07 November 2007
The day Grace made me do it
Theatrically, people say I’m friendly, approachable and safe. Fair enough. But those who “truly got to know me” know better. And from time to time they ask me: “How can you be so negative?” In sincere honesty, I say negative is harsh. Try cynical. It’s classy. And cuter.
Yet the question remains: “Why?” I’ll tell you. It’s all Grace’s fault.
She was my Music teacher in the fourth grade. She was a substitute for the school pianist a.k.a. Everybody’s Music Teacher With Huge Gold Rings who had to go on a hiatus presumably to get her precious accessories cleaned in Brunei. Grace was new to school that year. Nice and sweet. Like a big sister to her pupils. And she’s well liked by her senior co-teachers, too. That or they’re just being nice to get a chance at her stud friends before the hags disappear from the calendar.
Grace. She was like a ray of sunshine wherever she went. Smart, young, kind. And she can sing. Not exactly diva-material, but nice enough to pass soloist in church choirs and village carolers—the type to make boys take a second, third, fourth look before going to the rest room. I bet those hags secretly wished to pull a Little Mermaid on her, steal her vocal chords and leave her to drown in Pasig. Love ‘em.
So she’s got the vibe. She’s got the voice. She’s “cool” with kids. Stepford Teacher from Pleasantville. That’s most probably why, the following year, school officials made her our Math teacher. Apparently, they believed timing rhythms and counting beats are like M.D.A.S. only more… pleasant to hear, if not to solve. That’s when the cosmos missed and began swirling down my drain.
One Monday, Ms Grace walked into our class, in her neat self and Good Morning, How Are The Little Ones Today? smile. While half of the class dreaded to see numerals splashed across the green wood in front first thing in the week, Grace The Wiz apparently had a better idea of fun learning. She knew how bored her pupils were with Math, and I suppose the grades weren't lovely either. As if a bright aura was enveloping her that moment, she offered the class a way to pull shameful digits at least a couple notches up: She wanted us to sing.
The following week, she said, there was to have a “special graded recitation.” But we weren’t going to solve equations. Nor will we recite the square roots of 1 trhough 30 and back in two minutes. No. We were to sing. Any song. Individually. For points. Her light aura turned blackhole-y to me.
One, my grades were doing just fine—very good, even. Two, I hate singing. I yell, I recite poems, I read aloud long solicitation letters for Christmas in front of the class. But I never sang. Even in a group performance, my lips only “Watermelon” my way through each number. And third, it was Math class. Math. M-A-T-H. I ardently raised my hand, stood up after being called and clarified whether the “special graded recitation” was for slowpokes only or for everybody. Three guesses what her answer was.
My very young mind instantly boggled, my core innocence confused and my sense of respect for authority shattered, I finally saw Grace for what she truly was: A manipulative succubus cloaked in a hopeless virgin maiden’s skin. She didn’t even smile when she negated my polite clarification-slash-proposal upfront. Bitch!
Judgment Day was a Thursday. Except for one, the whole class was excited—it was easy money for kids, so to speak. And yeah, you’re right: I bravely, blatantly and most sincerely refused to go with Grace’s plans. She called me to the front about five times; I just my head without blinking. She threatened me with her red pen on her class record, but I remained on my sit. My classmates fell dead silent and I could hear the power surging within me… Grace sighed, shook her head and wiggled her red Pilot on her book. Bitch roasted. And I landed a line-of-9 that March.
Next to my grade school graduation—the very thought of which was threatened since I considered begging my parents to drop me out of that wretched campus just to never see the devil’s disgusting smile again—and another monumental bit of my pubescent history, that episode with Grace became a greater turning point in my existence. At a very young age I was exposed to the nastiness of the “real world.” I was a helpless kid but the deceitful manner on which adults use for self-satisfaction hastily revealed themselves and I wasn’t ready for them. It’s a good thing kids are resilient—and as a 4-foot freak, I had extra.
My life was never the same. I became doubtful of other people’s smiles. Every single act is now questioned, “What’s the catch?” And true enough, there came more Grace’s along the way up ‘til this very writing. As to the original, well, I never spoke to her again after that Thursday. I submitted my test papers for checking, but not even with eye contact without cursing her guts. Last time I saw her shadow was in a church. I gather she’s still desperately trying to differentiate G-cleffs from a division brackets because guess what: She was still smiling.
Yet the question remains: “Why?” I’ll tell you. It’s all Grace’s fault.
She was my Music teacher in the fourth grade. She was a substitute for the school pianist a.k.a. Everybody’s Music Teacher With Huge Gold Rings who had to go on a hiatus presumably to get her precious accessories cleaned in Brunei. Grace was new to school that year. Nice and sweet. Like a big sister to her pupils. And she’s well liked by her senior co-teachers, too. That or they’re just being nice to get a chance at her stud friends before the hags disappear from the calendar.
Grace. She was like a ray of sunshine wherever she went. Smart, young, kind. And she can sing. Not exactly diva-material, but nice enough to pass soloist in church choirs and village carolers—the type to make boys take a second, third, fourth look before going to the rest room. I bet those hags secretly wished to pull a Little Mermaid on her, steal her vocal chords and leave her to drown in Pasig. Love ‘em.
So she’s got the vibe. She’s got the voice. She’s “cool” with kids. Stepford Teacher from Pleasantville. That’s most probably why, the following year, school officials made her our Math teacher. Apparently, they believed timing rhythms and counting beats are like M.D.A.S. only more… pleasant to hear, if not to solve. That’s when the cosmos missed and began swirling down my drain.
One Monday, Ms Grace walked into our class, in her neat self and Good Morning, How Are The Little Ones Today? smile. While half of the class dreaded to see numerals splashed across the green wood in front first thing in the week, Grace The Wiz apparently had a better idea of fun learning. She knew how bored her pupils were with Math, and I suppose the grades weren't lovely either. As if a bright aura was enveloping her that moment, she offered the class a way to pull shameful digits at least a couple notches up: She wanted us to sing.
The following week, she said, there was to have a “special graded recitation.” But we weren’t going to solve equations. Nor will we recite the square roots of 1 trhough 30 and back in two minutes. No. We were to sing. Any song. Individually. For points. Her light aura turned blackhole-y to me.
One, my grades were doing just fine—very good, even. Two, I hate singing. I yell, I recite poems, I read aloud long solicitation letters for Christmas in front of the class. But I never sang. Even in a group performance, my lips only “Watermelon” my way through each number. And third, it was Math class. Math. M-A-T-H. I ardently raised my hand, stood up after being called and clarified whether the “special graded recitation” was for slowpokes only or for everybody. Three guesses what her answer was.
My very young mind instantly boggled, my core innocence confused and my sense of respect for authority shattered, I finally saw Grace for what she truly was: A manipulative succubus cloaked in a hopeless virgin maiden’s skin. She didn’t even smile when she negated my polite clarification-slash-proposal upfront. Bitch!
Judgment Day was a Thursday. Except for one, the whole class was excited—it was easy money for kids, so to speak. And yeah, you’re right: I bravely, blatantly and most sincerely refused to go with Grace’s plans. She called me to the front about five times; I just my head without blinking. She threatened me with her red pen on her class record, but I remained on my sit. My classmates fell dead silent and I could hear the power surging within me… Grace sighed, shook her head and wiggled her red Pilot on her book. Bitch roasted. And I landed a line-of-9 that March.
Next to my grade school graduation—the very thought of which was threatened since I considered begging my parents to drop me out of that wretched campus just to never see the devil’s disgusting smile again—and another monumental bit of my pubescent history, that episode with Grace became a greater turning point in my existence. At a very young age I was exposed to the nastiness of the “real world.” I was a helpless kid but the deceitful manner on which adults use for self-satisfaction hastily revealed themselves and I wasn’t ready for them. It’s a good thing kids are resilient—and as a 4-foot freak, I had extra.
My life was never the same. I became doubtful of other people’s smiles. Every single act is now questioned, “What’s the catch?” And true enough, there came more Grace’s along the way up ‘til this very writing. As to the original, well, I never spoke to her again after that Thursday. I submitted my test papers for checking, but not even with eye contact without cursing her guts. Last time I saw her shadow was in a church. I gather she’s still desperately trying to differentiate G-cleffs from a division brackets because guess what: She was still smiling.
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