Sunday, June 26, 2011

Teachers: Oppressors

Never did I realize that teachers act oppressive in almost all ways that he does inside the classroom. When he imposes rules, he deprives students of certain rights. When he insists that the syllabus or prototype lesson plans be followed through in a year, he denies them of the chance to include matters that they wish to be taken in the class. Moreover, if he acknowledges only one correct answer in a question he raises about a poem or a short story, he is imposing.

My contentions that I wish to write in this column are enthused by what Paulo Freire presents in his highly acclaimed work The Pedagogy of the Oppressed. I confess I raised my brow when I read Freire’s work and I should admit too that my ego was quite hurt when it occurred to me that so much of his principles strike us--the people in the academe. On the contrary, if we consider viewing his points from a perspective of a student, it will come to us clearly that we indeed have become oppressors sometime in our lives as a teacher.

The second chapter of The Pedagogy of the Oppressed examines the controversial issue on the system of education where he suggests that students are considered empty bank accounts that should remain open to deposits made by the teacher. He terms this “banking approach”. Freire nonetheless rebuffs this because he claims that it results in the dehumanization of both the teachers and the students. Also, he believes that banking education maintains and even stimulates the contradiction through these various attitudes and practices: (1) the teacher teaches and the students are taught; (2) the teacher knows everything and the students know nothing; (3) the teacher thinks and the students are thought about; (4) the teacher talks and the students listen-meekly;( 5) the teacher disciplines and the students are disciplined; (6) the teacher chooses and enforces his choice, and the students comply; (7) the teacher acts and the students have the illusion of acting through the action of the teacher; (8) the teacher chooses the program content, and the students (who were not consulted) adapt to it; (9) the teacher confuses the authority of knowledge with his own professional authority, which he sets in opposition to the freedom of the students and (10) the teacher is the Subject of the learning process, while the pupils are mere objects.

Pondering on this, I realized that I might have become oppressive in some ways inside the classroom as far as banking approach is concerned. Perhaps, the domineering aspect of being a teacher lies principally in the fact that he is the authority in the teaching-learning process. He decides, probably not at all times what to teach, but how to teach. He plans the lessons, constructs the tests, asks questions, disciplines the students and dismisses the classes. The conventionalists would assert that this has been what the educational system is all about ever since the word ‘education’ had been perceived by humanity. But the progressivists might as well get the idea that Freire’s principle is considerably true to the academicians. Let me take the side of the latter to lay my viewpoints. If Freire claims that oppression exists in a scenario where teachers talk and the students are just made to wallow, then all of us are just guilty. Let’s face it! More often than not, we make it a point that everything we say is understood and so we try every possible way to get our message across. Further, we always insist that our wants be materialized—projects, book reports, reaction papers, researches, all of which must be done no matter what, but taking in what Freire claims, haven’t we gone far too oppressive?

In my experiences in the world of literature both as a student and as a teacher, I came to realize that banking approach to education is just so perceptible. As a grade school pupil, I recall the days when we were made to dwell on questions whose answers should be exact: “What is the theme of the story?”, “What conclusion could be drawn from the ending?” and how I got so disappointed when my ideas, which I strongly believed were substantial, were not just the right ones all because the answers were all contained in the Teacher’s Manual! This particular instance exemplifies the idea that it is not only the teachers who are oppressors in the academe. The ones who create the books, those who decide the curriculum and those who implement rules are oppressors as well. I can’t forget the fact that teachers and students are restricted to follow the PSSLC, PELC, and the continuums that the department imposes. Let’s face it, because they are bounded by these competencies, more often than not, the learning of the students are sacrificed. This action fails to acknowledge the fact that most of the students might need extra time for more drills (e.g. vocabulary building) before they could actually move on to the next topics (e.g. paragraph construction) which the PELC or PSSLC insists to be followed at all cost.

At the outset, Freire does not only present the oppressive and dehumanizing acts that teachers are guilty of. He also proposes ways by which we could humanize our students and take part in what he calls problem-posing education. This can be obtained through dialogue in which the teacher is no longer the-one-who-teaches, but one who is himself taught in dialogue with the students, who in turn while being taught also teach. In my literature teaching, I am so grateful that I’ve learned about the Reader Response theory and other critical reading approaches in my master’s. In this way, I am confident that I have become a humanizing teacher and less oppressive when I teach Literature. There are varied ways to liberate students from oppressive situations in the classroom. All we need to do is to consider things and try. Trust me. It’ll be all worth it.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

The Sibling Called Mario



You are not from the same umbilical cord

Where I came forth

Neither were you with me

When I kissed my mother’s breast

We never fought for her milk

Or for the rattle shaken with mirth

Never did we even make homeworks together at home

Or peed together to know who pees higher or low

We never had fights with pillow

Or thrown dogs poop at each other’s face

We never did. No.

But who damn cares?

We’re brothers.

Our hearts know,

So do our souls,

So do our minds.

Bloods go.

Those three no.

The Thief's Daughter



“Time to set your burglar’s alarm, girls!” the big mouthed fat girl burst as she saw Pilar coming to the locker. “Hurry up and never ever let your eyes blink or else…”

The girls got her message and locked up their things theatrically. Each moved towards the girl who had just warned them. They were such a spectacle that everybody in the hallway followed their stares. Pilar sensed the awkward silence. She dared not look at anyone and chose to quicken her steps instead. She wished she had not locked it up so she could just grab her things and leave right away. She still had to insert the key to the padlock, twist it, open the door, find the books she needed and shut it again. Nevertheless, Pilar did all these while being aware of the eyes that were glued on her. Upon getting her things, she turned to walk but was suddenly blocked by the girl.

“Tell your father not to miss the grocery store in our village,” the fat girl ordered. “It’ll be a big catch for your family.”

“You know nothing about my father,” Pilar said as she tightened her grip of her books.

“Everybody in Sta. Fe knows Polario more than you do, pathetic daughter of the thief,” exclaimed the tall girl.

“My father is not a thief,” she cried. “He never stole anything from the market. It wasn’t him.”

Pilar walked as fast as she could while tears streamed down her face. She could hear another voice yelling at her.

“How did you know it wasn’t your father?” the fat girl shouted. “Ah! You were with him when he broke into the market stall, weren’t you?”

And the girls bellowed with laughter.

Pilar rode a tricycle home and stared at the glass blankly. She realized that it was the worst thing that happened to her life. She never imagined herself being humiliated amid so many people. She was wounded and she needed some cure.

Pilar didn’t notice the tricycle had gone two blocks past her house. She even almost forgot to pay the driver her fare. She took her money and handed it without looking at him. She wondered if the driver knew about his father. She wished he didn’t.

As she walked, she fixed her gaze at the bamboo bench under the Narra tree. It was not long since her father used to tell her stories on that bench. He left without even telling her why. All she knew then was he needed to look for another job. That was according to her mother. Sometimes, the rumors about his father stealing goods were overwhelming that she almost wanted to believe in them. Her mother; however, was firm that the rumors would always remain as rumors- no basis; all were aimed at destroying his father- a simple and good man. Pilar longed for his father but the longing had now been tarnished with rebellion.

Pilar entered their house and found Lorena cooking in the kitchen. She placed her things on the dining table to signal her mother that she was home.

“Why early?” Lorena asked. She wondered why Pilar didn’t greet her with a kiss.

“I want to see him,” Pilar said.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I want to see him.”

“See who?”

“My father. I want to know if he did it.”

“Wait,” she said. She turned off the stove. “Tell me what happened.”

It took a while before Pilar hesitantly told her mother about the ridicules she just received from the girls in school. She couldn’t help but cry as she narrated their allegations against his father. Lorena felt her trachea stiffen.

“Now, please tell me,” she said. “Did he really steal from the market?”

“He couldn’t do that.”

“But why did those people insist that father did?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that your father is innocent. He is a good man, Pilar and you know that,” Lorena said as she stared at the floor.

“If he didn’t do it then why did he leave us?”

“He never left us. He just wanted to avoid those people who have been persecuting him for the acts he never really did.”

“And who’s being persecuted now, Ma? I can’t bear the weight of people’s mockery especially now that we don’t have him at our side. You’ll see, sooner or later, they would do the same to you. They’ll treat you like you were a criminal.”

Tears appeared in Lorena’s eyes hearing the words of the pained young woman. For once, she knew this would come but never did she expect that her daughter would take the hardest blows.

“What do you want me to do then?” Lorena said in a trembling voice.

“Tell me where Papa is.”

Lorena thought it was the right time to tell Pilar.

Perhaps she would endure the pain that the truth would cause her if Polario would tell her. I know she could. She’s strong. I’m not.

Pilar left for San Ildefonso the following day to see his father. San Ildefonso was twenty-two kilometers away from Sta. Fe-- far enough to avoid the torments of the people she now learned to hate. She realized his father had been so lucky since he left Sta. Fe some years ago. At least, he was able to forget the mocking faces, the disgusting rumors against him and perhaps, his suffering daughter.

Pilar reached Sta. Fe after after a few hours. She called for a tricycle and told the driver the place she was headed at.

“You must be new here,” the driver said.

“Yes,” Pilar said matter-of-factly.

“Who do you want in Kamias?”

“Polario Cruz.”

“The slaughter man?” he exclaimed. “He’s a good pal .I never knew he had a daughter.”

Pilar didn’t know what to do whether she would be happy for she could easily find her father’s house or get mad because his father had failed to mention to his friends that he had a daughter. Either way, she still felt good that her mother told the truth when she said that her father found a new job.

How does father do the killing? It must be hard for him who was used to vending vegetables to slaughter pigs. Does this man know my father well? Has he ever been accused of stealing in this place?

The driver pointed Polario’s house before Pilar stepped out of the tricycle. The house was small and unpainted but it was nice to look at because of the green bamboo shafts that were perfectly nailed horizontally. Surrounding the house where pots of healthy pechay and tomatoes.

So he never forgot his good green ways, she thought.

Pilar slowly pushed the gate made of coconut lumber and thought about how she would face her father who opted to not see her for years. She went to the door and knocked. No one came. She turned the knob and was surprised that it was open. She got inside. The house was even nicer inside. There were shiny bamboo seats properly arranged. In the wooden wall hung two picture frames that were familiar. She came nearer and was delighted to see the picture of her and her father on a bench she recognized in Sta. Fe. The other one was their wedding picture. She was so mesmerized by them that she never noticed the man who came in.

“Excuse me? Who…”

Pilar recognized the voice and turned.

“Pilar?” Polario said in bewilderment. “W…hy are you here?

Pilar didn’t expect his father would utter those words.

“I came to see you,” she said. “Father.”

Polario embraced his daughter tight. For once, he knew he was longing to hold her daughter close but he thought it would be impossible for he knew he was undeserving. Now he was squeezing Pilar but he never felt she needed it. His leaving her was unforgivable but he knew it was the best thing to do. Pilar wriggled from his father’s grip and looked him in his eyes.

“Father, why did you leave us?”

“I had to.”

“”Why? Is it because you were guilty of stealing?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I know what I’m talking about. It’s you who doesn’t know anything how it felt to be ridiculed by people because of having a father who is a thief. Tell me father, you did it right? You did it! You did it! You’re a thief!”

“Yes I did it! I’m a thief! What then?” Polario exploded.

“But why?”

“It’s all because of you, Pilar.” Polario said. You were sick then and we didn’t have any money to buy you medicines. I opted to steal just to save you."

Pilar didn’t bear the truth she just heard. She cried hard and went out.

Flying Colors


In every battle

There are colors that paint

As the time ticks and

The brush strokes

Hues are seen

Not by the eyes but

By the heart that leaps like ghosts.

Yellow says yes under the moon's romance

And the green transcends

The inevitable tie of tea and man

Calm, fresh and life well-loved

For the red comes aglow

In the mother's breast

And the cradle that gathers

The angels--mirth and hope

Captured in the bottle, preserved.

Never will they pink

For the orange and purple will mingle

Like a chamomile orchard and apiary

Where the gentle wind brings forth white

The color of handshakes and doves

Then the feathers caress

The dreams of the young

To tread the road, to meet one

Who will help her loads

And the blue foreborne

As well as the dark

For they are perched along the way

There at all times night or day

Even the rainbow could lure the sight

For years it's chased by thousand knights

It's not there yet it hid

The golds of which the colors where not yet told.

You Don't Know My Poetry


Written in blood yet sheds no red

As pen caresses my mighty seed

The shadows hurled the whispers of the dark

As pleasure slithers in the moon of light.

And then decoded in the movement of your lips

You realize all of a sudden this is no paragraph

But fragments of innumerable plights

Moistened with the desire

Of some men.

Now, indelible.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

ang pagtawag

hindi naman sa lahat ng pagkakataon kailangang lumingon kapag tinawag. Minsan kailangan ding yumuko at magbingi-bingihan.