En La Clase De Español

I always think of not attending
my Spanish class
with its boring teacher
who only talks, talks, talks

Nosotros
Vosotros

words I cannot comprehend
a dead language
trying to be revived
like old music
like old memories

En la Clase de Español,
Insomniac's Call, I Second Year



I was a sophomore when Spanish was introduced. It was part of the curriculum: a directive from the frailes behind the Royal Pontifical University. The estudiantes were eager to learn. We were after all, men and women of letters. However, all hopes of learning suddenly faded when the maestro finally came to class. The disappointment happened when he spoke in fluent Spanish during the first day without translating all the words he said.


"This is how you learn Spanish."


Spanish used to be the political, intellectual and business language of Manila. That was in the 1900's. Today, it is spoken mostly by the old rich and by those who can pretend to be members of the upper class. It is a dead language in this part of the world and despite the loaned words including the dialects which traces their mother tongue in Spain, it will never become the lingua franca of the country again.

This sad reality must be the reason why the professor never pushed forth the goal of learning. He would talk in Spanish while the students were pretending to listen. I was more obvious with my protestations. Aside from doodling in front of him (and making a lousy poetry out of frustration) I once submitted an assignment mistranslating an entire paragraph by substituting English with Spanish word for word.


"Ese hombre es un tonto"


Once, I asked another instructor if she could allow me to sit in her class. It was a desperate attempt to catch up and learn from the subject since the preliminaries was fast approaching. The snooty teacher, who is also the assistant dean, was gracious enough to welcome my presence. She only allowed me to observe but the exposure had given me a sneak peak at how the language was taught elsewhere.

Fate pulled a bad joke when the professor assigned to our section became ill and was unable to attend our afternoon class. He was confined to bed for the rest of the semester and was replaced by a moderate instructor who would at least translate the Spanish words she taught.

At least.

I received a passing grade in Spanish 101. The next time the subject was offered in my junior year, I had to become Sra. Soresca's pet just to get a grade of tres. By then, we learned that languages not used in conversations are bound to be forgotten. It was how Latin disappeared in the tongues of civilizations. It was also how I converted back to my mother tongue after two semesters of trying to learn a dead language.


Me Llamo Sueño. Estudio Español


That was until I discovered that a student must pass a language exam before he could begin his Thesis in Masters.