The Teacher and thE Twenty-five-centavo Coin

Five years after unending battles of books, studies, projects, numbers, grids, and little kids, I can’t believe I have finally tagged myself a professional teacher. All the fears of red-painted TOR, and thesis papers rotting behind deadlines are all but gone now and suddenly have ended to be just like pages of old portfolios turning yellow over time and age. They’re soon to be but memories to fade. Soon to be under my list of choices to be or not to be forgotten.

I couldn’t say I haven’t forgotten, as much as I dearly want to forget, how the years have passed so quickly and how all the hard works have equally been paid-off. When I think about five years ago, I could only see the 18-year-old who doesn’t know how to study, doesn’t know merely the purpose of doing it and having teachers at the same time (They seem to do you the same thing. So, why not have one instead of having both? It seemed a waste of time and effort.), and doesn’t know how to do reportings when they’re the major competency one has to attain to earn the degree.

Huh! Pedigree. I can’t believe the kind of person in society I’ve now become. All the more, I can’t believe I have to say goodbye to torn cargo jeans and worn-out Chucks. Slacks, pencil skirts, ruffled blouse, pointed high heels...I don’t know.

But who says I was supposed to be here anyway? All those years, I never actually thought, worse, dreamed, to be a professional, top-rank teacher and take all the hassles of board examinations, late lesson plans, erroneous grading sheets, crying pupils, and father-daughter quarrels all because of failed expectations. Who says I was looking up to all of those? If I was to follow my dreams, I would have held tight on my guitar, laid arms wide on my piano, and invaded the stage to become the next big rock star. I’ve got what it takes! But see, bitter as it is, my songs have all but gone rotten dead behind my diary pages. Unsung, unknown, unfelt. It has failed to meet its goal—to inspire anybody.

But all those years have gone. And here I am now, waiting for Mondays to kick-off with Literature, and Fridays to end them off with a choir. And, well, not to mention, 15’s and 30’s to meet the cash. Not bad. You report to class, you have all authority and power over little rascals, you make them work, you get paid. Major cool, huh? I don’t think so.
Third year college, I was waiting for our literature teacher to arrive and start rolling with our only 6:00-7:30 p.m. Lit. class so we could finally go home. To ease out my stirred, bored, and irritated brain, I went out of the room to check out if our prof was coming. There by the door, I saw him had a chat with some of my mates. Nice. Pissed, I walked to them with a prepared speech to kick their asses back on their chairs, crazily wanting to know what was with that Lit class already that it had to devour my dinner time, and dearly wanting to go home. Finally there, I searched their faces, and found them all flirtatiously smiling to each other. Wow, they’re really something!

I was about to blurt when suddenly I got stuck. My teacher held something beneath his hand. He took it out of his pocket, played around it with his finger, and then held it back tight under his pocket. It was really…nothing. But of course with the cool over reactions of the flirt gals, it got me something. “Hala, sir, what’s that?”

It’s a coin, dumb, I was to say, but kept it by rolling my eyes to mockery. “ Pangpa-wa kulba, sah? Baynchingko?” ( To calm your nerves, ain’t it? 25 cents?)

Gracious, this is crazy. Calm your nerves? 25 cents? I didn’t know you take it as anti-depressant! My teacher took out the coin from his pocket and shewed it to us from his side. “ Ah, kani…” (This?) he looked at the coin and churtled. “ May nalang. Huwasan sad ta gamay. In-ana man nas mga intsik” ( Makes me feel a little better atleast. It’s what the Chinese do.) he said. “Bitaw, sir, sa Chinese bitaw.” (Yeah, sir, you’re right. It’s from the Chinese.) the flirts seconded.
Suddenly, weirdness.

“Intsik diay kuno ka, sir?” (So you mean you’re Chinese, sir?) Princessly laughs. Corny.

“The coin tends to absorb your negative energy according to them, therefore taking away your nervousness. I don’t know how true it is. It’s just something to cling on atleast.”
Woah!!! Now that’s really something! Super powers from 25 cents! Hope for the poor don’t you think?

They ended up their conversation and finally we started class. The board was suddenly filled with sketches of theory of deconstruction, postmodernism, negritude, Semitism, holocaust, pastiche, kitsch, and third world literatures. But my mind was elsewhere. I didn’t understand.
The 25 cents, no, it wasn’t about it. Not about the Chinese’ beliefs on its elemental powers absorption whatsoever. Or the weirdness of my teacher clinging to it. I didn’t understand why my teacher had to fear coming to school and teaching us.

Today is my tenth day in a university as a basic education teacher. Right now I’m waiting for Monday to come, but I’m wishing within me for some one year holiday in celebration of a Marsian’s arrival on earth to flash on the headlines. I don’t feel like going. It’s still like the first day of classes when you were 7 years old. I’m scared.

As of now, I don’t have the books needed for my discussion, yet. My lesson plans are still incomplete. I don’t have the complete list of competencies I have to associate in my activities to enhance my students’ and pupils’ skills. My brain is empty of strategies to apply next on my most unruly class. Unsecured as this, I’m scared I won’t be able to give my class what they need to learn. I’m afraid they’d lose the fun in learning. I fear I won’t make them learn anything.

Remembering my teacher, I’m having that old feeling again of weirdness seeing him hold that bronze coin and trying to make it absorb all his nervousness. I wonder what all his anxieties were. I wonder how much nervousness a 25 cents can hold. I wonder if right now I’m feeling the same as him that night 3 years ago. I wonder if he still feels the same.

I’m not sure, but now I think I understand. Teachers are noted to be tough. They are well respected by people. They cater the learning needs of your sons and daughters. We beg for all the patience in the world to continue teaching until words are told from the tongues of the young. We bring hope, even when we’re losing it. We mold dreams, even when we’re breaking our own. It’s the toughest sacrifice we take. But it’s the greatest happiness we enjoy.

But that is why we fear. For a little word from us can make or break a young one’s heart. One sweet nod can take them higher. But one wrong move can tear them apart. And all sacrifice and happiness we are building for are easily gone.

And that is why we cling on to something to balance things. Some resort to their families or relatives. Others take strength from achievements received, or take inspiration from relationships built. Others take a plunge on art, or drown their selves to music and studies. But most find hope in prayers, and in faith to someone Who is always on hold of everything. As Sir Januar Yap quoted it, “A teacher, is most of all, human.” We ourselves also break apart.

It’s a good thing we get something in the end to reward us. We see parents who support and understand their child, who make follow-ups and tutorials to them on their everyday lessons. We see students from time to time showing us how they struggle for ways to improve theirselves, and students who come by to tell you how much they are grateful for having you as their mentor. It’s good to hear that there are people around you who support and appreciate. Parents, students, co-teachers, and university staffs ready to help.

Yes, we do fear our jobs sometimes. Everyone in each of their own field can feel that. It’s a normal case. And it’s good to have something to cling on at those hours. There’s the twenty-five-centavo coin, and more.