Every once in a while, fate turns the table on you. Well, to be exact, on my mom this time.
Growing up and especially during my tenure as school paper editor, I had to submit all my papers not to my teachers first, but to my UST-trained, journalism grad mother who seems to get a kick out of changing almost 90% of my work. Well, that's how I viewed it at the time. Little did I know, years later I would get the chance for revenge.
Early this morning, I got an SOS. My mom has just finished an article that she had been asked to submit to the school paper. Both my parents are in China right now to teach English, the only Filipinos in the faculty. Fearing that her article might be cannibalized by her Western colleagues, she finally turned to the person she can trust. Ahem... ME!
Finally, the moment I have been waiting for. Haha... After all these years, my mom, my tormentor for several years, is asking me to edit her work. That's a first!
As I was driving to my office, memories of my experiences with her came rushing back. I remembered the editorial I once wrote. A beautiful piece, I thought, before handing it to her for review. When it came back, it didn't sound the same -- nay, it wasn't even mine! It was my mom speaking, not the editor-in-chief handpicked by my favorite English teacher.
It was probably because of her exacting standards that I grew up a little insecure or make that conscious of how I compose my sentences and use words. Many times I would ask myself if the piece I had just written met the standards of my mom.
And so today, I had all intentions of wrecking havoc -- just for fun, to return the favor. But when I saw her article, I just couldn't do it. My mom still got it. She has not missed a beat and, although some lines needed tightening, one thing was certain -- she could still tell a good story.
True, my mom forced (NOT got me) into writing, but what I haven't realized until today is, I wouldn't be half this decent a writer if it weren't for her. I still would love to change 90% of her work one day, but I wouldn't do it for fun. I would only do it if her piece requires it -- which I don't see ever happening.
Without further ado, here's her article:
Pond of Memories
I may have walked a hundred miles between my flat and the teaching building over the past 20 months. By my rough estimate sans a pedometer, it probably takes more than a thousand steps to walk that stretch for 10 minutes. For some reason, I make it a point to leave the flat about 15 minutes before the bell rings.
The pond I walk by five days a week, morning and afternoon, has witnessed a lot. To my amazement, I realize just now, if the pond could only talk, she probably would recount a thousand beautiful memories in this part of the campus to last a lifetime. Yes, she is my silent listener to prayers often heard and answered; her serene beauty refreshing my tired body after a day’s work.
Countless times, greetings are exchanged; pure smiles and rings of laughter are heard at the pond.
Hi, Teacher Faith! Long time, no see… Have you eaten your dinner yet? Where are you going? Do you still remember me? Are you going home for the holidays? Where’s Nilo?”Sometimes, I get a surprise hug from friends who missed us during winter or summer break. Some days, one or two would open their grocery bags for a dip into a packet of peanuts or share an apple or two. Many times, the pond hears me and Nilo sing
“Ni wun wo ai ni you dou shen…” If she could just exclaim, may be she would wish to hear another Chinese song from our lips. Some boys just love it when they hear the guitar. Could it be the pond loves the humming of strings, too?
One day in autumn of 2006, the school bus driver, who had been fishing all day, got me a present -- two pieces of freshly caught fish. As I was coming home after my morning classes, I went down the steps to ask if I could buy some. He gave me two for free. The only thing I could pay him was a mispronounced
“Xie Xie”, to which he replied,
“Pu Yao”, a term I didn’t understand then.
I almost ran home to fry the fish. I’ve been craving for it for days. Still alive and jumping off the kitchen floor, Nilo couldn’t bring himself to thump the head of the wriggling creatures and, instead, waited until they died a few hours later. Poor me, I had to wait until the next meal for my fried fish!
One afternoon in December last year, I saw John’s wife, Da Qing, and her friends wading through the mud and picking snails. They dared me and I soon joined them. By golly! When I went down, the mud almost swallowed up all my limbs. I may have picked a hundred snails that day and got a liter as my share. Curious stares we got and a few photos taken. Such a relief from a mud spa! The problem is, the next day I had to visit the school clinic to clean a tiny mud prick on my right middle finger, which was turning red, inflamed with infection.
In February this year, we came back after a month of warm holiday from my tropical country, the Philippines. It torn my heart seeing trees turning bald and grey, battered for a month by a snowstorm said to be the worst in the last 50 years. The pond, only half-filled with water, seemed lonely. Perhaps under the blue-green water, just a small colony of tiny fishes survived the onslaught of freezing weather.
Several days later, cleaning ladies swept frequently heaps of falling leaves along the pond. One afternoon, one of them in blue uniform and wearing a wide straw hat poised her trash cart nearby and went about her sweeping. So intent on her job, she didn’t notice the sudden rush of breeze that brought down more yellow leaves. I was mesmerized by the sight and wished I had my camera with me. She looked up, scratched her head, and opened her mouth to say something. In her peripheral vision, she saw me wide-eyed, too. We just laughed out loud in our own thoughts.
Two weeks ago, the buds came out. Once again, rich, glorious green foliage crowned the trees. One mid-morning two young women stopped and curiously looked up the trees and said a word in Chinese.
“Yes,” I said, joining them,
“It’s a bird’s nest.” A mother bird was hatching eggs; so still, one could barely notice her there. The nest is hidden and just a few have seen it. I’m glad to be one of them. I’ll keep an eye on it because I know one of those birds would feed in my veranda soon.
The pond has witnessed it all. She sees what I love in this school – scenes, work and people.
Teacher Faith
