Mentor | Second Part

Some secrets stay hidden forever. Some, gets uncovered in just a matter of weeks.

My dad was so good at prying into my belongings, he found the wretched old notebook under stacks of other books beside my study table. Confrontation was imminent. Any parent would be stupefied upon learning that his 13-year old kid knows all the foul-sounding languages in the street lexicon.

"Si Sir Pechardo ay 65 millimeters ang titi." I may not have the notebook anymore, but probably, I would have said such a thing.

"Si Sir Pechardo ay mukhang T-Square ang gilagid." God, its so not me.

I had no choice but to tell the truth, that Mister Pechardo said I'm a "kalawang" in front of the class. Immediately, my mom was dispatched to speak with my adviser.  She teaches at the state university where my high school is under the College of Education. When it was learned by the faculty that my mother teaches in one of the colleges, their impression about me had changed overnight.

The notebook incident was never brought up during the meeting. Mom exercised restraint and subtlety in checking my performance that it was the teachers - particularly in subjects I did poorly - who felt compelled to lower their passing rate just for me to cross. Had I the power to decline such compromise, I would have done so out of pride. But at 13, all I did was to spend so much time playing SEGA after school that it became the sole culprit as to why my grades were dropping like flies.

Drafting was replaced by Work Education after second quarter. Still, the feisty Mr. Pechardo would skin a student or two. (often picking fights with the geniuses who thought their arrogance would get them somewhere)  However, after meeting my mom one weekday afternoon, he stopped picking on me. An uneasy peace has settled. I would get some scolding for submitting lousy projects from time to time but as the months go by, he started accepting me for what I am. Work Education was replaced by Home Economics by fourth quarter. It was only when I have left the sphere of my adviser did I begin to rebound. Inspired by cooking and sewing, my grades had improved.

The last time I went inside Mr. Pechardo's classroom was when I submitted our group project in  Basic Electronics. Our tense relationship, which began with intimidation became amicable over time. I even thanked him during my sophomore for telling me I was a kalawang. For it was then I became empowered to prove him wrong.  Many years later, I would learn from my mother that he was dismissed from teaching in the university. Word spread that he, and another teacher who was my adviser in Fourth year molested a junior student.

As for Miss Co and her English-slash-History subject, our lessons dwelt around literature and current events the entire year. I even remember writing an essay about an exhibit displaying some of the Vatican 's art collection.  She even asked our opinion about the death-sentence delivered to Flor Contemplation. Rage and innocence took over. When asked to share my thoughts, I boldly said that I would go to war if I were the president.

Miss Co was unfazed.

Sibika at Kultura was the subject I always aced back in grade school. In high school, my Social Science teacher never saw my potentials. I was uninspired. But with the way Miss Co directed her "English" lessons and exposed us to the Realpolitik of the world, I actually learned.

Despite all expectations I would get a 90 in Philippine History, it was in English - for the first time - the grade appeared in my report card.

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