Semidoppel's Reports

Believe it or not, my teachers, I miss them so. I want to hear them say again the ‘word of advice’, which they spoke so often I could have sworn they were nagging. Funny how they have always managed to appear as if they were saying it for the first time. I always maintained that teachers were the smartest people in the whole, wide world.

There was one I shall always remember. She fired a question at me. I rapidly consulted my very handy notebook and found the answer, which I threw back at her. Her remark nearly floored me: “Your notebook is wiser than you are.” I never lived that down. From then on I never had one good, fairly filled notebook after that. I made sure I was wiser than any of them.

Ah, yes. My notebooks. I remember how I was so envious of my classmates whose notebooks were all those expensive ones (Corona, Cattleya, Blue Feather, Giordano) while I settled for the ones with artistas on the cover. I remember how I bought them by the dozen every start of the school year and swore to myself that ‘this time’, I will really, really fill each with notes — neatly. But the year was hardly half-through and they had already become albums of doodlings, which would make modern paintings look conservative. Ah, the worthless, lazy creature that I was.

Indeed I remember. I remember everything. My memory of those days is ever so vivid, so painfully vivid. I remember the old drinking fountain; my old seat I mercilessly carved things on because I knew there was a rule against it; and the school hymn I learned by heart. I remember the sumptuous auditorium whose walls have echoed many a boring speech. I remember the Men’s Room that we initiatively sanitized for us to be acknowledged by our adviser on stage (but never got the chance to clean it again, and never would we dare do it again). I remember the Faculty Room, where the teachers let loose their inhibitions and became just plain simple human beings. I remember the Principal’s Office where our trophies as undefeated champions of countless painting contests, were and are still located. I remember the Guidance Counselor’s Office where some of the whitest lies were recorded and whose statistics showed that deaths (of some unfortunate relatives) were second only to the already traditional ‘aches’ (toothache, stomachache, headache, backache, feet-ache, brain-ache, etc.) as a cause of the over-rampant chronic now-here-now-gone disease of the students. I remember the school canteen, the library, even the stairways. Strange how time can add value, even if it is just sentimental value, to things, which appeared so little then that they didn’t seem to matter.

I remember how we fidgeted our notes nervously before every test: how utterly melodious the bell sounded when we came to school unprepared; how unmistakably familiar the voice, tone, and approach of wonderful Miss___________ when she had tickets to sell, how we agreed that Mr. ____________’s hair was already falling because of old age, Mrs. ___________’s eyebrows too thin, and Mrs. ___________’s voice too croaky, she would always clear her throat before she spoke. I remember when we joined the lantern-making contest. We didn’t sleep for one whole, solid night because we crammed. We didn’t win. But the experience was priceless. I remember when we discovered watching x-rated movies were so much fun as someone would guard the door to prevent the maid from entering the room so we wouldn’t be caught. I remember when we talked about our personal stuff and problems that night, we were all guys. We drank. And we cried.

I remember the day we had to face the awful truth that it was all over: the day we wore our best and heard our names called over the microphone to receive our diplomas and shake hands with the administration peeps — all the while being watched by our papas and mamas who all but burst with pride.