mentors

I guess I was most interesting in high school. As a student, I meant. Older I was more interesting as a friend, while in grade school, I assume I was basically a non-entity -- well, after having to transfer schools because of some wise-ass comment in a math class that led to a bitter falling out between me and my math teacher that cost me a valuable award that caused my mother's rage against the school system etc -- I guess, I had to lay low a bit, hmm? Heh. So, yeah, I was most interesting as a student in high school.

Of course, by 'interesting' I meant I was this horrible, difficult, moody, indecipherable blob of angry mass. I may have been thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and in the middle of a crisis also known as my mother passing away. It was 1998, 1999, 2000. I did not know what to do with myself.

(Cut for long-winded, direction-less ramble)



I was closest to my English teachers. It was something prone to be misconstrued -- what, was I doing it for grades? Now's a good time as any to clarify that, no, my highest grades weren't in English; they were in Algebra and Trigonometry (HAH WTF?) because god those English teachers were so difficult to please and numbers -- well, once you have it figured out, the right answer IS the right answer. (As against the plethora of ways you can come up with an essay on Beowulf, or something.)

Anyway. I was oblivious to that; it's like not minding annoying rhythmic tapping somewhere because you have a noisy drill in your ear. I am standing here 10 years older and I guess it's safe to say my mother's death effectively blocked out all the other issues (except that one time I got into a serious fight with a girl friend -- man, that fucked me up. LOL. High five, if you're reading this girl -- I mean, I really was an asshole. Sorry. ;)) that I somewhat knew what people thought about that, but I couldn't seem to bring myself to care about it.

So yeah, I guess I generally was an asshole? I mean, let's just say if I were a teacher, I probably wouldn't have wanted to have students like me. Really. I was... how do I put it? Argumentative. Very opinionated to the point of being annoying -- and especially so with teachers whom I liked provoking, and do you know how easy it is to be a belligerent teenager provoking older people about literature (English) and politics (Social Studies)? Very.

At that time I was still figuring out whether I was good at anything -- earlier in my student life I'd been conditioned think I was good at math (like all elementary students heh) joining MTAPs and PMOs etc but then later on I proved to be ultimately unimpressive with numbers. Seriously. Fractions are such fuckers. So if I wasn't really meant for quick computations, what was I really good for? Dun-dun-dun.

Anyway, so I was in the middle of all this when I got called into the English department. My freshman English teacher wanted a word with me (presumably for some off comment I had said without raising my hand in class earlier -- I mean, looking back -- I was such a troublemaker, it's actually surprising). I showed up in her office with an uncomfortable thud in my chest.

I am fairly certain I had written something about that event, only I don't have all my notebooks with me right now, and I'm just swimming through twelve years' worth of memories at this point. I am trying to reconstruct it in my head -- she came up to me with all those books and I was lugging around all my stuff because freshmen didn't have lockers and she asked me if we could talk sometime. I think I asked her if I did something wrong. The conversation later turned out to be rather friendly; casual, if you will. I can't remember if this was before or after I lost my mother, which was in November '97.

I think if I were to point to the first person who actually told me I could be something, I'd definitely point to her. She was a good mentor, and not only in a she-taught-me-good-grammar way; come to think of it, she single-handedly pushed me into joining the school organ AND the basketball team -- which was a weird combination, I'd have to concede, but hey. Good times, good times.

I used to stay way after class, just talking in her office. It was nice, having someone older to talk to -- someone to share worries with, someone who knew how to fix things, or at least, say things that'd make you feel like everything's going to be all right. I didn't have anybody like that -- I mean, I had friends, but you know how it is when you're young and all your lunchtime conversations are about school and projects and the next time you're going out to see a movie after the exams and what the cheerleaders are doing in their table by the entrance of the cafeteria (LOL). And then, of course, there's the general topic of boys. (Looking back -- LOL, HARDER.)

I don't even remember specifics about our conversations; what has stuck with me all this time was that general feel of safety and comfort. High school is hard -- it's all about keeping up appearances and fitting in and not disrupting the general flow of life, etc. And frankly, I can't imagine how I would've survived it, granted I was as angry as I was, if it weren't for her patience.

I talk about anger a lot because it's only recently that I have learned to admit this to myself -- I was angry a lot in high school. It just never showed because, well, I was bottling it up, albeit horribly. It showed in my written work, for one. I lacked humor, generally, as I took myself way too seriously for a thirteen-year-old.

(Oh man. If there was a version of me I would have liked to hug the hardest, it's that thirteen-year-old me, the one who had to pick up the pieces. I'd like to hug her and tell her it's going to be all right, and that in twelve years, she'd be really happy, as in really happy.)

So yeah, I practically grew up in her office; I came to her for advice and whined at her feet as if she were my mother. Her two children became my siblings, and I became that additional kid she didn't really sign up for but inherited anyway. LOL. I graduated from her English class and entered sophomore year, joined the paper and the team after much prodding. We talked after practice while waiting for my father to pick me up. She encouraged me to write a lot -- I mean, outside of those ridiculous journals she had us write in class (ridiculous but much enjoyed heh) and I did try -- or at least, what I could as a fourteen-year-old who had no other life other than school. I wrote articles for the school paper, tried to practice with my team thrice a week, and do my homework and pass my exam. Come to think of it -- wow, I had a lot of time to do all these things, thanks to Having Focus instead of the Internet (LOL).

*

Early this year, I was in my parents' house when my father asked me to clear out a few of the boxes I'd accumulated while in school. I mean, it's been five years since I started working -- it seemed a good time as any, as I'd pretty much ceased accumulating things like exam papers and readings anyway. So I figured maybe it was about time to let some of it go, and I started with a box of letters from high school. I sifted through the papers, re-reading old letters with a sort of muted nostalgia you get from remembering things from faraway -- oh I seriously enjoyed it when the letters discussed problems about boys haha and then the ridiculous ribbing about then-nonexistent nicotine dependence and alcoholism. Seriously, seers much?

I kept a handful and burned the rest, making this small bonfire in our terrace, watching as the words rose in the air in a column of dark smoke while sitting back in a kind of quiet ceremony. I brought the ones I kept to Makati. One of them was the letter she wrote for my senior class spiritual retreat, the one she called 'the last of the titans.' I've always kept this one because it came with a poem by Veronica Shoffstall. I remember being a college freshman and taking this out of my wallet during moments I felt so inexplicably lost.

Re-reading it right now reminds me of how angry I really was -- I distrusted authority and rejected it at all costs (except, apparently, hers), and I was at the time having difficulty with my circle of friends.

"Soon, you'll find out that after a while, some things that you thought were right were not exactly how you perceived, and the things that you've fought for were not exactly right," she wrote. "Listen and learn from the elders, anak. They're not as hostile as you think."

LOL. Really, who is this kid and why is she so angry? I guess it's true, this thing they say about age. If confronted now with a similar hard-headed, hot-blooded teenager, I would have said exactly the same thing.

"And most of all, develop your sense of humor anak. Life as it is is hard and lonely. Don't make it harder or lonelier."

Oh, LOL. I wish I had journals dating further back than 2001. They would have been messy and embarrassing as fuck, but they would have been such a joy to read anyway.

She ended her letter with: "And to prove to you that my idea of friendship is not idealistic, come back after how many years and I'd still welcome you with open arms."

We barely saw each other after high school. Her eldest son and I went to the same university, so there were maybe two or three times I saw her while in college; I was even able to come out to her at some point when it was still all new.

The last time I saw her was early this year, actually; Andrea was at work, and I was walking around in Power Plant when I saw her in Coffee Bean by the cinemas. She was obviously working; her laptop open in the midst of folders and papers. I sat on a nearby table and stared, trying to make sure my eyes weren't going bonkers on me.

When she looked up and caught me, I think it took a moment or two before she realized who I was. Our eyes were not what they were. After the initial surprise, I sat with her and we updated each other. I talked about seeing the same girl for nearly three years and about how happy I was; she talked about what she was up to, about how her kids were. It was a pleasant conversation -- decidedly rather grown-up, but pleasant nevertheless. We kept marveling at how far we've come from high school, about how some things have changed while some haven't. These kinds of inventories are always strange and welcome.

This morning, pausing to remember who among my teachers changed my life on the occasion of World Teachers' Day, I remembered Veronica Shoffstall's poem and her handwriting. I have it here beside me -- still with the green stationery and her familiar cursive that reminds me both of personal reprimands and notes for essay revisions.

Re-reading the thing, my favorite line still is: "So, plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers."

(And I have. And I still am. Thank you.)