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.
dianne.jhayvee.me
jaya.jhayvee.tosca.me
macke and me (the next day) at Shang
