THE experience must be true with other retiree teachers.
When I hear former students at UP Cebu High now grown-up and accomplished, putting their messages across to fellow alumni, I feel a singular kind of joy and pride.
There they go, in full bloom and transformed.
When they disagree, is a moment to behold. They’ve learned to sit back and patiently wait out the other side until he or she is done. Back in their school days, they could not hold their hands down, and were always ready to pounce.
I’d listen to one systematically marshal his arguments. In my mind he’s 35 years younger, a high school junior sitting at the back row of the class, well-mannered and well-behaved.
Back then, I shot a question and immediately saw a sea of raised hands. I called this junior’s name. From the side of the room, one naughty male classmate said his name but in a lilting manner, hinting that the former was effeminate. Other classmates laughed.
I looked at the junior and saw a surge of emotions on his young face. Shock, anger, embarrassment, humiliation, suffering, hurt. As I quieted the class, he looked straight at me, his eyes welling up and his chin quivering from wanting to rein in his emotions.
Here was this young man wanting to hit and hurt back, but exhibiting courage in rising above the din and mob behavior. For these moments of courage, he stood before me 10 feet tall.
Last month I met another former student. A transferee from the then Cebu American School, this Spanish mestizo with the blue eyes and blond hair was at times a handful to some teachers. The girls were star-struck over his movie-star looks, but steered clear of him. His male classmates did as well, finding him “too slang,” headstrong, or boastful.
During an in-school camping, he and four other classmates got drunk over some bottles sneaked in. Soon, they were accused of planting firecrackers in the toilet bowls of the boys’ comfort room. The place was a big mess, with window panes and mirrors broken, floor tiles dug up, water faucets busted, and walls bearing all kinds of graffiti.
In the ensuing parent-teacher conference, the parents of all erring boys were defensive and rose to the rescue of their teenagers. We expected no less.
What struck me, though, was the response of the mestizo’s father. There he was in the last row of the room, sitting quietly. He uttered no single word. After we teachers had heard all the other parents, we drew him out. Did he have anything to add?
With a dismissive wave of the hand, he said “Do with him whatever you want. You can even expel him. I’ve had enough of him.”
Immediately I looked toward the son. His face paled then turned red; he quickly rubbed his eyes of tears and looked at his father with an anger I had never before seen in a young face.
It must have stung so much; among all erring boys, he alone was abandoned, with not even some semblance of a defense raised for him.
I compare these boys now and see some marked difference, whether by coincidence or not. The boy who stood strong amid the teasing is a successful doctor. The “abandoned” child continues to have a labyrinthine life.