I arrived in front of the public school that my son woefully attended before he became a UP student. I’m submitting his younger sister’s expression of interest in transferring to the secondary school he once attended. I’m so back to you-know-where in the next couple of years. My daughter is an incoming Grade 11 student.
I shuffled toward the pedestrians’ entrance, the starting point of the marshmallow test I’d fail each time I entered my son’s ill-equipped and poorly managed school.
The security guard — I hadn’t seen him before — smiled at me despite the scowl I was beginning to wear. “Saan po kayo, sir?” He asked disarmingly, a rare and unsettling phenomenon in this corner of the world. Quietly, I showed him my daughter’s document. Nicely, he told me to go straight to the registrar’s office. I pulled out a pen to write my name on the guard’s logbook, but he said, “Ako na po ang magsulat ng pangalan ng applicant.” The guard was friendly. I looked at his name patch; the name “Gaard” was sewn on it. Yes, his name was rightly how it sounded, but I also thought of the Dutch philosopher named “Soren Kierkegaard.” Half smiling, I said teasingly, “Don’t tell me your name is ‘Kirk.’” He blushed, “‘Soren Kier’ po.” Delighted, I predicted, “And your middle initial must be “K.” Scratching his head, he replied, “Opo.” I muffled a polite laugh. This was a promising day.
I just met good young Soren Kier K. Gaard. Good for him; he’s a cheerful guard, not a miserably melancholic existentialist philosopher.
I saw three more security guards inside the campus, standing in three separate locations. They all made a reassuring sight. They were wingless guardian angels who looked discreetly alert. The campus will be a safe space for my daughter to a certain extent.
I remained haunted by the specters of the school’s dismal sports program and my son’s former MAPEH teacher, who once collected money for the phantom choir shirts he sold to my son and other choir members. The same teacher was photographed — later posted on socmed by his pupil — at the classroom doorway playing Mobile Legends while his MAPEH class was busy with probably irrelevant seatwork.
I walked on the school’s driveway, with my head exaggeratedly turned away from what was supposed to be an unsightly cogon wasteland on the right. A soccer ball rolled and gently bounced off my leg. Turning to where it came from, I saw that the wasteland is now a decent soccer field again. Two uniformed soccer teams were playing in the verdant field of carabao grass. I pushed the soccer ball forward with my foot and followed and kicked it with the force of a thousand suppressed frustrations toward the center of the field. But as they say, negativities go sideways. The soccer ball found its mark in someone’s groin. I didn’t know if it was my lucky day. The unfortunate spot that got hit was located in the body of my son’s former MAPEH teacher.
Cupping his hands on his ano, he turned pale and grimaced in pain. In panic, I told him, “Jump, Sir, 8 and ½ times.” I don’t know why I said this, but he followed my thoughtless — actually, stupid — advice anyway. I counted for him up to 8 and a half while he jumped furiously. Wiping the sweat on his forehead, he said reassuringly, “I’m ok now. 8 and 1/2 times, ha.” I replied, “Yes, Sir, I learned that from a medical journal.” I could not believe I said that. It was a fictional journal.
The whole experience was surreal.
I awkwardly, but apologetically, waved at the MAPEH teacher, who seemed relieved that nothing appeared to be broken. At least at that time. I continued walking as I surveyed the field, where students played Frisbee. Beside the soccer field, the basketball, volleyball, and new badminton courts also served their raisons d’être. All of these were never-seen-before sights.
As I walked past the ground-floor classrooms for Grade 7 students, I realized I dreaded someone interrupting my search for the same eye sores that annoyed me several years ago. “Sir Mike!” I knew it. Somebody called me pleadingly.
I don’t know his name, of course, but I remembered him so well as the graduate student who portrayed the character of B.F. Skinner in their group report in my class. After exchanging pleasantries, he told me he’s been the principal of the school for close to a decade.
My former student, A.K.A. Skinner now, said I was right all along that negative and positive reinforcements should always go together, as they are more potent when paired. He said such an approach has been used, upon his express advice to the faculty, for years across all the grade levels and the curricula.
Skinner added that I was also right about cultural engineering, a subject matter I taught as far back as 19…oops. Skinner said the entire school has been re-engineered to maximize the students’ holistic learning. So, that explains, he said knowingly, why I looked surprised out there when I noticed their students are so into sports now.
Then he winked and said impishly, “I saw what you just did to our Grade 7 MAPEH teacher. I think, Sir, that counts as part of unintended or hidden curriculum. ” His naughty grin of satisfaction was unmistakable. I looked at him and started to wonder whether I was in front of a mirror or just dreaming.
Skinner interrupted my confused reverie by inviting me to their special Materials Science classroom. He said MS was eventually added to their curriculum after studying my socmed post that MS is as valuable as Robotics.” Then he cupped his hand and said loudly anyway near my ear, “Actually, Robotics in our curriculum is a joke. Our robots are no match to the robots of students in Japan, Taiwan, and Singapore. What we truly have here in the Philippines is a rich source of minerals to feed the students’ needs in Materials Science.”
“There’s another thing I want you to see,” Skinner said excitedly. He led me into the middle of the MS classroom. I immediately noticed that the classroom walls were partly adorned with posts reflecting ongoing incremental learning. With a rebellious smile, Skinner said nodding, “Yes, I memoed the faculty to ignore the system’s thoughtless order that all public schools should clear their classroom walls. ‘Well-informed cultural engineering,’ right?” Though worried, I nodded in agreement.
“There’s another thing, Sir, you don’t want to miss. This, too, has no clearance from the system, but the school proceeded anyway. We can’t wait anymore.” Skinner led me to their faculty room. He showed me their faculty directory on the wall, which included pictures of around 20 volunteer teachers from Ivy League universities and other reputable higher learning institutions abroad. He said they are all highly talented and well-educated specialists in various disciplines. Their daily presence in school and interactions with students had enhanced the learners’ performance in the sciences, arts, sports, and other worthwhile activities.
Skinner said that 35 percent of their graduates since 2015 had received their bachelor’s degrees from MIT and other highly reputable universities overseas. Nearly all their graduates were successful college students and professionals.
I thought to myself Skinner must be insane. But I could only tell him he’s going to get fired for skipping procedures. He scoffed dismissively and said, “I already died last year, Sir, and I have only 3 months to live. It won’t matter anymore if I get charged administratively. I may be sick, but I’m single, and I’ll die a good administrator.”
He said he knew where I was heading and that one of my children must be an incoming student of the school. He said he will show me, when I return, their well-equipped and well-used music and art room, squeaky clean restrooms, organic gardens, huge and still growing library collection, and visually impaired masseurs’ corner where students and teachers could get a relaxing massage for a reasonable fee.
Skinner said he will no longer stand in my way, but I should stop by their cafeteria for a cup of fresh turmeric tea.
The mouth-watering smells from the cafeteria beckoned after what appeared to be a long, delightful tour of a school that has been astoundingly transforming into a genuinely learner-friendly environment. I heard students and teachers actively engaging in lively conversations inside the cafeteria. These interactions had the looks of exchanges that stirred up a love for sustained thinking and learning beyond the four walls of the classroom.
After finishing my cup of fresh turmeric tea, I decided to wash down the after-taste with soda, but a sign said that the cafeteria was not selling junk foods and drinks.
I stood near the cashier, almost salivating at the thought of the sweet and cold soda. I could not believe that the cafeteria is now a real bastion of healthy food.
“You want soda?!” Someone snarled behind me. I wondered if they also teach mind-reading in this school. I turned to the source of the indignant voice. It was my son’s former MAPEH teacher. “You want soda?” His voice was laced with a returning pain from an errant soccer ball. “You can’t have one because I just found you broke my kuwan!!!” He yelled at me. Broken Kuwan let lose a below-the-belt kick. And then, darkness, an unexpected power outage of some sort, a cosmic intervention. It was suddenly pitch black.
“Dad, wake up. You’re supposed to bring me to Kumon.” It’s my Grade 8 daughter.
Waking up from a vivid dream, I asked myself if I really had a son and an incoming Grade 11 daughter. When the dream had completely evaporated, I knew I had none.
There goes the beautiful school for my non-existent Grade 11 daughter.
Now, I’ll have some explaining to do after my wife, Maricris, has read the first paragraph of this column. I suspect the task will be more challenging than navigating the labyrinthine corridors of public education. How does one account for the soccer ball mishaps and unfettered wanderings of a dreaming mind?
