A
Phenomenology of My Life with the Scholastican
By Allan Roi Roño
To make
this reflection easy for me, I decided to use my usual story-telling method
that I often employ in class. In that way my readers would also hopefully find
it easy to relate. Another issue to be settled first is the intended audience
of this paper. I have decided that this reflection paper of sorts will be
mainly intended for a Scholastican audience. This is so because they are the
subject of this reflection, and have been the ones who I have decided to turn
my career path on for the past twelve years. However, it is not limited to just
that. It is my hope that the theme is something that will transcend deeper than
school affiliations. I will not narrate specific incidents that I have
experienced and have been part of in my stay here in St. Scho, however it does
not imply that I have forgotten all the things that have happened to me here.
It also does not mean that the experiences are insignificant. In fact, I
recognize the fact that all those experiences have given me much, much more
than I could ever deserve to be rewarded with.
Twelve years. All those years; how
do I sum up all that has come to pass? How do I contain all that has been and
all that has come to be? Here I recognize myself as object as well as subject
of the experiences that I have gone through. I sit down facing the computer and
for a long moment, my fingers falter at the task of collecting all those years
into a comprehensive thought.
Year in and year out the high school
community goes through the 5S program. Simply described, 5S is a systematic,
almost rigid, Japanese way of cleaning house. As many things Japanese, it is a
way of life that has to first be imbibed. It is a mental attitude. No wonder
why I could not clean up being the pack rat that I am. Here, I make an early
realization that I do not have the mental discipline of the Japanese. It is
because my mind itself has gotten cluttered with all those years, all those
twelve years. And I know that before I move into my more than decade-long love
affair with St. Scho, I must first sit down to sort, sweep, systematize,
standardize, and then and only then will I see . . .
As I sort
things out in my head, I know full well that what I keep and what I throw away
will shape my memories. The clutter found in my general area of work, I readily
find is not at all work-related. Everybody knows that I require minimal
paperwork so I would not be the type to have piles of unchecked papers, yet all
sorts of papers lay there like a trash heap… Or is it a treasure trove. On and
in my desk is a collection of favorite poems scribbled on pieces of paper, CDs
original and pirated, favorite books, the complete collection of Pugad Baboy and Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings series, credit
card bills, small stuffed toys, birthday cards, my cell phone, props for magic
tricks, Days nametags, unsigned notes and love letters from secret admirers, a
collection of pens left in Troika, grad pics, photographs and neo-prints, a
half- eaten chocolate bar, sandwich, some form of food, my coffee mug, and what
have you. I cannot finish this enumeration, as it would probably take up the
entire phenomenology. But this gives a rough idea of what one might expect to
see on my desk, and the things that could possibly be in my mind.
I decide to set aside the durables
from the non-durables. Likewise I sort the vivid memories from the ones that
I’m not quite sure about anymore. I throw away small pieces of paper with
little scribblings of phone numbers, grades, lecture notes, and the like. Then
I make mental notes of those words unsaid and things left undone. As I sort
through all the clutter of twelve years, I secretly shed a tear for the
memories each little scrap of paper brings. Names and familiar faces come to
form. I hear distant echoes of footsteps and chatter in the halls, crying and
laughter, jokes and stories told on those lazy days when tales of ghosts and
loves lost were far more interesting than any point of information. Photos from
50 pounds ago put a smile on my face and I bravely stifle another sob and laugh
at how funny and happy everyone looked. The reason, I thought, it was difficult
for me to keep from being messy was the sentimentality of each little item. It
was the sentimentality that kept me from throwing away anything. And yet again
I realize that it’s not really the thing that holds the memories but I who keep
them, together with those I share the memories with. There, I thought. My desk
is clean. But even upon secondary reflection, my mind is still cluttered. Ah
yes, the matter of words unsaid and things undone.
Twelve years ago, I came to St. Scho
on a whim. I had quit my job at a shipping line and decided to teach again. St.
Scho was farthest from my mind, stupidly because I didn’t know where the hell
it was. I had to ask a kabarkada,
who’s also Scholastican, to accompany me. And to make a long story short, I was
hired. I came to St. Scho re-invigorated by my youthful ideals. I stood very
strong, convinced of my capabilities that I would make changes in the lives of
those that I will encounter. But I was only partially right. As I enforced my
brand of result-oriented style of teaching, my one resolution was to make and
mold the Scholasticans into the best speakers this school will ever know. I
demanded much from them because I only expected the utmost from myself as well.
Perhaps this was a spring-off from my school days when we were battered with
the Latin adage, non multa sed multum;
to whom much is given, much is expected in return. Little did I realize that I
failed to make real changes in them because they did not need changing. The
Scholasticans were already good at whatever they were good at. It was only a
matter of discovering their skills and talents. What I realized was that I was
not making changes in them, rather they were making changes in me.
Unfortunately,
in the hustle and bustle of a teacher’s life, I sometimes forget that students
are not just adding machines and word processors. I sometimes set aside the
part of students that love to laugh, sing, and dance, scream, tell stories, eat
junk food, and so much more. I stopped reaching out. Then some years ago, I
fell in love with the woman whom I thought I was going to share my life with.
But fate decided to part our ways for reasons that were unclear to me until
recently. And then I fell in love again. In a prayer, God told me His reason
for breaking my heart. He said that He had to break my heart so that I could
let you in, that I might learn to love again purely. Then you, unwittingly,
perhaps unknowingly touched my heart. You the debaters, you the Dazers, you the
quiet ones in class, and of course you the noisy ones, you who I always pat on
the head, you with the curly hair, you who I played volleyball and basketball with,
you that I walked out on, all you who were ever heart-broken, you who laughed
out loud just at the sight of each others face, you who revealed your secrets,
you who thought my jokes and antics in class were funny, you who were my little
sisters, you who I sat with at the stones, you who I worked with, you who won
and lost in the interclass competitions, you who gave a damn about my useless
handouts, you who were the forced volunteers of the speech fests and inter-class
debates, you who read my books, you who I played magic numbers with, yes even
you who had difficulty speaking to me in English. Yes, you my dear
Scholastican, you have touched me. And I, I secretly loved each moment with
you.
With the touching is also a process of attachment.
Yet the final irony is this. As the bond becomes stronger, the time looms
closer when each must let go. It is unfair that just when I’ve managed to let
you all in, I have to break my heart all over again to let you go. The irony of
love, I find, is that it comes with an equal degree of pain. The stronger the
love, the more the pain when the loss comes. But the point of it all is not in
the pain. Pain just lets you know that you are alive and that you are human.
The pain allows you growth and should make you stronger. It is love that gives
meaning to your humanity. And when you have found some meaning in life, then
the pain becomes worth its while. That is why I find it hard to throw anything
away.
In this
phenomenology I have come to realize many things. I have long ago realized that
to be a teacher means so likely that I will never be financially up to par with
my classmates who’ve gone to the business sector. But it doesn’t mean that I
will be poor either. My wealth is way beyond any of my contemporaries could ever
appreciate or even begin to imagine. Teaching for me is that proverbial
road-less-traveled-of-sorts. They may have their nice cars, salaries beyond
actual brain activity, stock dividends and all; they can have all that. But me,
I have grad songs, barkada adventures,
text mates beyond comprehension, and heroines for my stories, laughter each
day, the most beautiful people to be with, and yes, even tears shed in secret.
Teaching in St. Scho is not a mechanical, automated
thing. For me it has become more than just instructing students. It’s about
molding leaders. It’s about the joy of growing up without getting old. It’s
about learning from each other. It’s about suffering to reach the stars (ad astra per aspera). It is a
relationship between a mentor and pupil, a lot of times between friends,
sometimes between a kuya and little
sister, and always, always a relationship of souls on a journey. Teaching has
given so much more. Through this experience, I have been allowed to touch and
be touched by the human soul; something I dare say very few of my
contemporaries have even come close to. You are my wealth. Though I could not
exchange you for a new car, (God knows I need a new one), that wealth has
allowed me to live fully. True it is that my friends and classmates have made a
better living than I have. But how many of them, I dare ask again have truly
made a life. They can and will go on building big business empires, but I, I’m
building the future.
Now, I thought to myself; I can re-organize my
usually cluttered desk as I also restore order in my mind. I save all the
things that are worth keeping and arrange them in my desk and drawers. I then neatly
pile together all that have become unnecessary and all that I will throw away.
. . I look at my desk, then I smile and marvel at how very little has changed.
