I Remember Teacher

This past four weeks I had neither been very participative in class nor living up to the "funny guy" tag bestowed me. Three of my classmates noticed and told me about it. I wouldn't have realized my reticence had they not made their observation known.

Looking back, I did have some things to share: the first time a patient died on me, dealing with grieving significant others, ambubagging while transferring a critical patient, etc. But I kept mum. So, I wondered. For sure I was stressed but what was my stressor? I thought the rigours of academic and clinical activities but these have been constant since we started school and work February.

On second thought, I was having difficulty with one technical subject. The teacher's pace was too fast for me I could not catch up as well as the rest. Thursday was the crucial day when all that we have learned were put to a post-test. All my other classmates finished on time. I had to stay behind for an hour and a half more to finish the exam. I felt like the dumbest person in the world. It was a blow to my self-esteem. I felt sorry for myself I was almost in tears answering 10 more questions left in the midst of a cold room left empty except for the teacher and me.

When I got home I sat down and cried in frustration. As tears welled up my eyes, recollection of an elementary English teacher welled up from memory.

We were in the last leg of our finals. She summoned me to her room. Momentarily bespectacled and appropriately dressed, teacher was a respectable yet intimidating presence standing before her mentally impressionable and emotionally fragile young student sitting obediently at the corner of the empty room.

She did not beat about the bush. "You know, a student is not at fault. But a student should be honest and not tell a lie." Her opening line had me bewildered.

"How did you know the plural of spectrum is spectra and radium radia?" she asked, looking askance at me.

Dumbfounded, I replied with a reluctant voice, "Madam...I...just...did."

In the wink of an eye and without batting a lash she said, "You're so impossible. Many in the first section did not get it. How come you did?"

I sat frozen, lost at her suspicion, mouth half-open with nothing coming out but empty air. Before I can think of an answer she roll-called from the homogenous section of categorically brightest students and persisted to express her puzzlement at how they could have missed it and I did not.

"Where did you get the answers? These students did not even get it. How much more you, you're from the second section?"

To her dissatisfaction I reiterated that I simply just knew the answers because, honestly, I simply just did. Also, being at her mercy did not afford me to form a rebuttal according to her level. There were other items in the exam she cited and deemed insurmountable for my capacity, at least how she perceived it. And the interrogation went on in a dizzying circle. We were exchanging essentially the same lines over and over. Never a recalcitrant student, I just sat there and continued being redundant.

Mind you, teacher's demeanor was nothing like soapish kontrabidas who blatantly and outlandishly make life a living hell for their objects of oppression. On the contrary, teacher was composed, carried an air of conviction and only periodically showed her frustration by tightening her lips, heaving a sigh and sharpening her gaze - which made her all the more menacing.

"Did anyone in the faculty help you? You can tell me, I won't say you named names," she goaded. "And it's not your fault that you're not smart."

I knew no other way to answer but truthfully. Sadly, it wasn't the truth she was looking for. With annoyance and exasperation strewn across her face, she issued her last retort, "Alright. But I don't believe you did not get some form of help. How did you get the correct answers when even the brightest students did not." And she dismissed me.

In a daze, I walked out of the room, past the hallway and empty classrooms. "What was she so upset about?" I lingered. I passed her test in flying (spectral) colors. Shouldn't she have been pleased? Even if I was not from the first section, shouldn't she have been proud of her "not so bright" student and herself?

From then on, I became wary being deemed smart or intelligent; I remember teacher who, in her own special way, told me I was better off not being so. From then on, I palpitate whenever I feel the urge to recite, more often not having the guts to raise my hand and share what I know; I remember teacher who did not appreciate me being knowledgeable. From then on, my mind clams up whenever confronted with a challenging subject matter; I remember teacher who dictated my capacity to learn. It has been more than twenty years ago and I still remember her words vividly.

A little while after the interrogation, it came to me how I got the answers - I watch too much TV and read too much comic books. Spectra was the name of a cartoon series villain; his weapon of destruction a spectrum of radioactive material. Radium I recalled from an illustrated sci-fi serial. I could only surmise radia was correct because it simply just felt right.

Like most people, I have moved past that sad incident in my past and made my own achievements. Throughout High School, without conscious effort and not exactly to my liking, I belonged to the homogenous section (Good thing the school administration has dumped this student classification in our senior year and thereafter). I went to a reputable school in college and pursued further studies in the Philippines' premiere university.

Teacher's words had long sunk into oblivion. But sometimes, just sometimes, they resurface. Perhaps to encourage me to do better, to move me to improve my own lot, and to remind me that I am as good as I believe I am. And for these lessons from teacher, I am grateful.

The Word is Gay

A decade ago I wrote a piece about discriminatory terms used to refer to gay men which I vividly and collectively described as "having strongly, scornful semantic value." With the same title I revisit my opinion back then and see if it has changed ten years after.

Gay men had been referred to in many derogatory ways: "faggot," "queer," "pansy," "bent," "sissy." My own language is equally unapologetic: "bakla" (which I euphemistically refer to as "the B word"), "bading," "alanganin," "jokla," "badaf," etc. I cringe as I encode these words that nevertheless had to be laid out for lucidity. These references marginalize a component of society that has contributed mightily to cultural enrichment and nation building. The people who coined these must have had perverted thoughts. These words should know no place in the vocabulary of the gender-sensitive.

My enlightenment on gender sensitivity crystallized in the advent of my coming out at twenty thus I felt very strongly about it. Within our fervent youth lies a furnace of smouldering passion bursting out in open flames, and damned be those who dare to be on the way of its raging path. I was a tad too idealistic. I wrote to newspapers and radio and television programs that commit the verbal blunder. I sent potent letters to my professors who utter slighting terms in their lectures. I readily debated people, even those I do not know, who gleefully use offensive words in wanton abandon. It was about me and this community I belonged to, how people view and talk about us, and I felt I had to put up a seemingly solitary fight against age-old verbal conventions, fervently and foolishly appointing myself the lone bastion of gay political correctness.

I was mostly cantankerous, expressing my frustration and disappointment through incisive missives and cold shoulders, the latter being an ineffective and admittedly insipid way to get my message across. My principle was: "You don't respect what offends me, you don't respect me at all." Much to my chagrin, skirmishes turned acquaintances and even friends into enemies because of their gender insensitivity and political incorrectness, and of course my unbridled ire. But some people's beliefs had been challenged and changed. I only hope it was out of empathy, not fear. Fear might be a motivator but empathy is a far more virtuous stimulus for reform.

One interesting new angle is that some of the words I found disappointing have been neutralized by gay people themselves. Like a hood thing, some terms are slowly crossing the border to become terms of endearment within the gay community. Gay media powerhouses have used words like "fag" and "queer" mainstream possibly making the fangs and venom of prejudice less sharp and virulent. The gay undercurrent of the super heroes cartoon series and movies "X-Men" had been alluded to be an allegorical expression of rebellion against this society that is so hellbent on conformity in conventional coexistence, possibly rendering "x-man" an appreciable impression for some.

But these still remain a bone of contention for me. I still find "fag," "queer" and "bading" unpleasant to read, utter or hear. The idea of being billed "mutant" in the absence of any kick-ass superpower does not seem to be enticing. And "x-man" may be misconstrued as formerly male. Gay men are still men. We did not cease to be on our side of the gender pole. And while I'm on this thread, let me say that there is no third sex. Postulating there is a first and a second only begs to arouse the old flames of sexual discrimination.

I still stand my ground to this day, although admittedly I have become outwardly nonchalant to neutralized terms and unenlightened individuals who make the utterance for sheer reference. Mellowing comes with age, and we become more tolerant of idiosyncracies and points of view different from ours. I understand there are still people out there who are, for lack of a better word, ignorant of these inflammatory terms. They may not even see themselves unenlightened. That's fine as long as they make the utterance not in my presence nor within my hearing distance.

Personally and ultimately, back then and until now, I still believe there are only two words that can be used to refer to "gay" men that is gender sensitive and gay-friendly. The other one being "homosexual" which is rather clinical to the ear, and its derivative "homo" some gay people perceive to leave a phobic aftertaste. Nevertheless, these words have to be the only politically correct terms to refer to people of my kind as far as I am concerned. Perhaps in time my auditory faculty and gender consciousness will get used to previous nomenclature of ridicule that has been neutralized through amicable use. Perhaps.

A Home of My Own

My vagabond days were finally over. I officially moved to my own apartment February after many months of living with different people. The sense of solitude is emancipating. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. Most liberating, I can now walk around the house naked again. Yeehaw!

My current abode is as humble as humble can get. Most of the stuff I have are donations from friends and relatives. I have only started to work recently so it will take time to save-up and fill-up the house to make it homey.

I am exhilirated of my vintage television. Ever heard of the brand Zenith? It works on dial controls which I have to turn to change channels and pump up the volume. Yup, no clicking. How exciting is that? (,") It has a separate knob which, if cranked with the right amount of effort, captures UHF channels. Yes! I have UHF! Whoopee! (,") And the antenna has to be adjusted and the control knobs wound to get a clear reception. Considering it's a second-degree hand-me-down, I happen to get very decent transmission.

My microwave oven and rice cooker are also a second-degree hand-me-downs. Just a little spic and span and - voila! - almost as good as new. As long as it works and serves the purpose, right? Good thing the apartment came with a refrigirator and a conventional stove-oven, as well as a study table, drawers and a lamp sans shade.

Everything in my cupboard - mugs, plates, bowls, cups, saucers, cutlery - they were all given. A chopping board, frying pan and dish rack were thrown in, too. My first meal - breakfast - which I cooked right after stepping out of the shower, was a modest tuna omelette which I enjoyed with a pair of whole wheat toast and not-from-concentrate orange juice.

Since there's no bedside table I place my evening essentials on a small floormat beside my bed. As for the bed, it's a single layer airbed from my sister.

All my five pairs of shoes don't have a shoerack yet so they all manage on a makeshift docking area of clear plastic lining stretched flat out on the carpet.

My kitchen trash bin is part of relief goods. Since I don't have a wastebasket in the bathroom, I make use of a strong paper bag into which I fit a plastic bag as trash receptacle.

I always put my delicates in an enclosed container. Being an advocate of recycling, I have my undergarments hygienically stored in a rectangular, clear, spring salad mix plastic container. Can it get any fresher than that? (,")

And that's all there is. No sofa, no dining table, and just one single wooden folding chair to sit on. I don't have a phoneline yet, whether mobile or landline. No personal computer as well. How do I manage my blog, you wonder. Public library. That for now is my only communication line to the world beyond my turf. I did take pictures of the things I mentioned for this post but uploading will have to wait til I get my own PC.

It will take time to transform my dwelling into a fully-functional home, but it's alright. If I have to be philosophical about it, a seed doesn't bloom at once or a butterfly doesn't take on its wings overnight. Patience can be very much a virtue, specially when it comes to delaying gratification for rational/practical reasons.
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Photos in this post are author's property.