Author: rhodora

 

by Dr. Pelagio Vila, Jr.

THE classroom teacher is  perhaps the most underrated and most misinterpreted person in our nation’s labor force.

I say this because as  a classroom teacher before I assumed the post of administrator through my capacity as school principal, I have observed, and at times experienced, the numerous challenges, hardships and frustrations of a teacher, particularly a male one.

First of all, because I am but one of the very few breed of male teachers in our locality (and in the whole country, for that matter), I somewhat feel the foreboding discrimination. I would like to clarify however that what I am talking about is not deliberate discrimination in relation with my fellow teachers. It is the kind of discrimination that is seemingly inherent with male teachers all around.

For one, the teaching profession is predominated by females which is understandable because women are expectedly more nurturing and more patient with children, owing to their maternal instincts. Owing to this, there are more women than men who would want to be teachers.

For the reason that the teaching profession is generally a woman’s world, men who take up education to pursue teaching career are often mistaken for gays. “Nakakabakla”, is one term that a friend used to capsulize the predicament of men in the education department. To this however, I strongly beg to disagree because it has been proven time and again that men who love to teach and have professed full time dedication to the teaching profession are not diminished in terms of their masculinity.

Another setback of male teachers is their awkward relationships with their wards, especially in the high school (or even college) level, with the female students in particular. With the rise of reported cases of sex harasments, molestations and even rapes in the country, where some male teachers get involved in, the male teacher should be extra-careful in his dealings with his female students lest his actions be taken in a different light. Too much closeness and evident physical contact such as holding of the hands, hugging or even tapping on the shoulders – though outwardly innocent, may elicit reactions and wrong interpretations. Therefore, the male teacher should be cautious at all times and must not allow himself to be in situations such as being left alone with a girl student in a room or office.

Male teachers also experience bias in delegation of assignments. Because female teachers are considered more efficient, more focused and more organized due perhaps to their very nature as females, they (female teachers) are given more challenging assignments and more demanding jobs. Some might think that this could be an advantage to the male teachers because he gets to have less work – but it is not so. A teacher needs challenges and opportunities to grow professionally, to improve his craft and prove his talents and capabilities. Hence, to be given delicate challenging assignments is a big opportunity or him or her to prove his or her mettle. And this, the male teachers are generally denied because of the wrong and distorted notion that the female ones are more efficient than the males.

What I have pointed out however, is not a hopeless predicament. Times change, and people adjust to these changes. At present, there are many indications that our educational system is becoming less gender conscious in the hiring of teachers. What is given more importance now is the dedication, perseverance and passion for the teaching profession – characteristics which, for me, are not gender selective.

PERSONAL HEALTH UPDATE: I HAD a follow up check up with my doctor last Friday and he was pleased that the wound (more of a crater, really) left by the ugly carbuncle that afflicted me last week is now healing.  He did not give me anymore oral medications but instructed me to just maintain topical treatment with an ointment he prescribed.  He advised however that the healing might take some time because the wound is quite big, measuring a good 1″x1″.

Patience, patience. Ah, I had to fortify this virtue in me again and again in battling the painful infected growth on my stomach. 

Healing, either  on the physical, emotional, psychological or spiritual aspect, takes time  Healing cannot, and should not be forced. It will just come naturally in the course of time. Physical healing, though with medical intervention,  cannot be coerced either because there is also a time element involved. It cannot be rushed. 

And so – patience, patience I should have, and hopefully by Christmas, I will be back on my feet and be my old self once again.

* * * *

I received this forwarded e-mail from a friend. Let me share it here. (Copy-pasted, to save me the effort of typing.  Hope you forgive my laziness. :D)

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS FOR THOSE OVER FORTY YEARS OLD

 

1. Focus on enjoying people, not on indulging in or accumulating material things.

2. Plan to spend whatever you have saved. You deserve to enjoy it and the few healthy years you have left. Travel if you can afford it. Don’t leave anything for your children or loved ones to quarrel about. By leaving anything, you may even cause more trouble when you are gone.

3. Live in the here and now, not in the yesterdays and tomorrows. It is only today that you can handle. Yesterday is gone, tomorrow may not even happen.

4. Enjoy your grandchildren (if you are blessed with any) but don’t be their full time baby sitter. You have no moral obligation to take care of them. Don’t have any guilt about refusing to baby sit anyone’s kids, including your own grandkids. Your parental obligation is to your children. After you have raised them into responsible adults, your duties of child-rearing and babysitting are finished. Let your children raise their own offsprings.

5. Accept physical weakness, sickness and other physical pains. It is a part of the aging process. Enjoy whatever your health can allow.

6. Enjoy what you are and what you have right now. Stop working hard for what you do not have. If you do not have them, it’s probably too late.

7. Just enjoy your life with your spouse, children, grandchildren and friends. People, who truly love you, love you for yourself, not for what you have. Anyone who loves you for what you have will just give you misery.

8. Forgive and accept forgiveness. Forgive yourself and others. Enjoy peace of mind and peace of soul.

9. Befriend death. It’s a natural part of the life cycle. Don’t be afraid of it. Death is the beginning of a new and better life. So, prepare yourself not for death but for a new life with the Almighty.

10. Be at peace with your Creator. For… He is all you have after you leave this life.

Well, I agree with these commandments, except for Number 6.

I really don’t think that just because you are over forty, you should stop working hard.  Number 6 is tantamount to saying: “stop striving because it’s too late”, which for me, is not a sound  advice.

There are a lot of people who, even in their twilight years had worked hard and succeeded on something they had wanted to have and do all their life but for which they did not have the chance when they were younger.

There’s nothing wrong if one continues to seek a goal provided one is alive, strong and able. It’s never too late.  As long as one does  not abuse his or her health in the process, working hard to attain a dream in later years is not bad at all, don’t you think so too?

Note: As I said in my previous post, I am done with ‘emo’ ride.  However I want to share this  anonymously written piece which I found in my files, just for a pleasant read. Though kinda mushy, this piece gives allegorical pictures of how a heartbroken person may feel. 

What is the sound of one heart breaking?

It is the sound of someone curled up in a tiny ball crying softly in the night; the sound of the first unwanted teardrop touching your skin.

It’s the sound of a telephone that doesn’t ring,the sound of regret pounding inside your brain with every heartbeat, it’s the whispers of the toy animals he gave you.

It’ the shuffling of feet walking away from you,the sound of your soul shattering into a million pieces at recognizing the word ‘goodbye’.

It’s the soundtrack of memories torturing you, it’s the sound of feeble hands trying to push back the obstinate hands of time, it’s the sound of cherub’s dying breath, the sound of all those years disappearing in the vortex of Cupid’s kitchen sink.

It’s the unrelenting, plaintive baby meows of an abandoned kitten outside an ignoring door; it’s the sound of the rain that doesn’t ever stop, the sound of all the doors in the world shutting and closing in your face at the same time,of raging, howling storms in the night when there’s no one there to hold you.

The sound of your voice as it screams back at you, the echo of ‘I love you’ burning holes in you, the sound your heart makes as it tells you to lie still because nothing you will ever do will  matter without love.

The sound of the waves of the polluted beach you went to as it moves from the shore and crashes inside your mind, of the sniffles that make up your pathetic ‘SOS-to-the-world’, the cracking of the brittle black-red petals from the sidewalk vendor roses he gave, the sound of the music he  used to make going to your gut.

The sound of things in your room being thrown around and landing on the floor, the caress of sharpened kitchen knives on skin, the sound your throat makes as you swallow your saltiest tear.

It’s the sound of your own voice calling out to someone who isn’t there, of winged creatures dying and falling on a city pavement, of terms of endearment used a hundred times a day struggling to crawl into a vacuum of forgetfulness.

It’s the sound of your own sobs keeping you company, it’s the cold, uncaring stillness of the air you share your space with.

Destruction isn’t always as noisy as bombs exploding. Sometimes the ultimate catastrophes are as quiet as feather falling on the floor of a Zen monastery.

No one else can really hear your heart breaking except you.

 

OH WOW.  Staying in the hospital for one whole week where I got confined for an infected boil that turned to be a carbuncle that started from an innocent looking pimple on the right side of my tummy made me truly appreciate the beauty of the outdoors. As soon as I stepped out of the hospital gates last Friday evening, I was greeted by dazzling street lights and glittering Christmas blinkers and the city suddenly seemed so bright and alluring to my eyes. Indeed how true it is that you only learn to better appreciate things you would ordinarily take for granted if you are deprived of their pleasure for a significant period of time.

So now I’m back home.  Though the wound that resulted from the erupted carbuncle has not completely healed, I begged my doctors to let me go home where I could just continue my medication. I was tired being a prisoner of that hospital bed. I was tired seeing the nurses day and night, as they thoughtlessly marched in my room even in the deep of the night to check if the dextrose was dripping at the right frequency, or to  take my temperature reading regardless that I was already fever-free for three days. Oh well, it’s their job, I know.  But I only wished they chattered in hushed tones.

Honestly though, I was initially worried about my condition.  Even the doctors could not hide their alarm when they saw how morbid the growth had become. There were lesions in the surrounding area and I was having fever.  Whenever I would get sick, I always adopted a positive attitude. I would condition my mind into visualizing what I would be doing when I get well and make plans on how I would catch up with work and so on when I fully recover. In other words, I would never give the thought of dying any chance to breed in my mind. But when the dermatologist came, I saw terror on her face. Then she  said: “I don’t want to say this yet… but I guess gram culture of the discharges is not enough. I suggest a biopsy.” Then she asked me… or rather grilled me with questions like: “Are you sure that is not a mole?” “Are you sure you did not do anything with it, like scratched or pinched it?” Then my sister started sobbing. Oh my God. I felt like I was already pronounced terminally ill.

That was a really harrowing experience, though on the other side of the coin, it was also a heartwarming one. While in the hospital enduring the needles as my I.V. administration had to be transferred three times because the veins in my hands are very thin and hardly visible, I felt so loved and cared for.  My husband never left my side. My kids  (two in Manila and one in Baguio) called me now and then to ask how I was doing. Even Liz, my older son’s girlfriend wished me well through text messages. Clearly, they were very much concerned. My brother and sister visited me every day. My nephews and nieces in law were also there to cheer me up.  And what touched me most was my mother who was crying all the time, even wishing for my sickness to be transferred to her because according to her she’s old anyway.

Costly medicines. Another eye opener while I was languishing in the hospital was the unbelievable cost of medicines. Since my illness was infectious, I was given massive antibiotic treatment.  On my first two days in the hospital,  I was given a vial every eight hours. Each vial cost P948.00. I consumed around seven vials.  When that medicine did not do much to treat my infection except for the fever,  the doctor prescribed another antibiotic injection costing P1,500 per.  I had three vials of this medicine. And more to our dismay, my husband and I also realized that it was much cheaper to buy medicines in drugstores outside the hospital where we could have 15 percent savings on costs. Realizing that the P948/vial med was being sold P200 cheaper in other pharmacies, I wonder what word I should use to describe these private hospitals. I can’t think of any other, but GREEDY.

I was aghast.  I thought of the families out there who survived on a measly P100 a day food budget.  God help them.

It is high time for the Cheap Medicines Bill to become a law. The high cost of medicines is killing the poor people. I just hope though that there would be no politicking or negotiations involved that may hamper the passage of this bill. As we all know, such law will hurt the businesses of multi-million dollar pharmaceutical industries here and abroad.  These negotiations probably being forwarded by pharma people to our lawmakers may even result to bribery… if not to totally scrap the bill, to at least get rid of some of the provisions or clauses in the bill that are deemed to badly hurt the gains of profit hungry pharma industrialists.

I DON’T want this 2002 cross stitch project to be the ultimate symbol of my so many unfinished tasks waiting in line. So I’m going to finish it now, by hook or by crook. Will blog on the the finished one – framed and hanging on my wall…. soon, soon, I promise!