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MY FIRST TEACHER

She. She is the pronoun that is everything before I met my mesdammes in my primary, elementary, secondary and tertiary school. I got probably my first spank from her and the last of inaudible praise for good and very good marks in school. She was the firm voice who keeps telling me to study hard more on the arithmetic opposite my favorite subjects. She whose hands brought to me the book of Henny Penny.
She who was thrown to far-flung school because of her chosen profession. She who walked on rough and muddy trailways. She who untirelessly innovated means of transpiring knowledge to the youth.  
She is the teacher of generations ahead and before me. She is just like your every teacher. Let’s say a prayer for the likes of her.

Hail to all teachers!

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World Teacher's Day

   For today’s sake of celebrating teachers, let me get down my memory lane circa 1994.  Ms. Florida Dao-ines was my grade 1 teacher in the then Kayan Community School. I thanked that I was bit of a reader so I was spared from her famed stick. Of course, my hearing wasn’t excused of her voice harping on the day’s if not yesterday’s lesson. Oh, I could see her small figure with her short curly hairdo passing by my grandparents’ place because she used to visit her brother on the next house. Ms. Dao-ines taught us room maintenance the organic way— scrub off graffiti on wooden desks with sandpaper tree leaves, sweep off dirt, whip the floor with banana leaves and finish it off with coconut husk. On my second year with my grandparents going as second grader, I had Teacher Jeaneth Juan. She was my first troop leader in GSP and Agadangan became a vivid memory of the Scout Movement. Enamored with her not-so-strict classroom bearing, my classmates and I were saddened when on...
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WOMAN-ified ME

I was born a woman but ended up acting the opposite. Clumsiness and its cousins in the thesaurus is what I am. Finesse goes unsaid and unheard in my world. I preferred oversized tees over fitting blouses. I refused figure-flaterring dresses for loose pants. I would choose a paintless face even being merged with a bin of all-made-up pretties. But I knew I am a woman inside. So are the secret feelings that have silently died. It was only me who knows everything of what-really-is. It was hard shifting to finer moves. Oh graceful me in sweat! I hate being with someone who I cannot see myself. Because to me, gaudiness is parallel to fun. Not long after, I’ve been to stores of pallets. So the smudged me emerged. Little by little, I’ve added garments I thought I can never wear. These changes of seeing ourselves that can improve us.   
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Another Day Lived

Thursday morning. I woke up with a mental list of to-do’s. $*|?**$ visit to deliver IV fluids. Get back to do the laundry. With my second to the last PUJ jibe, the open doors of the church invited me in so the last two hours were spent hearing the mass. At the middle of the Eucharistic celebration, the heavy downpour added darkness to the dusk creeping in. Having waited for ten minutes more, I decided to wade waters to get to the last jitney back to the doctor’s quarter. (So this is Manila and its famous flood.) My feet getting cold with the pooling of rainwater inside my shoes reminded me of laundry powder so I dropped by in a mart for some. Finally with the nighttime shower done, I hanged the last piece of the three-day soiled uniforms for air drying by the washroom. After hungry tummy pacified… Oh zzz’s, come to thee… 
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