Mother sometimes referred to the class as “grade four section fast-learner,” although a mispronounced ‘f’ could spell horror to a child with a keen sense of what it meant to be left behind in a supposedly future-oriented curriculum.

She refused to use names of local fruits and trees – like “grade this-and-that section banaba” – for the simple reason that in the Philippines all trees were created equal. And sampaloc tasted as sweet as any other fruit.

Not so with intelligence, mother said. With numbers or words like “fast” and “slow,” accuracy in the clustering of students was assured. Hence the banter outside the classroom: “grade four section tamatis” (for whatever representation a rotten tomato had in the life of a ten-year-old boy.)

The grouping didn’t apply to us children of public school teachers. A rare breed, we were thought to be made of the same stuff as our parents who treaded the august halls of Cebu Normal College in the 60′s for their diploma (which they’d hang on the wall alongside General Milling calendars and Romeo Vasquez posters).

If any good at all, my enrolment in mother’s class added to my short list of English vocabulary the word “favoritism” in all its discomforting whiff. Mother had to assure me that if she weren’t a teacher and there was grade four section lomboy, I’d still qualify for section apple because I was brayt.

“And like I said, I’ve been handling this class since before you were circumcised. So stop flattering yourself,” she barked at me one morning when she had to drag my little arse to school.

We never planned how we were to carry ourselves inside the classroom. How would I address her: madam, ma’am, ma? What if in some unguarded moment I’d run to her begging for some loose change, just like at home? Or when if I’d fall asleep on her lap with lunch still in my mouth?

Mother wasn’t as cautious. One time in the middle of a grammar class she asked me if I had turned off the light in the kitchen back home. “And dodong, did you wash the dishes before we left? Pastilan ning bataa. Now, as I was saying class, linking verbs …”

To make up for the slip, she’d give me the most number of assignments in the afternoon’s gardening session. It’s her way of telling the class that I ceased to be her son once she called the roll every after flag ceremony. All allusions of motherly care were purely unintentional and bore no resemblance to reality.

Back home, we didn’t talk about how we fared in our teacher-pupil relationship. Now in her duster and with the laundry before her, she returned to her role as mother at which she’s perfect.

“I believe you are to submit tomorrow a report on green revolution movement. It might impress your teacher if you discuss something about crop rotation,” she’d say. On the eve of an exam, she’d say: “You know how your teacher formulates questions. So better concentrate on the definition of terms.”

I guess the only time she gave our relationship a real hard thought was days prior to the school’s graduation ceremonies. Would she award me with first honors and risk being accused of favoritism? I qualified for the slot all right, but wouldn’t that be a decision too reckless for prudence?

Her solution to the problem was a wise blend of a mother’s loving her son and a teacher’s observing delicadeza in the performance of her duty. Meaning, I ended up sharing the award with a classmate whose brilliance in class wasn’t simply acquired from being a daughter of a public school teacher.

For the first time before the community, mother addressed me by my full name, complete with middle initial, as I went up the stage to receive my award. And I swear by Job I heard her say “wash the dishes when you get home” as she winked at me and shook my hands.

(sun.star weekend magazine)

I first noticed this in grade school when the S sound made my life miserable. I could roll my R’s like a purring cat. But while the rest of the class hissed their S’s like snakes, I did mine like piss on loose soil.

It was no problem with group recitation because I could always hide my disability by exaggerating the grin that an S sound produced, although I wasn’t actually making any sound at all. I was already doing lip synch before it became vogue in Nora Aunor’s Superstar. My problem was with individual recitation.

“How old are you again?” my teacher in first grade wanted to make sure she heard me right on my first day in school.

“Theven yearth old,” I said.

“And you want to be what when you grow up?”

“I want to be a prieth to therve God.”

The teacher was a close relative. It worried her that her favorite nephew was being denied the pleasures that came with being able to pronounce a perfect S. Would I be able to appreciate the stars, the sea, the sunset, when I couldn’t even make the words slither down my tongue? If I wanted to be a priest, how would I denounce Satan in public? Surely no devil would take the name Jethuth Chrith seriously.

“I’ll have to ssssee you after each classss,” my teacher made noise with the words like she was smashing glasses, making sure I get the message without embarrassing me in front of my classmates. Nothing happened to those speech therapy sessions, though.

I first thought the problem was about me missing two front teeth. But hundreds of front teeth came and went, Ethpiderman remained my favorite superhero and I continued believing in Thanta Clauth.

There must be something wrong with my tongue, Fr. Rudy Villanueva said after cutting short my rendition of a Barry Manilow classic years later in a singing rehearsal in the seminary.

“‘I write the thongs that make the whole world thing’ is not the way to sing in my choir,” he said. “How can Mother Church expect you to deliver a thermon?”

“I’m thorry,” I said.

Though I still couldn’t find anything wrong with my tongue in the mirror, I followed the good monsignor’s advice and gave up my dream of changing the world from the pulpit.

Not long after quitting the seminary, I found a job as writer in a Sun.Star Cebu, and immediately broke the good news to my mother.

“Ma, I now work in a newthpaper,” I told her over the phone.

“Really? Praithe God!” she said.

(sun.star weekend magazine)