The Anonymity Boys and Chokee, the Killer Door

(In which the bullies remind me of Sandy.)

***

I told Stephanie to write a paragraph using the direct speech which I entitled “One Afternoon in Wonderful Academy” with this format

_______________ said, “________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________

And she wrote this.

The Anonymity people said, “You don’t speak English well.” Yes, I known. But I was really sad. So, I was crying in the Ayin’s room. Ayin told me, “It’s okay Stephanie. They don’t speak English well too.” Now, I’m okay. I will study hard. [sic]

The Anonymity Boys (Yes, they’re boys!) was composed of a Big Bang rapper look-alike (Terry,) a tall, effeminate guy who’s terribly scared of me because he taught I’m overly pedantic (Elvis) and a sleepy little teenager who the other taller and older guys bully (Kelvin). As I see it, they don’t have enough bullying rights to tell a teenager girl her English sucks because they’re students too. But these boys even had the chivalry to tell that to the poor girl’s face.

I overheard Ayin mollifying her yesterday saying “Oh, forget that! They do that because they’re older and they’re boys.” That actually made me think, “Hey let’s go kick their faces and justify it by saying we’re girls and you're younger and we’re older!” Seriously, I still don’t get why age and gender are enough for these guys to bully other people. And the abused ones aren’t supposed to fight back because they’re younger and/or from the “weaker” gender?

Okay, enough of making a teenage joke a big issue.

So it appears that it’s my turn to mollify her (Since it's our class) so I said, “Oh and Terry said that? I’m gonna kill them!”

She responded with no less than a laugh. Then I remembered that I almost bumped into Terry earlier that day and noticed that I didn’t even reach his shoulder level. So how on earth am I going to kill him?

“For Kelvin, I have a fair chance of slitting his neck but for the other two, I’d be lucky if I could even stab them on the chest. The stomach is the best thing I can target though not as deadly,” I told her, tongue in cheek.

“Yes, Terry will only do this to you,” she grabbed a small stuff toy and strangled it. And then she laughed.

“Hmm. You’re right.”

“Scary. Killers,” she laughed again.

That did it. In case you were wondering where the other half of the title is, read on.

I told her the story of a small serial killer introduced to me by a lovely little kid.

Sandy (Remember her?) asked me once if I know Chokee. I didn’t have the faintest idea who Chokee was so she tried to elaborate.

“Chokee! He’s a door!”

“A door?” I queried, still uncertain.

“Yes, he kill! Very scared! Chokee Door!”

I still didn’t get how a door could possibly kill let alone have a name!

“I still don’t get it. How does Chokee Door look like? Square? Is it revolving? How does it kill?”

She slightly trembled as though she were talking of a scepter near us, about to attack any minute.

Then she grabs a pen and a sheet of paper and started drawing silently. After I realized who Chokee Door is, she immediately scribbled roughly on the paper to erase the image, shrinking.

This was what she drew.

I chose the least scary and gory picture but it still gives me the creeps.

On Grammar, Photos and Memory: The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond

(In which I learned and remembered.)

***

I finished the book earlier than I was able to buy the next or have the tests and progress reports ready. I think I owed it to one sleepless night. But I don’t regret it. This is one of the books that you can’t just put down. It doesn’t have a very complicated plot not equally complicated characters in personality and in number. At first I find it a little boring since everything only revolves around sentences that go like “There is a girl. Here name is Emma. One moment she’s with me, and then she’s gone.” But then I found out that it is indeed the only thing that drives Abby Mason – the mystery of a child’s disappearance. And the search starts from that fateful day at Ocean Beach and it is also the same place she returns to after a failed search. My interest in the story builds up as she finds clues that will lead her to the missing child. All throughout the story she tries to unravel not only the secrets surrounding the incident but also her life and the mystery of the human memory.

The Year of Fog tells the story of a woman’s restless heart and incredible determination. When everybody else gave up and everything seemed to be useless, she always finds a way to get her closer to Emma. And even if she doubts her memory and realizes that it is a terrible traitor, she learns that there is nothing else she could rely on but her ability to recall the past. The search goes on and she later finds out that losing something may mean losing everything and possible reunions may lead to a painful departure.

***

Not only did this book enlighten me about memory; it has also challenged or should I say, reinforced, my knowledge in English grammar.

Here’s the situation: Abby Mason went to see a hypnotist to help her remember things that might have the clue as regards to Emma’s whereabouts. She’s looking for a detail, whatever form it may take, however little it is. All she needs is to find Emma and she is willing to do everything.

I sink into the recliner, feeling at an immediate disadvantage. Dr. Shannon is high up, in her hardback chair, while I’m down low with my knees in the air. “Before we begin, you should know a couple of things,” she says, staring at me with a disturbing intensity. “First, memory is a deep sea.”

I nod, mesmerized by her pantsuit, her whimsical ideas about color, wondering where she got the idea that orange is the new black.

“Second, one cannot conquer memory, just as one cannot conquer the sea. One may dive into it, explore, but one may not own it. Understand?”

I nod again.

“Third, one must always come up for air. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to help you dive in, then I’m going to lead you up for air.”

“Okay.”

- The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond
Chapter 54, pages 245 - 246

I got mesmerized by the way Dr. Shannon makes Abby understands the complexity of this task. But I thought she should know a couple of things. So when I saw the word third, I came up for air; then submerged myself again into the words.

What? Three is a couple?

I was reading it while my student was answering an activity. I couldn’t contain my disbelief that I told him what I saw, which turned out to be a bad idea since he got more confused.

I ran an internet search and found out that “a couple of” could be used for more than one thing but not more than three. In that case, I’d rather use “a few” when it’s three and use “a couple of” when it’s two.

Settled.

***

Four of the remaining kids left for home yesterday. And several times during my class with Judah, kids knocked on the door and asked us to write on their journal some farewell messages. I was never good at goodbyes and as expected, I pulled out the “Nice to meet you and take care” trick. It’s an overused message anyone writes on anyone else’s scrapbook.

Charlotte, Sandy’s friend, knocked on our door and displayed her digital camera once in our room. She asked me to pose and I did, just to get it over with. Then it’s Judah’s turn to smile to the blinding flash. He hesitated and the two argued in Korean.

“Aysh!” Jude protested and shoved the camera away.

“Why?” Charlotte asked, with her distinct childish East Asian accent.

“I don’t want,” Judah replied and thumbed his book. Charlotte was more persistent this time.

“I have to! You have to!”

“Why?” Judah nodded

“If not, I will forget!”

I swear that at that moment, I remembered Abby Mason.

Photographs represent our endless battle against time, our determination to preserve a moment. . . I have a hunch that our obsession with photography arises from an unspoken pessimism; it is our nature to believe that good things will not last.

We put such faith in this flimsy mnemonic device, a moment written in light. But photos provide a false sense of security. Like our own flawed memory, they are guaranteed to fade. Over time, the contrasts within a photo diminish, the contours soften, the details blur. We take photographs in order to remember, but it is in the nature of a photograph to forget.

- Chapter 15, page 157

***

Most of the people I know will tell me I have a good memory. But I don’t tell them that for them to retain their status in my memory bank, they either have to be positively or negatively special. My memory seldom tolerates those in between

The first time I met Alvin was when I bought this book. Before going home, we sat down and rested on an empty seat at the mall’s food court as we removed the price tags on the items we bought. That was less than a week before Christmas and we secured some gifts for people who matter. In my case, they are my newfound friends, my best friend and my family. In Alvin’s they are his nieces and nephews. Well, they were the ones for whom he bought the books.

While we were talking, it was plain that he is a comedic person. And I was an easy audience. I narrated and he made fun of Quasimodo. Then we talked about the poser from Radius. He told me about their conversation a week ago and I was able to remind him some parts of the story when his memory fell short.

He looked at me and grinned.

“Wow. You have a photogenic memory!” he said and motioned his index finger as if to say “You got it right!” then he smiled.

I shook my head, laughing. I told you I am an easy audience.

I Could Not Ask For More by Edwin McCain

(In which something made me look forward.)

***

During the heavy times when I was uploading Sandy’s pictures and making the draft for my post about her, I was able to get lot of help from teachers who luckily brought their gadgets necessary for file transfer. And inside one thumb drive I found a huge playlist of MP3’s and copied more than a couple.

The day Sandy left for Korea, the academy seemed to emit a sudden air of lonesomeness and quietness. And what a strange air it was! For there were no more tiny feet running here and there or an army of children following and clinging to Judah in search for his dangerous cigarettes or bodies rolling on the floor while laughing. I somehow felt happy that the absence of Sandy was at least felt – she’s not just another soul that came and went. And I thought that’s how she wants it too.

It was so quiet even during lunchtime when the academy used to transform into a playground and an arena. The silence was so alive it seemed to be as solid as the walls. And that’s when I wanted to hear some music.

I Could Not Ask For More by Edwin McCain

The moment the first note was hit, I felt a sudden flow of emotions run through me. It felt as though all the energy was set to the minimum and I was put into a delicious state of drowsiness. And then one by one, the words came and I melted. I listened and listened and felt as if the song was sung for me. All the while, I had Radiusim on. I saw the site logo blink on one of the windows showing a response to my message. The magic the song has on me still lingered and I asked him.

“Do you know the song ‘I Could Not Ask For More’?”

“What about it?”

“It’s been playing ten times on my player already.”

“Why don’t you choose another song then?”

“It was so beautiful I set it to play repeatedly.”

“I see. Make it twenty.”

There was an exchange of virtual laughter. I moved on.

“I think it is optimistic. Do you think so?”

“I don’t know. People keep on asking for more.”

“I disagree. So you don’t think it is optimistic?”

“I’m not sure. Who sang it?”

Edwin McCain. We pressed enter the same time.

“Oh, yeah. It’s him,” he replied back and the momentum was regained.

“Yes. I think it is sad but it is still optimistic.”

“It’s not sad. It says 'I could not ask for more than this time together'. That’s not sad. It’s actually meant for lovers.”

“Is it? But it made me feel sad. And it could be meant for singles too. Or maybe I am just weird. Now I remember something that happened in my classroom last year. Come to think of it, it happened sometime in late January or February.”

“Go on.”

“In the classroom I used to have, another class had an activity. It’s like a Valentine card making activity. One of the students wrote to her parents. The other made a hilarious card for his friends. The other one made a card for his wife. I wondered at first because he doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”

“That’s possible. He must be reserving it for the future.”

Well, he almost hit it. I continued. “So it turned out that he wrote that for his future wife. He said he wants her to have a happy Valentine’s Day even if he’s not with her and that he’ll make it more special when they meet.”

“I see.”

“That’s why I thought this song isn't just meant for couples.”

“Wow! That was cool!”

Wind Chimes

(In which the Time Thief has taken it all.)

***

Sandy kept on asking me what we’ll be doing the day we run out of gold bars and I kept telling her that we will study. She will always shout “No!” as if telling me that’s the most boring thing ever. Honestly, I know not. But I would want to give her credits for helping me keep the Three-Unit-Per-Day Policy her mom smilingly imposed on us. And giving her a gift is already a given.

I should have thought and prepared for that long before had it not been for the last stressful week that had me a home buddy in the most uninteresting way. I was actually planning to give her a big bone pillow since we always talk of how she will manage to send me a piece of spicy chicken across oceans. But she already has a bone pillow so I decided that I should just give her wind chimes. Someone told me to choose a design that is Filipino enough to be unique. So when I saw these chimes with a darkly-varnished bamboo finish this morning, I just thought they were perfect.

There are small wind chimes that hung outside our classroom door that caught her attention the first time we had our class. I explained to her that it’s a symbol of good luck. But since then, the wind chimes became the symbol for the start of a lesson. No. I didn’t make them sound to summon her. She would usually leap several times to reach it and hear it clatter and only after three consecutive, successful jumps can you make her sit down and have class with you. I knew that at times, it’s just one of her delaying tactics. But sometimes, it’s more than that. When after trying so many times and all she was able to move was the central clapper so the metal tubes remain still, she will sit on the floor and look up to the chimes. Then I will tell her to try again later and have the class for the mean time. But she will repeatedly say “No!” and won’t stop until she gets a good hearing of the clatter celebrating her victory. Then she will pose like a Powerpuff girl after a battle won.

Teacher Aaron told her the chimes were meant to remind her of me when the wind makes the chimes sing, to which she replied “Teacher Ree-jell, very noisy!” We all laughed.

She also gave me something – a necklace with a thick, yellow string as a lace and a round, orange pendant. Inside the pendant was a tiny tube with words written on it. The tube moves inside the liquid interior of the pendant so that the words were magnified. FOREVER U & ME.

Sandy has her own pendant in the shape of an S and her was name written on the tube inside the pendant.
Mine was the round one.

The first hour was spent on short lessons and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The second was divided on playing games with the other teachers and students and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. When it’s almost time, she told me “We should pack up.” And that was the first time she did that. The moment felt strangely new it was like a premonition. While we were cleaning our table, she softly and slowly spoke “Thank you for everything.” I patted her head and said “You’re welcome. And thank you, too.”

In our job, we were trained by time not to be attached for people keep coming and going. Sometimes the interval was so short that your feelings toward people become automatic. Jean once told me she doesn’t think it’s healthy. I do too. But that’s what we do. I know it might not sadden me much today. The greater longing will come later. And it will strengthen with the knowing that we lost all the gold bars.

“What time is it?”
“Three forty-seven,” I answered.
“Oh! Change time!” she said as she moved her hands in a circling motion.

I wrote in my letter that she could hang the chimes somewhere really high and reach for it. And when she grew taller, she could hang it somewhere higher and so leap higher to reach it. She might not understand that now. But I know someday she will.

Sandy, my lovely solace.

The Final Countdown: My Stupid Sickness and the Time Thief

(In which Time shows how swiftly he moves.)

***

There was so much to blog about and I blame my lack of post on our computerless household, which I then blame on my breadwinner status and meager salary.

So I got sick last week. Correct. That was the week with so much stuff going on that drained my energy and finally had me sick-abed. For the sake of recall, I worked for three hours last Monday in search for a new job which failed then went on another half day at work last Wednesday because of a terrible combination of asthma, fever and cough that made me stay away from the office during the next two days.

And now I was back. Happily back. And when Sandy saw me she was very ready to give me a hug. It felt so appropriate to borrow from Robin Padilla’s lines.

I heard that she has finished the peanut book with another teacher which I was really thankful of. Who wants to study a book that has been so controversial because of its simplicity yet we always end up having problems with it anyway? And now Sandy’s mom has recommended a new book to study for the last four days of classes.

Last four days. I have always known that they are leaving soon. But now that it’s just a matter of four days, I thought, isn’t it too soon?

In our class, she has displayed an amazing feat of zeal and liveliness that I just want to laugh with her and agree that today is a No Class day. But we have business to do. And as she was answering questions on her workbook, she started scribbling something on her paper then asked me to continue.

“Please draw two more gold bars.”

And I did.

When I finished, she explained what those gold bars are.

“These are time gold bars.”

“Time gold bars?” I asked. I have never heard of a time gold bar. But the adage, I have, of course.

“Yes. This is for Monday. This is for Tuesday. This is for Wednesday. And this – oh no! We need one more gold bar!” She drew another gold bar. “And this is for Thursday.”

Then she drew an hour glass. “This is our time left. Every day, the Time Thief will steal one gold bar and so the sand go up then it’s Thursday.”

“Why gold bars?” I asked, but my mind seemed to wander somewhere really far.

“I don’t know,” she chuckled innocently. “But it’s really gold bar. Just.”

“I see. So tomorrow, we only have three gold bars left.”

She nodded.

I inhaled deeply. “Now why don’t you finish that activity before the Time Thief takes all our time away, huh?”

She laughed again.

***

Laugh
Live
Love and waste not
Any precious moment.
For when we sleep
Or even if we don’t
The Time Thief will steal our precious gold
In the coldness and stillness of the night.
Beware and think of the uncounted ones
And never let another one slip by.

An Hour Glass With Gold Sand

(Now that I’ve seen this, I’m thinking: Why does it have to be gold bars and not cold coins? Just thinking.)

Sandy and Me (Part II)

(In which everything becomes suddenly heavy.)

***

Thursday

Judah and I were still having a torturous reading class when the kids ran to our room. Sandy’s bright face was the first one I noticed since she ran the fastest to get to our room first. She was wearing a Prussian blue shirt with an awesome print: Princess Now, Goddess Tomorrow.

She smiled at me and said “Teacher!”

I knew at once that there was something wrong. She usually addresses me on a first name basis especially when she’s happy. Or when she wants to be polite, she calls me by my first name and adds the honorific “Teacher” after it. But today there was just “Teacher”.

“Mom said, do many,” she smiled. I knew exactly what she meant but I didn’t like the way she said it.

“Do many what? You mean we have to do more activities?” I asked.

“Yeah!”

Then the lovely bell rang.

I walked out of the room as soon as the kids went crazy over Judah. Some grabbed his legs, some hugged him and some pulled his arms. Whatever the reason the kids have for being brutally affectionate toward him, Judah, I and the rest of the adult population in the academy, were clueless.

The admin secretary spotted me as I was walking along the hallway, ready to take a left turn to my phone classroom to check my instant messages.

“The manager wants to speak with you,” she said and handed something to another teacher. I automatically sensed what the discussion will be about. I went to the manager’s office feeling nothing but sorry that I wasn’t able to check if Alvin has sent me any messages.

The manager’s room never seemed to be a place to be nervous for me. It doesn’t have the strict aura of other corporate offices. With the tall cabinet of neatly aligned books, it looked more of an elementary school’s principal’s office than a company manager’s. Well, this is basically a school and I was never scared of the principal’s office anyway.

I smiled and greeted her like a good employee and she smiled back then asked me to have a seat like a good host. Then we went straight down to business.

“Well, it’s about the Little Sandy. Her mother thinks the book was easy and it could be finished in just two weeks. She thinks your class’ pacing is too slow. She also know that the Sandy likes you and tricks you so you’ll just play games and not study so you have to be stricter,” she said in a manner so slow it made my heart swell with anticipation, both of the topic of this discussion and her expected, incorrect use of an article, and urgency for the speech to be over.

“Madam, we do study. In fact, we are already in our second book. I agree that the book was easy. Our first book was even harder that the current. The problem is whenever we have a new lesson and we review, I notice that Sandy doesn’t remember what the previous lesson was. Also, she can answer activities, sometimes even perfectly. The thing is, she sometimes has to be reminded before she can actually start answering. And that calls for reviews. That usually takes our time,” I justified.

I knew she understood what I said when she gave out a sigh which sounded to me like “I know that but the mom’s bugging me.” I have always made it a point to include that Sandy’s retention isn’t very good on her progress reports. I knew that the manager was caught in between.

“What should we do about that?” she murmured. Then she looked at me and said “Well, the mother knows Sandy likes you very much but if this continues, she will have to change the teacher and she hates that part.”

The redundant pronoun confused me. I was tempted to ask who each “she” refers to but kept quiet. She continued.

“Maybe we can use that. Tell Sandy to be more responsible and obedient because if not, you will change students.”

I got the plan and suggested something more concerning for me.

“Madam, I hope we can also ask her mom to have review with Sandy at home. I know she’s been tracking our progress. I’ve been writing lesson notes on Sandy’s book and notebook.”

“That would be helpful.”

I went back to my room and found Judah being overwhelmed by the kids. I had to remind every single toddler that the break’s over and they’re no longer welcome before Judah was finally relieved.

“You are so popular among the kids,” I remarked.

“Yes, in Korea too. I don’t know why,” he said, panting. He must have been the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. He wasn’t a kid. He knows something was wrong and I told him.

“Oh that’s the child’s problem, not yours,” he sighed. “That’s the problem with children in our country nowadays. They are into too much studying. They don’t enjoy their good childhood memories because they hardly have any. Our generation is so much different compared to them. You know? That 10-year-old is just in elementary school but she is studying middle school math.”

I can only say “Yeah, what a shame.”

“I believe it’s because our country doesn’t have much natural resources so we have to focus on manpower. We have to produce the best and the brightest to help the country’s economy. Frankly speaking… “ He paused and was hesitant at first. Then he continued, “The Philippines is a poorer country than Korea but I believe the people here are better because they are so positive. They always smile and they are happy. In our country, people are very aggressive and competitive. They spend too much time studying but their hearts are empty. They do not know about the real human condition,” he said, pausing every time he has to look up something on his electronic dictionary.

“My father runs a business and he told me not to be like them.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Most people. He said he knew a lot of people who are very smart but not useful because they do not know how to deal with other people,” he answered.

“If you really understand your father, I think you won’t be like most people in your country.”

The hour-long break was bothersome. I knew that the next class will be full of pressure. And I was right.

“Sandy, you understand what you have to do, right? No more delaying tactics. No more running and hiding. You know why?” I asked Sandy as I carried out the manager’s plan.

“I know. But Mom said if we answered many, not change teacher.”

As she said this, she opened her book and started answering the activities; pausing whenever she has questions.

“Teacher, auxiliary and helping verbs are same, right?”

“They are.”

“Yey!”

The two hours were religiously spent on lectures, activities and more activities. After the four-page review, we had lessons and discussion on paragraphs followed by a couple of writing exercises. Then we also had lessons on adverbs and had some more exercises. She asked questions now and was obviously not lax. But it broke my heart to see her write more quickly than usual, ignore Danny when he calls from the other room and look at me impatiently while we’re having our discussions as if she’s late for a lunch date. She also looked extraordinarily frustrated and bothered when she couldn’t recall a term. The ending: 10 pages on the workbook and several more on her notebook done in only two hours; and when she asked me to cover the next couple or more pages since we still have five or ten minutes before the class ends, I almost cried.

The class was fast yet emotionally dragging. Before we call it a day, I was able to ask her why the kids like playing with Judah so much. She said, “We like running and catching him because we want to steal his cigarette. Because that’s bad.”

Sandy and Me (Part I)

(In which there’s always been something to tell.)

***

Monday

I have been used to dealing with Sandy asking if she may go to the bathroom and then stay there for so long that I have to follow her only to see her walking along the corridors with eyes closed and feeling the nearest thing with her face. Once, another teacher saw her and asked why the hell she’s kissing the wall. I knew that sometimes, it was just one of her delaying tactics but often, she’s just being the kid that she is. Other examples of her childish tricks are running and hiding from me, which will eventually result to chasing and tickling and roars of laughter followed by panting and dragging to the classroom. Sometimes, we enjoy that. But not now.

During the second half of our two-hour class, she played her hide-and-seek trick on me again and I found her chatting comfortably with another student in another classroom. I told her that we should leave and study. But she resisted as if I’m going to take her to the death row. She sat down on the carpeted floor and wouldn’t stand. I held both her arms and tried to help her stand only to be burdened by the pressure she’s been exerting to keep herself on the floor.

“Sandy, stop it. Let’s go,” I said calmly.

She whined and pouted which just made her even cuter. But it wouldn’t work. I pulled her again and was defeated by her weight. I can’t continue being in that shameful position so I have to be decisive.

“Listen, Sandy. If I let go of you, I won’t come back here anymore. You’re on your own,” I said seriously.

She gave out the same whine and pout but she didn’t look cute to me anymore. I repeated the threat and she still resisted. That did it. The threat was no longer a threat. I let go of her and walked back to our room.

After a couple of minutes, as I was checking her test papers, out of the corner of my eye I saw a tiny face with long hair tied in a ponytail peeping at the side of the door. After a while, Danny, the male student from the other room, came and asked for Sandy’s dictionary. He was surprised to see Sandy out of the room. And he was even more surprised to see that she’s acting furtively. He got the picture and started teasing her.

“Oh Sandy! Can I borrow your dictionary? Please? Sandy?” he asked in between silent laughs, putting an overly obvious emphasis on her name.

I could hear some mumblings and some more laughter. Then Danny asked one more time.

“Why? What’s wrong, Sandy? Why are you here, Sandy? Why are you hiding?”

I knew it was a terrible situation for her now so I asked her to enter and the teasing and the laughter stopped. Then I explained her mistakes and we had class as though we are enemies who have to be civil for business’ sake. When the bell rang, we said goodbye and left.

Later, as I was having my phone class, someone knocked on my door and in came Sandy when I opened it. She handed me a piece of something yellow and sweet looking pastry with waffle cross marks. I thanked her soundlessly, as I wasn’t supposed to utter unnecessary words while talking to another student on the phone, and she smiled and was off. After the class, I took a bite of the lovely thing. It was crispy and sweet and buttery. I learned the next day that it was called a Butter Waffle.

Tuesday

This day was also known as The Laughing Day. Sandy is getting weirder and crazier, probably because of the high that was caused by knowing she will be back to their country in three weeks’ time. After exhibiting “magic tricks” which we both know all worked when or after I closed my eyes, she started laughing like there was no more tomorrow. And she couldn’t stop. The next thing we knew was that Danny, the student who’s just right behind out wall, was laughing out loud too. And they laugh like freaks who couldn’t stop even if they wanted to.

“Sandy, stop! Relax. Why are you still laughing?” I asked. I was already filled with worry but my face felt as if I was showing a weird smile.

“Teacher… I.. don’t… know.. why I laughing!” she managed to speak and then laughed some more.

The result: two teachers trying to have class with students who can’t stop laughing for unknown reasons. Thus, we can also call this day a Crazily Clueless Day.

Wednesday

It was a normal day. And with Sandy in mind, I define “normal” as the classroom condition wherein I, the teacher, was able to conduct a class for a full thirty to forty minutes without any childish interruptions. And usually, normal classes only occur on the first half of the class.

On the second hour, as she was scribbling something on her pretty notebook that were by now full of my notes in pink and purple ink, and as I was checking her workbook, pausing every time I need to explain or re-explain something, she asked about my travel history.

“Teacher, have you been Korea?” she asked and started to draw a cartoon character with an enlarged head and a ridiculous hairstyle.

“You mean, ‘Have I ever been to Korea'?” I asked in clarification.

“Yeah,” she answered and continued drawing the body which looked like a five pointed star with the upper point off.

“No, I’ve never been there,” I answered. She stopped drawing and looked at me. “Why?”

“Because, I don’t know what I’m going to do there and it costs a lot of money,” I explained.

“Have you ever seen snow?” she asked again and continued her drawing. This time she created the face. She put two dots for the eyes and a lowercase W as the mouth. The drawing looked totally hilarious but I was used to seeing her draw like that so it didn’t affect me like the first time I saw her masterpiece.

“No. But it would be really fun to see it once.”

“Then go to Korea!” She threw her hands up in the air as if she was on a roller coaster. Her drawing was finished.

“When I plan to go there, I’ll tell you.”

She stopped, looked down and smiled. Then she looked up at me and spoke with a big smile.

“Ree-jell, when you call me and tell me you will go Korea, I will meet you in a supermarket,” she said and started laughing. I was thinking that she might be thinking that I’ll treat her some chocolate drops. The she continued. “Then I will close my eyes and walk and find you. Then I will bump into someone so I will open eyes and look – It’s Ree-jell!!” I remembered her habit of playing blind and walking the corridors with her face as her cane. We laughed. Then she spoke softly. “One day. In Korea.”

As the cheeziness of the moment creeps in, we fell silent which I broke after a moment.

“It will take a long time. It’s going to be embarrassing to walk blindly in a supermarket when you’re already at your twenties.”

“Then you’ll be a Grandmother?”

“Probably not. Just a mom, maybe.”

“Are you going to get married? Do you want to?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

“I hope to,” I answered with genuine hope.

Just then we heard Danny singing the Alphabet Song with hilariously repetitive lyrics, keeping the tone of the four letters in his song.

“H, I, J, K, H, I, J, K, H, I, J, K...”

I was aware that my face became an unquestionable display of surprise and curiosity as I felt my facial muscles twitch. Then I heard a brand new addition to the lyrics. Well, with only some minor alterations.

“H, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I...”

The curious and surprised expression on my face suddenly turned into a big smile, then a laughter. After a while, I heard Sandy laughing too.

“Gosh! Danny, you sound like a pirated DVD!” All of us were laughing now.

We asked his teacher what the matter was and she responded.

“Well, he’s trying to alphabetize a list of words.”

13 Uses of a Small Bone Pillow

(In which my Lovely Solace becomes more creative.)

During the Christmas season, people are quite busy checking out gift items for loved ones out of the very limited time that they have. That is why we choose the most common gifts that do not really require much planning and thought like pillows. But you’d want to stay away from the very usual round and rectangular ones but wouldn’t want to give out hearts two months ahead of time so you’ll choose the very cuddly bone pillow. Not only is its softness proportionate to comfort and warmth, its mere presence suggests thoughtfulness minus the effort.

Now Sandy receives a very lovely little bone pillow from Teacher Glaiza which she obviously adores. She keeps on hugging it and thumbing it as if it’s the most precious thing ever when she doesn’t seem to use the drawing pad I gave her. Now there isn’t any intended trace of jealousy there. I found the pillow lovable too. But what is more lovable is the idea that Sandy found out during our class while she was hugging the pillow – that its uses are far beyond its being a pillow.

A Bone Pillow

“Teacher! Look!” she told me in a manner that makes me imagine Archimedes.

“What?”

“First, this is a pillow for naps,” she said, then put the pillow on the table and bury her tiny face in it in an unquestionable display of comfort and contentment of a weary soul upon seeking refuge. Then she lifted her head and held the pillow in her hands. “Then it’s a tumbling toy!” she said gleefully as she tossed the pillow in the air, her smile widening every time she catches it. Then she paused and tapped the wall, creating a roll of bass sounds. “Then it’s sound of…” she thought for a moment but did not stop beating.

“Drums?” I asked.

“Yeah!” she said in her signature exuberance.

“Then if there’s a bad person, you can hit him with it. Or when a mosquito bit you, you can do this,” she said as she scratched her leg with the pillow.

After answering an activity, she felt bored and sleepy but I told her to study so she slapped her face with the pillow.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I need to wake up.”

Then upon realizing that she has just discovered a new use for the pillow, she smiled and shouted “Oh so many things!”

And the list went on. It got so interesting we have to write it down.

1. Pillow for naps
2. Tumbling toy
3. Drumstick for the wall
4. Weapon against bad guys
5. A mosquito bite scratcher
6. A slapper to wake you up
7. A fan
8. A dirt remover (Just scrub the dirt off and go!)
9. A punching bag
10. An improvised hunchback prop
11. Scratcher for the back (works perfectly when you’re playing a hunchback)
12. A dog bone when pretending to be a dog (which works as a pacifier too)
13. An arm exercise (attach the handle with the pencil and torture yourself with its weight and size while you’re writing)

When we’re done listing and she got tired of speaking, she asked me, “How many?”

“Thirteen.”

“Wow! So many!” she said as she tossed the pillow high up in the air. When she caught it, she paused and started thinking again.

To Make a Child Secure

(In which I wish – whether in or out of context – to quote Pythagoras.)

***

Friday. It was both the most loved and hated day of the week by the two main characters in our academy – the teachers and students. The students hate it for being a test day. The teachers hate it for being a test day. But both love it for being the last day of the week.

I gave a four-part test to Sandy, my lovely solace who exists side by side me and my duty to educate in an academy where almost everything – good or bad – is possible. The first is made up of two columns of five fragments which are supposed to be matched to make up a sentence. The second consists of five sentences. The duty of the examinee is to underline the complete subject and encircle the complete predicate. The third, the culprit, is about pluralization of regular and irregular nouns. The last, the one most likely for ten-year-olds, is a word puzzle box of important vocabulary.

So my ever confident and jovial little angel is at her jolliest today. She was so excited to see me more than before. The reason for her unusual glow was made clear when she said, “Teacher, let’s play after the test with Charlotte!” I looked at the door across from ours. “But they’re not there.” “They will be!” she answered positively.

So she answered the test with more confidence than ever. Then she handed it to me and smiled.

“Are you sure it’s done?”

“Yes!”

Of course I know that there are mistakes but I didn’t tell her. And we all know that that is the point of giving a test.

I finished checking the paper, pausing every time to explain her mistakes. She was receptive at first. Then she remembered her deal with her mother.

“Mother said I should have 90 more,” she said in their distinct rising and falling East Asian accent.

“You mean you should get a score not lower than 90 percent?” I asked in clarification.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“If not, she will kill me,” she responded with a shy and knowing smile. The kind that tells you it’s a given.

I counted her score which was mercifully upped because of some minor considerations. 39 over 50. By the mere look of it I bet my entire art set it wouldn’t even reach 85%.

“What’s the over 100?”

“You mean what’s your score? In percentage?”

“Yes. “

“Hmmm. We need a calculator.”

We went to my room and pulled up a calculator. 39 / 50 x 100 = …

When we saw it, I saved my art set. But not her. Not that saving her is a part of my noble duty. But when I saw her face as blank and as flat as a bond paper, I wished I have just lost my art set.

“One more,” she pleaded.

I recalculated it and got the same results. Her flat and blank face seemed to get worse. Who would want, having the same smartness as she has, to see a solid 78 percent as a test score anyway? I held her shoulder and had her face me.

“You Mom won’t get angry. Really.”

“No,” she said certainly. And pouted as if saying “No one understands. Even you.”

“Look. You did well.”

Silence.

I looked at her paper again. How come that she wrote heroes as the plural of hero but wrote tomatos, mosquitos and potatos? And she was right when she pluralized life into lives, leaf into leaves but wrote knifes, scarfs and loafs!

“How to do? Mother will kill me!” she said desperately.

“Of course she won’t. I’ll talk to her. She’ll understand. Do you want that?”

She nodded. Just when I thought it’s over, she told me this: “Teacher, one more test!”

So the next several minutes were spent on an informal emergency meeting with co-teachers. And the final decision is to talk to the manager.

“Ok. Review the test to her and have her repeat the exam. Then give me both the original and the retake. I’ll tell her Mother what happened.”

So that was what’s done. She impressed me for knowing the grammar rules in verbatim. After the retake, she was elated. 46 over 50. She urged me to go to my room to calculate her score. When she saw that it was 92, she jumped. I then remembered that she called the computer crazy for giving her 78.

The rest is up to the manager. What I’m more concerned of is the kind of kids that would be raised in a society which is overly concerned with results of tests. Numbers, how powerful indeed you are!