in UP, I dreamt of working for magazines. I eventually realized that I wasn’t built for it when I flipped through heaps of glossy back issues at a sardine can of a Book Sale in Cubao. My ambitious undergrad thesis was also one of those things I wish I would never catch a glimpse of, ever again. It was a disappointment for my adviser and a greater embarrassment for me. (I was literally surprised that the ink dried on paper and the thing survived binding!) These roadblocks made me rethink writing and the life it asked of me. To end my doubts, I naively took my master’s in the same course, not for anything else except to redeem myself for my rushed undergrad thesis. I thought that going straight to postgrad would also buy me time to get my act together. Obviously, I was not the wisest when it came to making crucial life decisions.
My second chance for a worthwhile thesis brought me to my hometown of Nasipit, Agusan del Norte, where for more than half a year, I set up a cave in which I wrote my grandfather’s life story. When I was close to finishing it and thinking of where to go next, the words of my thesis adviser, the Penman himself, resounded in my head — in his James Earl Jones voice — “Those letters attached to your name, PhDs and MAs, mean nothing once you step outside the academe.” (He also reiterates this in his column. There was no escaping it.) And it was true, my sharper colleagues attest: nothing changes after getting an MA in the humanities; you still get paid the same. So before I was through with my defense, I was once more haunted by my bad choices.
But moving to Agusan seemed to have its reasons, which were hidden from plain sight. Here, it appeared that the academe wouldn’t be too high a horse to ride, and more importantly, to get down from. The academe in this part of the country appeared to dwell on the same plane as the people to whom they were betrothed. The scholarly life in the provinces was worldly — earthy, I should say — and not too high above the people sweating it out in the nearby copra kilns. The local pool of academics is perceived as a mere extension of government, people that you consult when in need of someone who’s “read the book.” So to test the waters, I applied to teach at St. Peter’s College Seminary where I knew I wouldn’t encounter as much academic friction as in my alma mater, lest it come from the devil himself.
The seminary was an eye-opener. While many think of seminarians as frocked men who are oblivious to the world outside, I was surprised that many of them were more grounded than many of my contemporaries at UP. When I asked them, as a diagnostic exam, to narrate what they did during their twice-a-semester home visit, some of them talked about the long commute home, some about the harvest they helped bring in; one wrote about installing their house’s first light bulb. And when the Lumad situation in Surigao del Sur was brought up during our discussion of Ninotchka Rosca’s State of War, they were even the ones who told me that the murdered Emerito Samarca and his two companions were not NPAs but educators who chose the more difficult path in far-flung areas. On the other hand, there were some who, living in mining communities themselves, argued the benefits and realities of mining. There was one thing, however, that my students didn’t know, after all their awareness of the world beyond their seminary’s walls — that it was “National Teacher’s Day” last Monday. But when I realized that I was the one learning from my students, the occasion became but a pleasant catchphrase.
I am unsure how much longer I’ll be teaching (although I am set to lecture in two other schools next semester). But for all the unprofitable life decisions I’ve made, I’ve certainly earned a bit more from my salary teaching.
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