I Hate Teachers

After almost four months of relative silence, I thought it would be best to break it today. Although I wrote this way back 2010, I believe this deserves my 151st entry. 


I hate teachers. Yes, I do. I hate them.

Since I was little I never had interest in their kind of adults; they think they’re so smart, they nag everytime I spill, they throw tantrums whenever my classmates and I have some fun. Rulers in hand, slapping on the blackboard and scaring the hell out of us little children, teachers have imbued a sense of fear and ownership over me and my reign. Come to think of it, My mom pays them to teach me. Does that make it any simpler?

I never found their profession interesting, and with that thought in mind I’ve always come to ask why they chose to be locked-down in school for the latter part of their lives. Most of them answered with a dirty, tired smile; They said it was what they wanted from the beginning. All the while I’ve thought that the point of being a teacher was a form of revenge for what they have experienced under the iron fist of the antique teaching force; Just like how sullen disease sufferers desperately drag as many as they can to hell with them.

She comes into the room and the noise breaks. Everyone stands up to greet her a good morning for the hundredth time. No smiles, no gestures. Just a sign of acknowledgement that happy-time was over, and we’re disposed to learning. Back there in my seat, things were brewing inside my head, a myriad of questions and answers and interests and reasons; and there goes the look. She catches my head, out there; above every sphere this earth encompasses. She simply lets me stand up, and asks me to explain how these figures came up to these. That’s why I hate them. I couldn’t answer.

And wherever life takes me, I’ll never forget how much pain they inflicted me during my younger years. Shame, guilt, burden; Those were the gifts my mentors gave. Those were what they left as signatures in my being. They squandered my childhood. They forced me to look forward and to do everything with the efficiency of a robot. No looking back. No talking. No standing. No laughing. No late projects. No score below blah and blah. Gosh, I’m tired, Ma’am, can I take a break? You think you’re so smart and your indifference makes you cool? You think giving a horseload of paperwork and sleepless nights would make us into better persons? Is that what your college degree could afford you?

I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.

Their calling would be the noblest of all callings. They give rise to everything that would seem important in the years to come. Alexander the Great wouldn’t be so if not for Aristotle and Leonides. The former stuffed his brain everything he needed to know when he was king, and the latter, stuffed his heart of what he would need for his entire lifetime. These people give their lives to the younger generations. Cut short of fame, glory, power, wealth; they suffer once again to alleviate the suffering of the future.No matter how we hate and loathe them, we will always be guilty.

If we stay late up at night, they do, too. With their records. If you get slumped whenever a trail of 7’s mark your card, they slump more too. Your intellect is a reflection of theirs. Thats why they lose their voices trying to tell us how many electrons would we add to cancel out the chemical equation. They get on their nerves whenever we come late because they don’t want to lose time for us. And sometimes, we kids get too insensitive towards what they need, and their passion in teaching. We insult their intellect. We insult their capabilities. We insult their procedures. And they’re human. They’re fallible. They’re not what you expect of a superhero. They get hurt. They are humbled. Yet they do their best to be the best for us all.

And to think they’re the people who will remember you when you skyrocket to stardom; become head of every company you monopolize, or whatever infamous or notorious thing you do; they will always remember you. In their thoughts, they would recall how blunt you are during her class, how you never listened, how you failed, how you got kicked out. They saw your failures in life. They made us feel how painful falling would be. But in those moments your knees touch the ground, they’re always behind you, waiting for you to stand up and try again, do better, and excel. They test how much you’ve learned from them. How strong you are as a person.

Imagine how it feels to come back after you’ve done so much in your life. Back into those rooms, those corridors; how you gladly recreate your life with them teachers; how much you owe them and you really want to thank them for how they’ve molded you into a better person. Those were the people you never wanted to see. The persons responsible for bad memories and irreversible mistakes; It’s them. No matter how hard your contradictions are; there’s always something inside you that makes you love them.

You could never thank them enough when you’ve touched the stars. Well I guess, I really do love my teachers.

Heroes of the younger generation.


Side note: I wrote this a few weeks after I got kicked out of my High School. Those were dark days. Being thrown out mid-year isn’t always a pleasant experience: I stopped applying for bigger Universities in Manila and my self-esteem dropped, among other things.

In between all of this, though, was what I consider a turning point in how I saw my life: This was the first time (I believed,) I could live for myself. I didn’t have to live beneath the expectations of the people around me, I didn’t have to comply with all the things I didn’t necessary need to believe in, or want to learn. What I experienced in Science High for three years and a quarter was being boxed in and being forced to learn like a machine. But I didn’t. I like to believe that I was learning at my own pace, learning what I felt I needed to know, or what interested me most, despite the opposition of some of teachers. 

But there were always some who believed in me. 

My first teachers, Tita Judy and Tita Clare, of St. Ben, I wonder where you guys are now- Tita Mila, my LC II teacher, who believed that my being carefree was a right of a young child of five,

Teacher Emily, who always believed in my pre-class discussions on the Solar System, Teacher Naz, who always let me draw and scribble and would let me out to the library even during class hours; Teacher Vangie, whose Iron hand I did not escape- who, everytime would try to swap PC games with my classmates, is watchful of all the CD’s that were going around, in my formative years of Elementary

Miss Anne, who gave me leeway to be myself in the exercise of creative freedom through writing, despite me being absent in class for almost 3 months, Miss Cherry, who was the first who battled my irresponsibility and immaturity, Miss Ruby, who came in and always gave me that light whenever I needed it, and always believed in what I could do, after a quick few polishes- 

Mr. Ruiz, who taught me that intellect is a virtue fueled with respect, and that cleaning the room is a part of the social contract you metaphorically signed the moment you were born, Mrs. Serundo, who loved her young, growing boys, who trusted that they will grow to become good men, and indeed she did so; Mr. Echavez, whose irregular moodswings often shadow his very generous heart, a heart that fuels the passion to learn and discover, and Ms. Caintic, whos joyousness and feeling of family always welcomed me back home.

Mr. Rudolph Pacqueo, my life’s little general, who from the start had always rooted for me and made me learn that there are some things that you should handle, because no one else can. 

And there are more noble teachers I have not mentioned here; They have, shaped my life like carbon in compression; diamond-cut and polished; Yes, I won’t lie, I’ve hated every single one of them but in hindsight, I wounldn’t be myself now without them. 

Happy teacher’s day. 🙂


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