Convergent spaces

This is going to be a kooky piece, so I apologize in advance. A kooky piece begins with no real point, or no clear insight or thesis statement. It’s kooky because I have a vague idea of what it is I want to say, but am not 100-percent sure I know what it is I want to say.

This vague thought of mine started when I realized that since 2011 started, I have not been well. First there was the terrible spill I took in the beginning of January. There was the bout with a bad cough and cold that saw me on a first round of antibiotics. Then it was the episode with the heart. Finally, succumbing to all that ailed me, I went back to the doctor and now have a slew of tests I must take. But I am a bad patient, by nature. I refuse to waste time on lines that mess my day, true. But more than that, my own history of disease and my understanding of disease begin with the assumption that I am sick physically because there is something wrong metaphysically. Ah, did I not warn you this would be kooky?

I’ve lived by writing in my journal most of my life and what that gives me is a sense of pattern. Rereading my journals has led me to this discovery: I am always sick in the months of January and February. Again, several more logical, rational things could explain the phenomenon — such as the change in weather, perhaps? We go from cold to hot in the blink of an eye and maybe, just maybe, my body does not like it very much. There is of course the possibility that I am simply tamad and the sickness is a sign that I am still unwilling to start the year! Puede, puede…

But there is an interesting entry in my journal of 2001 that makes me wonder if another reason might be the culprit.

“It is January, and once again I am sick. It is harder to be sick these days because the year opens with the televised trial of Joseph Estrada for plunder. A name has surfaced on a check and his name is Jose Pidal. The amount on the check is massive. A signature on the check leads to the culprit. This is nonfiction at its best.”

I look back to 2001 and what it felt like to be a teacher. On campus, both teachers and students are divided and conflicted. The students we have are children from both camps. I begin to think that the problem with us is we have no method by which to think of our nation. We don’t know how to read the signs of true and false anymore because we’ve muddled them all throughout the centuries. There’s no one to blame more than ourselves for where we are. We cannot blame modernism nor post-modernism for the fragmentation and loss of values our world now operates under.

Back then, I was teaching Western Literature and I had a writing class. I could feel the irrelevance of education. It was easy to teach them narrative, style, tone and point of view and students were with me, I could see, but they were also looking outside a lot. They could sense that the space of the classroom was suddenly so tiny compared to the space outside. I could feel the tension in my teacherly, ancient bones. I could see the students’ thought bubble above their heads: What is all this knowledge for, Ma’am?

My journal chronicles my own confusion over my job:

“Today was an exercise in irrelevancy. The Senator’s daughter was outside my classroom bawling her eyes out. My students were with her. I didn’t know what to say to her. I understand that children can never believe their parents could be sinners. It is her job to love him unconditionally. But I am a teacher and must love her, too, in some way. She looked at me hoping to have my support. I could not give it to her. More than teacher, I am citizen and I am Filipino. Our class was burdened by this. I dismissed the class early. What else was there to teach?”

In my Western Literature class, we were discussing the Renaissance period. It is a time when thought, discourse, the ability to argue a point without the patina of religion or moralism was celebrated. We read our texts with a concentration that is privy to the academic world. Here the students sensed the ability of art to order chaos and fear. We went back to “The Iliad” and I reminded them of why people went to war: because there was a wrong that needed to be righted and the world order was disordered and they knew that it would take courage and bravery to right the world. The enemy knew they were wrong. Troy knew it was destined to fall for that wrong. Above all, free will be damned, what was privileged in this ancient space was the idea of being civilized.

I suspect that if I can find a way to teach reading and writing well, I can teach not only a method for reading and writing but hopefully — hopefully, Dear God, Dear Country — a method for reading and writing our country.

On the fateful night we were once again called to amass our bodies at EDSA, a student sends me a text message not to ask for an assignment, but to ask if we will have class considering the news. You can see the pause of a young mind here. “I want to be there for my country, but (and it’s a big but) will it be taken against me in class?” I wondered if I should have first taught them discernment, or passion at the very least. I deliberately answered him with this message: “Above all else, free will.”

Again and again, when my country is in trouble I go back to the snap elections (more like mock elections) of Marcos in 1986. There was a confluence of events that triggered People Power and, visually and narratively in my head, one of the most powerful scenes was of the Comelec women walking out in protest. It was they who declared that cheating was taking place. Of course we all knew that, but knew it by heart, by suspicion, all things vague and unclear. But these women would not take it and up they went, to march towards the light.

And there we were once again in 2001 and the fate of our country was in the hands of this lone woman banker. My journal chronicles what I am thinking:

“The past few weeks I have been sick again. I cannot seem to find the strength to be better. I only want to lie down and rest. But tonight, I hit upon something. When the news announced that people were converging at EDSA, I instantly felt well. It was the most powerful medicine yet — the call to action. Was I perhaps sick because my country is sick? Does my country’s wellness have an effect on mine? I think so. I hope so.”

So there I was again on EDSA and was gladdened to see some of students in the classroom of life. How wonderful to be classmates in history, together, making it up, writing history, anonymously, together. That night, my husband and I walk from EDSA to our house in Marikina. I have no idea how we made it — but there was poetry in it; romanticism even, a metaphor for how far one would go for love of country.

The other day, someone interviewed me and asked about what my teaching style is. I said: I try very hard to be relevant, by giving my all to our tiny space in class. I think to myself, if I am committed, if the class is honest, fair and just, this might be a model for life in general. Perhaps this space could converge with bigger spaces.

But there is confusion in the air these days because it seems that despite the passage of time (25 years, to be precise) in our country’s narrative, we seem to be only good at climaxing — at achieving high points. We are not so good at denouement, at the unraveling of conflict, at reaching resolutions that make the story come full circle. I can feel the difficulty once again in my classroom in 2011 and I know that the students are looking to me for a way to read our new stories. How to make sense of the AFP? How to make sense of these people as characters? What are their motives? What are the options for telling the truth? Apparently to tell the truth is to guarantee that you will no longer have a life. What fate must befall them? And this one, surely their biggest question: “Ma’am, the truth will always win, right?” They look to Egypt and understand the euphoria of it all. But they know better, too. I know better, too. Revolution is only a first step to righting the world. It’s the after-party, when CNN has left, when real work begins.

All my life, I have ended class with the same admonition: Be good, be brave, be safe. On this day, I alter my line. This day I say: Be good, be brave, be safe. Love your family. Pray for your country.