Childhood.
The time when life was not that complicated yet. When the only biggest problem I had was how to excuse from the class for I need to oblige to the call of nature. When play was defined as an act that needs great physical effort. When DOTA was really played on our school grounds (well, at least a resemblance of it, the tigso-tigso). When slippers were glorified as multifunctional inventions: as protection for the soles of the feet, and as implements for a dozen of laro ng lahi such as tumba lata, shakay, bahay-kubo and as stated earlier, tigso-tigso. But since I was frail as a child, my playmates would sometimes bestow upon me the most dishonoring title given on the child play's world, the bata-bulan. If you ask me the etymological significance of this label, I could not answer. What I'm sure about is that this is a simple euphemism of the hurtful remark no child would ever want to hear: "you're a loser".
Because of our susceptibility as a child, we sometimes fear rejection that we resort to lying. Two of the lies I encountered during childhood were made for a cap and a compact disc of a Disney movie I owned. Both, on two different instances, were borrowed by two different classmates. And both were never returned to me again. The only difference is that the borrower of the cap had told me over and over for weeks that she just left the object at their place before finally admitting that she lost it. While the other one, made me believe on the same alibi as the former, but this time, weeks and months passed, she never returned the CD, until the thought was buried into oblivion. The problem was that the movie was a family property, and my siblings were puzzled as well with regard to its whereabouts, for I also have not told them that I let my classmate borrow it. So her lie became mine. Admittedly, this troubled me for months, unable to sleep well as I was devoured wholly by my conscience.
This is just part of being a child, for it is also the time when innocence and ignorance were symbiotically coexisting. I can fondly remember in grade five when my teacher fervidly discussed about the human reproductive system, and how my classmates would give obscure remarks on what little they knew about sex. As innocent and ignorant as I was, I listened to those discussions objectively while some of my classmates chuckled within, and I participated on their conversations with absolutely zero idea on what their point was. Lessons on sexuality were grey, so we were made to color them the way we wanted to. And unfortunately, I was only given a grey crayon.
Maybe the funniest recollection I have of my childhood was in grade three, when I would lock my bedroom after having lunch and pretended to sleep. Part of the reason why I would not want to attend our afternoon session was I was so sick and tired of the Math drills just before our afternoon session, which I could not perfect. This was not my last bout with Math, for we had a round two in grade four, when I flunked in one of the major exams of the subject, gravely affecting my grade and, by extension, my class standing. I may forget all my memories in elementary, but never this one, when I sobbed nonstop as I listened to my teacher's self-pity-invoking litany of enlightenment. After this incidence, my Mamang, who never tarries to believe, bought me a multiplication chart and posted it on a wall in the living room. And every night, I was impelled to memorize the chart. Yes, drill again. The subject and I even had a rematch in grade four and five, when my teacher never believed that I will be better on the subject, even when I scored high on an MTAP competition. I knew I was dumb on the subject then, or at least that was what my teacher made me feel. Until came high school, which is another story.
If there would be a single most influential teacher who propelled me to take this career path, it would be my grade two teacher. Even though I have only bits of memory of her and how she taught us, what is important is how she made me feel. She made me believe that I can do more than what I think I could do. She knows the potential of her pupils, and cultivates it through words of sincerity and wisdom. And as I stepped higher and higher on my educational attainment, she was still there, encouraging, believing. Up until now, when she and my Mamang cross paths, she would still ask about me and how I am doing. And up until now, everytime I remember her, I can still feel that same feeling she made me feel, more than a decade ago. And it hurts to know that I failed her, as I feel I have not done, even just my best.
As I reckon all these now, I wonder if at present, how many teachers have borrowed that cap who, after keeping outdated teaching techniques with them for many years, have finally decided to admit to their nearsightedness and are now adapting the new trends of teaching, coloring their lessons with the appropriate hues. And how many have borrowed that Disney movie? How many, until now, are still making it appear that everything is fine with their methods, when in fact nothing is? How many will be affected by this domino-effect of a lie, who, to conceal the distorted views of those who borrowed, will continue their predecessor's malpractice? And most importantly, how many are my grade two teachers today who always believe of their students' full potential, and do we still have my Math teacher in our schools?
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