Teacher beast and teacher best

He enters the room, makes a sweeping glance at our class, goes up five steps to an elevated platform, sets down his books at the very edge of the table and takes pains in fixing each book so that it is stacked up straight with no corners sticking out.  Then, he turns to the blackboard, picks up the eraser, slides it from top to bottom as if he had mentally split the blackboard into several columns.  Repeating briskly the up-down motion, he does not cross diagonally to the next column.  Unlike a wiper blade, he does not sweep the entire board in one big rainbow arch.  No wishy-washy cleaning like what I would do or other normal people would do.

Was he showing off?   Half-half.  He was demonstrating order in every movement he made, in anything that required thinking, hopefully, with the brain attached.

This was Professor Ariston Estrada, master sergeant, I mean, doctor of logic and philosophy.  His professional dress code was coat and tie, rain or shine.  He kept our freshman class amused and confused, especially if we forgot the rules of inference consisting of premises and conclusions to arrive at the correct conclusions and deductions.

Oh, well, the grandiose routine of putting down his books and erasing the board in uniform strokes stuck in my head.  Today, I clean my mirrors and glass doors by columns, too.  I did apply some of his reasoning rules to stand my ground with my children, but that was no guarantee that they agreed with me save getting my doors and mirrors cleaned, without streaks.

But wait, I’m fast-forwarding to the future.    



Rewind to high school and there was Mrs. Araceli Murillo, the Geometry and Algebra terror.  She enters the classroom with a look that announces, “STOP whatever you’re doing, your nightmare has just walked in.”  And she was.

For our first lesson in Geometry, she wrote a common formula for a basic geometric shape, the square.  Instantly, the air grew thick with trepidation.  She smiled wryly.  “Ladies,” she began.  “In this class, I expect high voltage, fully charged electrons crackling up your cranium, capisce?”

I looked down nervously at my toes.  It didn’t help that I sat next to Erlinda Kalalo-Perlas who sang and danced through all our math subjects like we were in Moulin Rouge; she was the high-kicking rose of Can Can and I was the stuttering, fumbling wardrobe assistant.  Since I also felt like Eeyore, the pessimistic, pink bow-tailed, doe-eyed donkey of Hundred Acre Woods, a good friend of Winnie-the-Pooh, I dreaded each day that had Mrs. Murillo in it.  In our school, there were six grading periods to give time for students to make up, if they were down in the pits, i.e. me, or reach the summit, if they were whiz kids, i.e. not me.  The passing grade was pegged at 75.  Anything below that was considered, tough luck, recite your prayers.  This was how I fared in Geometry:

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• 1st grading period  â€” 75           

Danger, deep ravine or sinkhole below.

• 2nd grading period   â€”  70           

Told you!  I grabbed special tutor, Mr. Johnny Wilson, who looked like the horn-rimmed mad scientist Dexter.  Mr. Johnny untangled the web of confusion in my mind by teaching me the short-cut formulas to arrive at the same answers.

• 3rd grading period â€”  75           

Back to my sympathy grade, at least. 

• 4th grading  period â€” 85           

Hah!  Whad-yah say? 


• 5th grading period â€” 90           

Pinch me.  Is this really happening?           

• 6th grading period â€” 92           

“You are exempted from taking the finals,” wrote Mrs. Murillo on my report card.

And that was how I conquered my dread of numbers and Mrs. Murillo.

In college, there was Mrs. Exequiel Sevilla, English professor.  After her literary brief, she asked us to give an essay- review of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue. At that time, the cheeky ones in our class already cut and pasted from book reviews sold at Alemar’s and National Book Store.  I was too chicken to resort to that.

When she returned our papers, properly graded, I sat at the edge of my chair.  “Miss Huang, Miss Ibazeta….” After a pregnant pause, she coughed, “Miss Jacinto, please stay after class.”  My heart sunk.  I fidgeted, crossed my brow but replied meekly, “Yes, Mrs. Sevilla.”  She looked at me and crooked her point finger.  I swallowed hard and tried to stand erect.  She looked at my paper and I swore, I saw her shake her head.  Oh no!  Did she flunk me?

“Miss Jacinto,” she intoned.  “This is one of the best written reviews I ever read on Rue Morgue.  It’s a gift.  Nurture it.” 



A friend told me that one mark of a great educator is the ability to lead students out to new places where even the educator has never been.  A meaningful remark, a kind gesture could open up the mind and the spirit so that the student collects nuggets in her journey through life.        

 

Many years after graduation, I discovered that I loved telling stories.  Whenever I read a book with interesting phrases, I would dog-ear the page and write them down in a steno notebook.  Many times, these passages would light a bulb, spark or trigger an idea in my head.  I called them my quotable quotes.

When I got engaged, I suddenly thought about my mentors in school and how it would be fitting to have them witness another life-changing journey — think Ithaca — that I was about to take.  I invited my high school teachers Mrs. Falafox, Mrs. Ferriol, Mrs. Roa, Mrs. Murillo including Mr. Johnny and college professors Justo Albert, Ariston Estrada, and Mrs. Sevilla. 

At the wedding reception, Mrs. Sevilla bussed me on my cheeks and half-amusingly asked,  “Tell me, have you been writing?  I don’t mean adding a Mrs. — from this day on — next to your name.”