When My Student Meets Richard Cory

(In which my storybook eyes are not enough.)

***

One thing I like about conversation classes is that the topics may come from anywhere and anyone can say something about it. Depending on the language proficiency of the student, a single topic can last for an hour or two, even days. In one of our classes, Judah and I talked about suicide, the reasons and effects. And because (I think) he’s dead serious about improving his writing skills, I gave a reaction paper about “Richard Cory” as his assignment.

Richard Cory
by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, richer than a king,

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Though I know it wasn’t right, I expected him to criticize Richard Cory’s actions, write about how wrong his choice was. (And I thought I am not very puritan!) But after providing a brief summary of the poem, he wrote:

But I don’t think we should question Richard Cory’s decision. Why would I condemn him? I do not know his sufferings. No one knows my real sufferings, too. His pain might be too much. So I think if he killed himself, he has enough reason and right.

I didn’t mind the part where he advises people to stop caring much about others – they’re old enough. But what struck me very powerfully was his trust in a person’s decision making and his understanding of other’s pain which was (ironically) manifested by his acknowledgement of his own ignorance regarding how others suffer.

“Judah, you mean he did the right thing by killing himself to escape pain?” I probed after I handed him his essay.

He examined the purple ink on his work and sighed. Then he started and peered over the top of his notebook.

“Right thing? I don’t know,” he sighed again and put his notebook on his lap. “But for me, maybe he just thinks the pain is not tolerable anymore so he just wanted to die. People will think, ‘Oh, he’s crazy! He’s rich and all that then he did this? Crazy!’ But what do they know? It’s his life.”

Right then, after I ignored the fact that he evaded my question, I was convinced that our difference does not only lie in our religion or our language. It’s in the difference of our perspective as well. His insouciance was a perfect façade for a soul sensitive to human sorrow.

To question others why they did something – left, broke someone’s heart, ended their own lives – means questioning ourselves about what we know and how much we understand beyond the surface. Besides, pain – real pain – isn’t always skin deep. It doesn’t always show in the contour of one’s face. And reasons, what are they? When are they enough? When are they valid?

Wealth. Education. Fame. Richard Cory had them all. But if he chose to end his life despite all these, then Judah must be right – his reasons shouldn’t be questioned.

I’m Not Good at Goodbyes So…

(In which I confess as an asocial drama princess with an insouciant façade.)

***

I’m not good at goodbyes so I smile.

Two weeks before Judah left, we talked about exciting things he should look forward to when he comes home – his best friend who’s coming from his military service, his reunion with his family, drinking sessions with his buddies and more time with his pets. We spent more time laughing at crazy photos and F.R.I.E.N.D.S. episodes than actually studying grammar and discussing where his indentions are.

I’m not good at goodbyes so I become speechless. When I managed to speak, I do so stupidly.

I am an English teacher. And what I actually taught him was conversation and writing. Yet when another teacher focused a video camera on me for a message for Judah, I ran out of sensible things to say. Instead, what came out of my mouth were clichés – the kind of stuff you write on a school grader’s slum book.

I’m not good at goodbyes so my tear glands work extra.

I wasn’t saying dramatic things during the video recording but something lumpy got stuck in my throat and my vision blurred. It couldn’t be a chunk of pork and the spicy food since I’m sure I gulped lots of water. The next thing I knew was that a male student was running his fingers down both his cheeks which told me I already looked foolish.

I’m not good at goodbyes so I refer less eye contact.

This is related to my sensitive tear glands. I tried not to look at his face but I listen to what he’s saying. I knew he talked about himself most of the time. I knew he preferred beer over soju. I knew he and his girlfriend plan to have their honeymoon in the Philippines. I knew he appreciates Teacher Chin’s singing talent and Teacher Rachel’s good heart. You see, I pay attention.

I’m not good at goodbyes so I become distant.

He cried. Prior to that he gave verbal warnings about how alcohol might contribute to his display of emotional vulnerability. But since it is time to go home, I chose not to tolerate my own emotional weakness. We’re all exhausted after an hour each of singing, dining, drinking and talking and good walks in between. We all have our curfews to keep. The least relaxing activity would be a tear-jerking moment in a celebration that was held for happiness’ sake. So when the inevitable came, I chose to be strong and relaxed.

He apologized for crying and for failing to withhold his tears. We talked while waiting for a Binangonan or Antipolo-bound vehicle that never came. In the end, I accepted his offer to walk us to the terminal.

I’m not good at goodbyes so I hate it.

He questioned the existence of parting and thought that if there is a God then He’s a mean god. I reasoned out that the making of goodbyes isn’t good news but God created hellos anyway.

I remembered how two seeds were planted distantly from the other so they could maximize the space and grow into sturdy trees. Then one day, their strong branches will reach out to the other tree, making the distance closer.

I’m not good at goodbyes so I don’t say it.

If I do, it’s for conversation’s sake – the same way you say goodbye to a person who you know will come back the next day. I chose to talk about things off topic just to avoid talking about farewell. We talked of silly things from the samgyeopsal meat which tasted marinated though it doesn’t look like it was to people walking by.

I’m not good at goodbyes so I sulk on my own, in quiet moments when no one’s looking. I thought of the funny and the awkward moments as well as for the things I didn’t and couldn’t express. But regret wasn’t there. I need not talk. I knew he understood. And we will meet again. He promised to attend my wedding as well as Teacher Rachel’s and Chin’s.

I’m not good at goodbyes so I wrote the draft of this post using all the different-colored pens he gave me as a gift, amazed that he knew the colors I like. Then I laughed as I looked at how colorful my notebook has become.

Why Judah Can’t Teach

(In which it’s harder when you hide.)

***

“You have a really good job. Look. We have the same age but I’m still a student while you’re already working. But frankly speaking, I don’t think I can stand your job.”

I looked away from my computer and looked up to Judah. He was wearing his black long sleeved polo and he stood like an instructor lecturing a child. His turned his back to the light so his face was darker. But he wasn’t regretful or apologetic or even fearful that his comment might be taken negatively. He has always expressed his opinions with abandon. He knew he can always tell me what he thinks. I wasn’t offended. But of course I wanted him to explain himself. So I waited for him to continue.

“Well, teaching is a gorgeous job. But I think I can’t do it.”

“Do what? Teach?” I couldn’t wait to understand what his point is.

“I can’t deal with losing special people every time the classes end.”

I gave out a sigh that told him I understood. He sat on his chair and thought for a moment. Then he spoke again.

“Master,” he said; his face now serious with curiosity. His habit of addressing me in this very inappropriate manner started as a joke. It was inappropriate because we were not in an old Oriental society and because I am not even close to being a master. ”I think it’s hard when you met good friends and then you had to say goodbye to them, right? And I think it’s not good when you’re used to seeing people go. Like that is just normal. I don’t like that. So that’s why I can’t be a teacher.”

I took deep breaths. I have tried several times to evade this topic but it is always brought up when students are leaving. One of my previous students, Jean, also pointed out that getting used to this situation makes one’s heart harder. But now, I believe I just have to defend an aspect of my profession.

“Well, it is hard. But this is what we do. It’s hard to see students leave but that also means they have learned. And they have to go out and use what they’ve learned. That’s better than having them stuck. Just like you, I also feel sad and I don’t like this situation too. But teachers couldn’t be lugubrious because there are people waiting for us. There are people like you waiting to be taught. I cannot face the next student with gloominess over your absence. I have to deal with him or her with a glad face and anticipation that this will be a good experience for both of us – learner and instructor. Now that’s harder. There is even no time for us to be sad.”

It’s his turn to contemplate. Then he nodded.

The Loser Writes

(In which I don’t seem to do anything correctly.)

***

I have been running out of ideas worth blogging about lately. So this post is about how I have been screwing up in so many things.

Loser Issue #1: The Diary “Keeper”

I have decided to start keeping a diary for the sake of keeping records. (How lame is that?) And as what experience has taught me, I have also decided not to write personal things on that collection of thin and femininely colored sheets of paper which include my first crush and my first kiss and all the gossips around and my stand on those; because that kind of diary is never safe from my family’s curiosity. I never thought I mattered that much until I started keeping a diary. Now I know what to do if I want to feel some “love”.

And as always, the passion for writing with a pencil on that thick pink notebook only lasts for less than a week. I realized that a diary should contain juicy stuff anyway and keeping it safe means making the experience boring. And not writing on a regular basis will make it senseless. So far I have missed out on more than a couple of days.

Loser Issue #2: The Sleepless Reader with Very Little Progress

Those of you who have read my previous posts, (And I am sure you are not more than five) know that I have just finished reading The Master Butcher’s Singing Club and now I am on the last book on my shelf – The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond. And guess what, after more than a week, I have finished reading forty-four pages! (I know that’s not a happy news.) Anyway, perhaps it’s because I don’t have any more books to read after I finish this, as if I can finish this soon considering that I am now considered a workaholic. And talking about the problem with the next book, I should be making my way to the bookstore soon, that is, if I have my motivation back and if my wallet can handle it.

Loser Issue #3: The Workaholic Teacher with Dissatisfied Students

Okay. The adjective that qualifies the word students has an invisible question mark. But not because it’s invisible means it’s not there. Here’s the thing: I have made a terrible mistake of forgetting to update the comments on one of my phone students’ comment box and followed the wrong page, which made me overlook that the book will be finished in less than two weeks. And the student’s mom has called and asked why I’m not reminding them that an order of the new book should be made to which I reasoned out that it’s not yet time, with the wrong page in mind.

So when I found out, I immediately made the request. However, we have already finished the book two days ago and now I am in a terrible state of covering up. I kept on telling her that the book has been ordered and that we can just review the old book while waiting for the new one for twenty minutes every day. It feels like talking about the same old topics you’ve been talking about the entire year since she doesn’t know how or like to handle a free talking session, which made me not to like it too.

And the responsible Judah has been exhibiting an unusual show of absenteeism lately. I know that he hates summer and considering that he came from a country with four seasons, it’s summer in the Philippines all year round. Well, I somehow feel guilty thinking that I have been usually late for our first class. And I was given this notion that either he’s getting even (which doesn’t sound like a good option since it’s his money he’s wasting) or he lost his interest in studying because of my terrible example. Oh for the love of God, somebody tell me it’s the first choice!

Now I am stuck in making a level up test for a grammar book which is so much worse than talking.

Loser Issue #4: The Great Pathetic Romantic Loser

Alvin kept on denying that he’s ignoring me but I’m nobody’s fool. My brain might betray me at times but my intuition will remain faithful. And it just so happened that I wanted to diminish the number of my friends on Radiusim from a senseless, whopping 400 to a reasonable 60+ with Alvin and his best buddy’s name out of the reasonable number. I did it. And I somehow felt light, happy even. But just lately I wondered what his status is. And now I’m thinking: should I delete his stupid number from my phonebook and his stupid profile from my Facebook?

Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard and Kris Allen

(In which I can somehow find a precious piece.)

***

The first time I knew about this music was when Judah mentioned it when I asked him about his favorite English song. As I expected, he was rather surprised to find out that I didn’t know the song completely, as most students often mistake a teacher for an encyclopedia. He kept on convincing me that I knew it, sometimes singing the lines he knew well and sometimes humming, to which all I can give was an honest “It’s sounds really familiar but I don’t know where I’ve heard it or when.”

Yesterday, he handed me the other end of an earpiece connected to his iPod Touch.

“Listen, Teacher. This is the song I told you about.”

I listened to the introductory duet of the piano and the guitar and paused at the surge of the familiarity of the rhythm; I was almost convinced that I really knew the song and was only careless to forget it. The blending of the female and male voice was softening to the heart. The strong baritone of the singer as well as the wide instrumentation worked together in beautiful harmony. It was simple and clean. I felt my heart as well as the space around me grow wider with every dramatic crescendo. And when everything’s quiet and still and the voice was soft, it seems as though time stood still. I felt my head slowly swaying in common time, four beats in a measure.

“It’s beautiful,” Judah said with a satisfied grin.

“It is.”

Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

I found out that there was a recent version of this song and listened to it too. It was a beautiful rendition for me. Compared to the original, it only has a piano and a guitar, which makes the singer’s voice prominent all throughout. The subtle female voice blended well with his though not as compelling as the original. If the goal is to replace the original song’s classical air with a modern one without taking away its bittersweet rhythm and feel, this version is successful, as far as the humble opinion of this average listener which is totally devoid of the quality of the criticisms of a real critic, is concerned.

Falling Slowly by Kris Allen

I cannot choose one over the other though. They’re both artistically beautiful. I get the same feeling when I listen to them. It’s like being wrapped by a soothing air and all the tensions and barriers slowly slip away and all that was left was comfort.

I suddenly felt as if I was a musician again. How strange it is to feel that you could produce music by listening to it but that’s how I felt nonetheless. As I feel my body slowly swaying to the beat, I felt the good feeling I had when I was one of those people who make good music together and was known for it. I could feel it. Everything. From the exhausting catching up to complicated succession of notes in an overture and the loud and fast heartbeat as the drums were rolled to the sensitive and exclusive soli - and then the triumph of reaching the music end. Maybe it’s one of the reasons why this melody is familiar. It has the power to make me leap through time as if to remind that I have never lost the musician in me.