Sit-in.

[Note: This one was written in 2009, posted on Multiply. Putting this out again in the open because I was reminded that it's my chemistry teacher's birthday! And... well, Multiply's closing down.]

~

I step in the classroom, looking around. Some of the jalousie windows are broken, the blackboard is a mess, half the armchairs are empty, scattered in a group of new juniors. I meet their wondering gazes, stealing the show from their Chemistry teacher, who is making her way to the teacher’s table.

This Chemistry teacher asks me to sit down. Empty chair, far left in front. I do as she says and observe as the class stands up to greet her with the overly-rehearsed-yet-never-perfected line of public school students: Good afternoon, Ma’am. Mabuhay. They utter this with a bored monotone, or at least that is what it seems to me.

The teacher asks them to take their seats and smiles at me. I smile back and watch her open her chalk case, which has been with her for a long time. I look at the class and give a half-smile to those who are nice enough to smile at me. Some are whispering to their seatmates and I read their lips. They are assuming that I am their teacher’s a.) daughter and b.) niece. I am neither.

The Chemistry teacher was my beloved adviser back when I was a junior in that same public school. Among all the advisers, she was — and still is — the one that I have been closest to. I have not seen her for quite a while and sitting in this wooden armchair and  watching her as she starts the discussion makes me realize how much has changed.

It has been three years since I graduated. Five years since the last time that I sat on a chair like this, in my long-sleeved blouse and green skirt, listening to her lectures about the Periodic Table of Elements.

How different life was back then. There were 31 of us in the class. The girls were wearing long-sleeved blouses, a distinction from the students under the general curriculum. Young, angsty, impressionable minds that needed to be taught. Long-sleeves and only a couple of electric fans. Broken windows, a door without a lock, a dusty floor, and an overflowing trashcan. We had what was said to be the best books in the school — missing pages and torn covers, but at least our ratio was 1:1. The Chemistry teacher seemed exhausted for it was already dusk and we were late from our previous class so she had to maximize the time. She talked the best out of her soft voice, which was difficult considering the noise from the students she was trying to reach out to.

Sitting here five years after those late-afternoon classes makes me realize how lucky I am to be in one of the best universities in the country. It is costly to stay there and my family is struggling to make ends meet, but still I take my classes in an airconditioned room, secluded from the noise of other classes. I smile, thinking about how back then I constantly complained about the long-sleeved blouse and how I miss it now. For in that airconditioned room, the short-sleeved blouse can leave me shivering.

It’s not just about the blouse. Back when I was still wearing long-sleeved blouses, I had the best and motherly teachers, who also made it their businesses to know about my personal life. They know who’s excelling in what subject, who’s failing, and who’s falling in love. They were there for idle chat, they were there for tutorials, they were there for classes in spite of the noise and the heat. Now, I have… Still the best educators you can find, but one semester is not enough to build a tight bond. I admire my professors from afar and talk to a few. Intimidated by most.

The hour passes by quickly and my thoughts are interrupted by my former teacher telling her students ”Alam nyo ba, sa tuwing malapit na ako magklase sa inyo, nagpapahinga muna ako kasi paglabas ko dito, pagod na pagod ako. Kasi naman, tanong ko, sagot ko… Aba’y mag-aral naman kayo.” Some may take offense in that, but for us who are raised in this public school setting, it’s just a normal reminder from our second parents.

I stand up as my former teacher walks to the door. I take the plastic bag she is carrying. I am not surprised that she locks her arm around mine. We talk as I accompany her back to the Science Department and as we do, I make a mental note to do this again when I come back from the city. It’s now stamped on my brain, sure not to be forgotten.

Screengrabbing from graduation videos (and thoughts that came with it)

Tonight I came across the videos my father took on my graduation day, shaky snippets that showed me smiling most of the time, comfortable in the company of friends and confident in knowing I had made it through something.

There they were, the various moments of that day in my father’s point of view (yes, with running commentary) — I in the backseat of my uncle’s car (which Pa borrowed specially for the event), giving my father a reluctant, toothless smile as he beams “My daughter, the graduate,” then ignoring him and the camera; the faculty members walking inside the PICC plenary hall to the Graduation March and the students’ applause; collegiate basketball star (and former classmate) Dylan Ababou graciously granting photo-ops to eager fans-slash-batchmates; and, of course, my 15 seconds onstage (when my folks cheer me on), walking toward the faculty regent, a smile plastered on my face, to let him move the tassel on my cap from left to right.

In the middle of smiling silly, I opened a clip taken after the ceremonies, showing a sea of heads and my father saying, “Saan na ba ‘yun?” As if using a telescope than a camera. Zoom, zoom, zoom, then he finds me.

I was with my girl friends from class, moving closer as we line up for a shot. “Ayun, nagpapa-picture,” Pa quipped, probably to Ma and to a family friend who helped send me to college.

The camera flashed on our smiles. Mine was the biggest one (it always has been for some reason) that it made me look singkit.

We break apart after a few shots. Me, still smiling as we engage in small talk. Marah, the jolly baby of our group, was teasing my thesis adviser (yes, the only “thorn” among the roses in this barkada) in an attempt to put her cap on his head.

Then, it happened quickly, the scene that led me to screengrabbing — Thesis Adviser, Marah, and I gather for a hug.

(Pa speaking in the BG: “Prof yata nila ‘yun, niyakap nila oh! Pero iba ang suot, hindi toga.”)

Screencaps of a happy time from Papa's "masterpiece"

Thoughts on the Jessica Sanchez upset

This year's Final Two waiting for Idol host Ryan Seacrest to make the announcement.

Seconds before Ryan Seacrest opened the envelope that contained the results, I was ready to post this on Tweetdeck: "And the winner of American Idol Season 11 is... Phillip Phillips."