teachers' day - a tribute

Teachers’ day is not really my thing. When I celebrated my tenth anniversary in the priesthood last year, I was grilled to the max and I felt then that every inch of my person was examined right before hungry eyes not so unlike somebody intent in dissecting a specimen under a microscope. And I just can’t believe that prying eyes such as yours would even notice my socks, mannerisms, eccentricities and all. So this afternoon as I made this little reflection I just thought to myself that these things should be permitted to happen only once a year, and once a year is more than enough, and I had had my share already at the beginning of the school year.


In this reflection I would like to do my little way of honoring my teachers. Remembering them is very important. It is my way of thanking them. Teachers unlike some insecure priests and politicians do not have the means and the funds to immortalize themselves in stone in order to be remembered forever by people. But without fanfare they build monuments that really last – the monuments that they build within us.
Remembering them is very important because it is our only way of getting to the very foundation of what has become of us, to get in touch with our base, to look back to the things that really matter. And this looking back reaches not just our parents but also our teachers, teachers who really matter, and teachers who taught us what really mattered.
When I was in the elementary, teachers were like gods and goddesses. I remember Mrs. Diaz grade two, her size was just too overwhelming for a little boy. And with thick eyeglasses and a very long stick, she looks like one of those goddesses coming out straight from our Greek mythology classes which she held, though as an afterthought the likes of Aphrodite would rule her out. A brave woman, she was the school’s point guard. Any fighting in school then, which no ordinary teacher could break, she was the one to be called. I remember those days very well. When called, she immediately responded. She would get her long stick, go to the mirror to examine herself, not so much to check her beauty but the ferociousness of her face, the sight of which ends any boy’s adrenalin rush, transforming anyone to nothing but a wimp. At a time when I was bullied in school I had nothing but admiration and deep respect for that teacher. She taught me courage and assertiveness. And that woman taught me that the qualities of a rock can certainly be applied to human beings - certain, steady, solid.
From the school of Mrs. Diaz, I was transferred to another school when I was in grade 3. The first day of school was a trauma, I didn’t know anybody. I felt I was entering a dark tunnel as I walk through that corridor. I remember well because it was one experience that filled me with fear. And as I was on the verge of crying, Sister Claire walked up to me, held my hand and introduced me to my new friends. She taught me the value of presence, of friendship, the value and importance of holding on to each other’s hands whether we are crossing the street or as we walk through life.
I remember Sister Carmela, grade IV. She was always on the go, always actively moving around, always fretting about things that were left undone or haphazardly done. For this I remember her fainting once with her high blood pressure shooting up. She introduced me to SCOOP as we call it then. I could no longer remember the meaning of the word but I do remember the meaning of what we were doing. We would deposit our money to her, which she kept on a bank, the interest it gained will help the poor. Since I am one of active members of Scoop I was also one of those she brought with her to the squatters’ areas. She implanted in all of us a deep and lively concern for the poor. She helped me learn empathy which by her example has taught us to reach out in concern for those who have less.
I remember Sister Blanca, Sister White, we called her, Grade V. I love her morning talks. I would always listen with interest. I can’t remember any of her talks now, but I have seen the fire and the joy in her eyes. She ingrained in me love for religious life.
I remember that sister who was in-charge of the chapel - Grade VI. I could no longer remember her name. But once in a while she would bring me to the sacristy to satisfy the curiosity of boys then my age. She made me touch the chalice, she showed me how she lighted six candles in six glasses with only one matchstick and without burning her fingers at that (and I thought then that she was playing a trick on me). And I always admire the simple flower arrangements she made and her smile that goes with it to beautify this chapel. By her actions she taught me fidelity to duty and love for simplicity. And her love for her simple task taught me that in work joy counts a lot, that there is more to work than just making a living, that part of work is play even if it is such a petty thing as helping a little boy satisfy his endless curiosity.
When I was in High School in the seminary I remember one teacher we called paka, frog, who in turn called us tadpoles, because she said, as a teacher we are supposedly her children. She was always late in class, and like any late seminarian in our time, she would always by-pass the principal’s office and the faculty room and sneak her way to our classroom. If elementary school teachers were gods and goddesses, high school teachers were beginning to look human then, most of whom have strong human virtues.
Miss Mojica our librarian. She was then as old as the books she guarded. But we were good friends and I was always the privileged few who would be given her only culinary expertise, sukiyaki, which she cooked at the back of the library with old newspapers for fuel. Besides this as one of the favored few she made me touch the very valuable books she kept and treasured, and she would encourage me to read the eternal knowledge they contain She initiated me to the wonderful world of books and the value they store.
Miss Pula, English class. Miss Villareal, speech class. They taught me the importance of communication and communicating well, that wonderful ideas remain merely as wonderful ideas in the head unless they are articulated with finesse. In a way they prepared me to a vocation where words are important, where the Word when communicated well becomes flesh in the hearts and minds of people.
Miss Prudente, math teacher. She taught us math and was persistent in doing so. But it seemed then that I never really got the brains math students should have, which left me with no other choice but to use charm rather than brains to get good grades. You may not believe it, but I did have charm when I was younger. We remained good friends until her death. More of a spiritual directress to us, she was a mother to all, polishing the rough edges of growing boys to develop the feminine virtues of care, thoughtfulness and sensitivity.
And if we have a mother who can ever deny the grandmother of us all, Mrs. Buendia. Like the name she got which means good day we called her moning moning because she always responded to our good mornings with a twist and a twang in her tongue - good moning! She taught us the basics, the basics which we most often forgot, the basics which we most often took for granted – courtesy, chivalry, gentlemanliness, and with her age and enthusiasm - perseverance, commitment and staying power.
There were many of them – priests, laymen, laywomen. They were our teachers. They opened our eyes to the world. They gave us the basic ingredient for being human, for being Christians, for being priests. They taught us to think for ourselves. They train our hearts and not just our minds. They hone character and virtues and not just skills and talents. They form our spirit and not just our bodies. They teach us how to live and not just how to make a living. They help us grow and mature in ways that are beyond us. They did this because they believed that passing grades is never a guarantee that we can pass life.
Teaching has been a vocation rather than a means of living. Because in the presence of somebody dumb and mute they have to utter in the same spirit, if not with the same word, Ephphatha, the Ephphatha of Jesus, opening our eyes, ears and mouth to the wonders of the world before us and the mysteries that lie beyond.