Post by ernesto thaddeus m. solmerano on Jun 15, 2007 22:12:29 GMT -5
Why the English Teacher Died at Christmas
By Myra Muriel Go
It was the day of the Christmas program, and Teacher Helen was not feeling well at all.
Teacher Helen had been teaching English at the same school for twenty years. She was forty years old and forty is supposed to be a very good age to be for any teacher. That means a teacher would have enriched many, many lives.
Still, Teacher Helen was very unhappy, having grown increasingly disappointed with her efforts at teaching English in the last five years.
Even if she doubled her efforts at explaining the rules of subject and verb agreement, she still got sentences that read: The poem are about, or, I think and felt or, Rizal and her writing; and even if the only strategy she hadn’t used was to dance the tango to induce her students to read, she ultimately got reactions like, Teacher? Did I like Kipling? Duh, I dunno, I never kippled before. Is that like bungee jumping?
Or worse, Shakespeare? Is he the new guy with the X-men? The one with the vibrating laser beam?
Teacher Helen couldn’t figure it out very well, could not say where exactly the problem lay. Although her students only spoke smatterings of English they seemed to understand much of it; specially films, or the NBA games. And they correctly pronounced all the signature brands of clothes and colognes. They also liked to celebrate the American festivals like Valentine’s and Halloween. Her students used English mostly to express their thoughts and feelings on those days, even though their efforts left something to be desired:
I Labs Ya. Dya Labs Me 2? Or better, Will ya be may Balentine? U’r cool!
At Halloween they told her of their adventures. Mum! We went to trek and tret.
In the gentlest manner she would say, Oh, Trick or Treat! How wonderful. And Jund, that’s Ma’m. Maaa’m. Mum used to be an underarm deodorant.
Teacher Helen also thought that she didn’t want to teach speech anymore, for it began to feel like The Mother of All Jawbreakers. To try to help students distinguish between the P and the F, B and the V, and the soft and hard TH, and worse diphthongs, seemed Teacher Helen to need several lifetimes to accomplish.
To make matters even worse, her colleagues weren’t much help.
Just the day before, during their faculty meeting, Teacher Helen had to suffer through the entire two hours of English use being systematically slaughtered by the subject area coordinators.
Let’s go to the ballroom dancing! No, I’ve got to go to the house early. It’s my baby’s check in the pedja. You know por da awting let’s go to the bitch in Nasugbu.
To ensure her sanity by the end of the meeting, she formulated some learning objectives. Silently, of course.
O-ke, o-ke, the principal said. Tomorrow’s our program. Is the chairs there prom the delivery?
(…to distinguish P and F sounds)
Yes Mum.
The Science people, how’s the exhibits?
(…must always agree in number)
O-ki Mum. Biri Creetib Mum. P-6 and Kim ar tim is Science, Da Stap of Lipe and Libing.
(…must be able to clearly pronounce English sounds)
What about Math?
Good Mum. We Mutt people are riddi. Da grid tu will sing about the Aso-syatib and Comyo-tatib to da song of Chisnut Roosting on da Open Payr.
(…must speak English)
Art and Music?
Da kids will sing Samsungs and dance the dances.
(…must not smirk)
Da buckdrop is pinis, and light epecks we check olreydi.
(…must not puke on the table)
Last year one payrents complain of the warmth so pliss, check the ercon.
(…must grit my teeth)
What about Ingliss? Titser Helen?
(…must not five in to urge to reply, I tits my class)
All the grade five sections will recite The Night Before Christmas.
(…must practice Christian values of humility, honesty, perseverance)
The meeting ended soon after that, and Teacher Helen was very relieved to have survived it.
But this morning, when she awoke from a very bad dream in which she was banished to hell, tied to a chair and made to listen to Jimmy Santos, she told herself maybe it was time to shift professions.
Insurance maybe? Or real estate?
Maybe she should shift languages.
No, no, no she told herself. How could I think of that at this time of the year, when Christmas carols are in the air, and everyone, yes, everyone still greeted each other, Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
Maybe I should relent and allow fragmented language in class.
But I can’t give up now! It’s my life’s work!
These were her thoughts as she trudged up the steps to the hospital entrance.
Merry Christmas! The receptionist at the medical specialist’s center greeted her.
Oh, and Merry Christmas to you to, my dear, she replied. She was so relieved that the sounds were correct.
Do you have an appointment? The receptionist asked.
I’m sorry but I don’t, Teacher Helen answered with a smile, and a feeling almost vibrant.
Come again? The lady asked. At that moment the phone rang. Excuse me please, the receptionist said as she answered.
No, I’m sorry, the doctor won’t be in for another hour. Shall I give him your message? Yes, I’ve got that. Thank you for calling, have a nice day, and Merry Christmas.
There is a God, Teacher Helen thought as she relished the words she had just heard.
Suddenly curious about the rarity of the person, she decided to chat a little bit.
You know, you’re so familiar. Which school did you attend?
Laughter.
You mean which school did I teach at. I was an English teacher before I quit to work here.
Oh! May I ask why?
I finally realized that trying to teach English was being Sisyphus, a hopeless, uphill going nowhere job.
And so you quit.
Wisest thing I ever did in my life.
Yes. Of course.
Some of my friends have better paying jobs abroad. DH-Tutors. Have their own houses.
Teacher Helen didn’t feel as good as she did a while ago. She fell into deep thought, interrupted at last by her physician who arrived, hounded by a large group of medical reps waving Christmas packages.
Merry Christmas, Helen, not feeling well this season?
Teacher Helen seemed far away, managing a wan reply. Can you believe this? She whispered, a little lost.
An hour later, Teacher Helen was still there, as the waiting room emptied of the other patients.
It might have been pleasant waiting all together had not the receptionist asked one patient, Have you been x-rayed?
No, was the patient’s quick reply. I was ultra-violated.
Teacher Helen shot a glance at the patient, then locked gaze with the receptionist. Like a trouper that she was, the receptionist ignored the mistake and kept silent.
And like the teacher that she still was, Teacher Helen was about to speak in correction. At the last moment though, she too kept silent.
At that moment another receptionist came over from the kidney doctor’s clinic.
Hey, did you hear about the baby our next door pedia lost this morning?
No, what happened? Sepsis. Infected ambivalent cord.
Teacher Helen staggered to her feet, feeling like she had been shot.
Ma’m? Are you leaving? You’re next.
Really? Thanks so much. So Teacher Helen returned to her seat.
We have this Christmas program I’d like to catch, you see.
Her doctor said it was stress, that’s all. That the chest pains were imagined. That she was taking her job too seriously. That perhaps she should extend her Christmas vacation well into January.
She promised to consider it, and was actually preparing a little speech in her head as she walked into the school auditorium filled with clapping parents and costumed children.
Her principal was glaring at her, but Teacher Helen came right up to her assigned seat on the front row, together with the other members of the faculty and did not notice how late she was.
Soon, amidst the rasping minus one tape of Christmas songs, the curtains opened to reveal the extravaganza of the day, the Music teachers’ opus.
Prancing children dressed like elves held boughs and boughs of what looked like plastic leaves. They danced about the stage during the taped intro then stood still at their designated places to burst into their much practiced chorus:
Dick da holes with bosso Polly, Pa la la la la la la la!
Isdasison to Jollibee. Pa la la la la la la la la!
Dochano da gay apartelle, Pa la la la la la la la la!
A blinding, white light. A great force upon her head.
Teacher Helen was puzzled. Did the stage collapse? Why were there so many people all of a sudden? And why were they screaming and hovering above her?
She heard the Science teacher say, Titser Helen, Titser Helen, ded you paint?
Then the Math teacher said, Wooter pliss, someone git wooter!
Lay down, Lay down, the Principal was directing.
But just then, Teacher Helen no longer cared, and was thinking, you all make me funny.
She died with a smile on her face.
By Myra Muriel Go
It was the day of the Christmas program, and Teacher Helen was not feeling well at all.
Teacher Helen had been teaching English at the same school for twenty years. She was forty years old and forty is supposed to be a very good age to be for any teacher. That means a teacher would have enriched many, many lives.
Still, Teacher Helen was very unhappy, having grown increasingly disappointed with her efforts at teaching English in the last five years.
Even if she doubled her efforts at explaining the rules of subject and verb agreement, she still got sentences that read: The poem are about, or, I think and felt or, Rizal and her writing; and even if the only strategy she hadn’t used was to dance the tango to induce her students to read, she ultimately got reactions like, Teacher? Did I like Kipling? Duh, I dunno, I never kippled before. Is that like bungee jumping?
Or worse, Shakespeare? Is he the new guy with the X-men? The one with the vibrating laser beam?
Teacher Helen couldn’t figure it out very well, could not say where exactly the problem lay. Although her students only spoke smatterings of English they seemed to understand much of it; specially films, or the NBA games. And they correctly pronounced all the signature brands of clothes and colognes. They also liked to celebrate the American festivals like Valentine’s and Halloween. Her students used English mostly to express their thoughts and feelings on those days, even though their efforts left something to be desired:
I Labs Ya. Dya Labs Me 2? Or better, Will ya be may Balentine? U’r cool!
At Halloween they told her of their adventures. Mum! We went to trek and tret.
In the gentlest manner she would say, Oh, Trick or Treat! How wonderful. And Jund, that’s Ma’m. Maaa’m. Mum used to be an underarm deodorant.
Teacher Helen also thought that she didn’t want to teach speech anymore, for it began to feel like The Mother of All Jawbreakers. To try to help students distinguish between the P and the F, B and the V, and the soft and hard TH, and worse diphthongs, seemed Teacher Helen to need several lifetimes to accomplish.
To make matters even worse, her colleagues weren’t much help.
Just the day before, during their faculty meeting, Teacher Helen had to suffer through the entire two hours of English use being systematically slaughtered by the subject area coordinators.
Let’s go to the ballroom dancing! No, I’ve got to go to the house early. It’s my baby’s check in the pedja. You know por da awting let’s go to the bitch in Nasugbu.
To ensure her sanity by the end of the meeting, she formulated some learning objectives. Silently, of course.
O-ke, o-ke, the principal said. Tomorrow’s our program. Is the chairs there prom the delivery?
(…to distinguish P and F sounds)
Yes Mum.
The Science people, how’s the exhibits?
(…must always agree in number)
O-ki Mum. Biri Creetib Mum. P-6 and Kim ar tim is Science, Da Stap of Lipe and Libing.
(…must be able to clearly pronounce English sounds)
What about Math?
Good Mum. We Mutt people are riddi. Da grid tu will sing about the Aso-syatib and Comyo-tatib to da song of Chisnut Roosting on da Open Payr.
(…must speak English)
Art and Music?
Da kids will sing Samsungs and dance the dances.
(…must not smirk)
Da buckdrop is pinis, and light epecks we check olreydi.
(…must not puke on the table)
Last year one payrents complain of the warmth so pliss, check the ercon.
(…must grit my teeth)
What about Ingliss? Titser Helen?
(…must not five in to urge to reply, I tits my class)
All the grade five sections will recite The Night Before Christmas.
(…must practice Christian values of humility, honesty, perseverance)
The meeting ended soon after that, and Teacher Helen was very relieved to have survived it.
But this morning, when she awoke from a very bad dream in which she was banished to hell, tied to a chair and made to listen to Jimmy Santos, she told herself maybe it was time to shift professions.
Insurance maybe? Or real estate?
Maybe she should shift languages.
No, no, no she told herself. How could I think of that at this time of the year, when Christmas carols are in the air, and everyone, yes, everyone still greeted each other, Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
Maybe I should relent and allow fragmented language in class.
But I can’t give up now! It’s my life’s work!
These were her thoughts as she trudged up the steps to the hospital entrance.
Merry Christmas! The receptionist at the medical specialist’s center greeted her.
Oh, and Merry Christmas to you to, my dear, she replied. She was so relieved that the sounds were correct.
Do you have an appointment? The receptionist asked.
I’m sorry but I don’t, Teacher Helen answered with a smile, and a feeling almost vibrant.
Come again? The lady asked. At that moment the phone rang. Excuse me please, the receptionist said as she answered.
No, I’m sorry, the doctor won’t be in for another hour. Shall I give him your message? Yes, I’ve got that. Thank you for calling, have a nice day, and Merry Christmas.
There is a God, Teacher Helen thought as she relished the words she had just heard.
Suddenly curious about the rarity of the person, she decided to chat a little bit.
You know, you’re so familiar. Which school did you attend?
Laughter.
You mean which school did I teach at. I was an English teacher before I quit to work here.
Oh! May I ask why?
I finally realized that trying to teach English was being Sisyphus, a hopeless, uphill going nowhere job.
And so you quit.
Wisest thing I ever did in my life.
Yes. Of course.
Some of my friends have better paying jobs abroad. DH-Tutors. Have their own houses.
Teacher Helen didn’t feel as good as she did a while ago. She fell into deep thought, interrupted at last by her physician who arrived, hounded by a large group of medical reps waving Christmas packages.
Merry Christmas, Helen, not feeling well this season?
Teacher Helen seemed far away, managing a wan reply. Can you believe this? She whispered, a little lost.
An hour later, Teacher Helen was still there, as the waiting room emptied of the other patients.
It might have been pleasant waiting all together had not the receptionist asked one patient, Have you been x-rayed?
No, was the patient’s quick reply. I was ultra-violated.
Teacher Helen shot a glance at the patient, then locked gaze with the receptionist. Like a trouper that she was, the receptionist ignored the mistake and kept silent.
And like the teacher that she still was, Teacher Helen was about to speak in correction. At the last moment though, she too kept silent.
At that moment another receptionist came over from the kidney doctor’s clinic.
Hey, did you hear about the baby our next door pedia lost this morning?
No, what happened? Sepsis. Infected ambivalent cord.
Teacher Helen staggered to her feet, feeling like she had been shot.
Ma’m? Are you leaving? You’re next.
Really? Thanks so much. So Teacher Helen returned to her seat.
We have this Christmas program I’d like to catch, you see.
Her doctor said it was stress, that’s all. That the chest pains were imagined. That she was taking her job too seriously. That perhaps she should extend her Christmas vacation well into January.
She promised to consider it, and was actually preparing a little speech in her head as she walked into the school auditorium filled with clapping parents and costumed children.
Her principal was glaring at her, but Teacher Helen came right up to her assigned seat on the front row, together with the other members of the faculty and did not notice how late she was.
Soon, amidst the rasping minus one tape of Christmas songs, the curtains opened to reveal the extravaganza of the day, the Music teachers’ opus.
Prancing children dressed like elves held boughs and boughs of what looked like plastic leaves. They danced about the stage during the taped intro then stood still at their designated places to burst into their much practiced chorus:
Dick da holes with bosso Polly, Pa la la la la la la la!
Isdasison to Jollibee. Pa la la la la la la la la!
Dochano da gay apartelle, Pa la la la la la la la la!
A blinding, white light. A great force upon her head.
Teacher Helen was puzzled. Did the stage collapse? Why were there so many people all of a sudden? And why were they screaming and hovering above her?
She heard the Science teacher say, Titser Helen, Titser Helen, ded you paint?
Then the Math teacher said, Wooter pliss, someone git wooter!
Lay down, Lay down, the Principal was directing.
But just then, Teacher Helen no longer cared, and was thinking, you all make me funny.
She died with a smile on her face.