We are all uncomfortable. The day is still not yet over, but we already seem to smell like a potent combination of day-old sweat and cheap deodorant, leaving us feeling sticky and uneasy. The oppressively hot weather makes moving around the classroom so much harder. The white undershirt under my uniform is sticking on my upper body like crazy due to my excessive sweating, and I can clearly visualize how big the sweat patches are.
The eight electric fans distributed inside the classroom, some whirring loudly as if they, too, could feel the sweltering heat that we all have had to endure ever since this year’s hot season started, cannot provide the much-needed cool air. The electric fans keep spewing these unseen hot fumes. It feels like the classroom is inside a burning furnace, slowly cooking us to whatever doneness it desires.
Statistically, April and May are considered the country’s hottest months of the year. There’s no doubt about that, especially if you’re inside a classroom of 41 kids with a variety of good and notorious characteristics and different stories to tell.
I check my watch, and it’s already 11:30 a.m. I look into my learners’ eyes and try to decipher whether the word problems involving the volume of the different solid figures are what made them exhausted already or it’s the heat. Perhaps both.
Two more months and the school year’s over. It makes me emotional to think how far we’ve come as a class despite the numerous times I’ve had to call them out due to their inappropriate behavior and the various bullying instances.
One thing is for sure. Although at times my students can be a real headache, I can’t help but have a soft spot for them. Maybe the lack of personal interaction and teacher-learner connection for two years of distance learning has made us all want to reestablish that connection, especially when we transitioned to in-person classes. This is not exactly how I want to describe it, but I can’t seem to compose a more vivid picture of it.
I have had the opportunity to get to know more about each of my students ever since they had their self-assessment of their strengths and weaknesses at the start of the school year through a mental health and psychosocial support program. I have gotten a glimpse of who they are, what they look forward to, what they have been and are going through, and how they’re coping.
Every story they tell me either inspires me or breaks me. Someone wants to be a teacher like me? Cool. A doctor for the poor? Wonderful. Work abroad, earn big, and donate an air conditioner for our room? Way to go.
Not each page is colorful enough, though. Just like the rest of us, these learners also have to deal with numerous personal and life challenges which are pretty heavy for young people aged 11 or 12.
From family issues to friendship and school-related concerns, they are dealing with a lot, and it should be important that they are given the support and guidance they need as they navigate these challenges. I learned the term “parentification” from my wife. It is a situation where a child is placed in the role of a parent and takes responsibilities beyond their developmental and emotional capacity. This is just one of the heavy burdens these young people have to shoulder on a daily basis.
It’s heartbreaking that a lot of learners in my class share another concern: Families broken apart and growing up without a dad or a mom. It is very unfortunate that unfavorable economic situations and deeply seated differences drive these people further apart.
Some of these children are left under grandma’s or grandpa’s care. It is grandma who attends homeroom meetings, and sometimes no one even bothers to do so. When there’s not enough support for dreams, dreaming stops, and not going to school persists.
Friendships falling distant, failing to meet expectations, mental health concerns leading to self-harm, and even losing in competitions also flow in the river of stories. Circumstances beyond these learners’ control break them. The flow of tears escalates when these big stories are being told. And I feel I have a moral obligation to listen to these people. For such little people, the world is not enough for their big, endless stories.
All these 41 learners make our class whole. I can’t imagine not having one of them in my class, ever. Each of them is part of a jigsaw puzzle, distinct and colorful, and one missing piece makes the beautiful picture incomplete. I hope that the beautiful picture, in the legacy of goodness and greatness, is what they envision themselves to be.
Each of them is also a page of an astonishing and riveting book. A book of big stories from little people. Each page contributes to the book’s cohesion and terrifying power. And may they all get their biggest plot twists and receive the happy ending they all deserve.
I slowly emerge from my silent reverie and look outside the windows where the daylight across the cloudless dizzying blue sky strongly lingers. It’s still morning, and we’ve already used up the best of ourselves, leaving little energy for the day ahead. So, in the quiet of the room, I say, “Thank you, class. You can now have your lunch.”
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Jackson G. Orlanda, 28, is a public elementary school teacher in Bolinao, Pangasinan.