1
They called him “the tallest homosexual in the room.” Matangkad na bading. His name was too dignified for him, and they decided that it should not be used because he did not deserve it. He smelled sometimes. They suspected he did not take a bath when he was either too depressed or too lazy. He spoke infrequently, sometimes when he is spoken to. Aaron Montemayor, the biggest loon in the class, called “pugo” because of his supposedly small dick, would tease him for a long time before he finally asks, “Why don’t you fight back? It’s more fun to call someone names if they fight back,” and, contemptuous but calm, he would not respond. Instead, he would keep his fortitude about him, damning the souls for what they did to him, but otherwise remained motionless against them. “Bading, bading, bakla, bakla,” Aaron would repeatedly say sometimes. It got to him, but not enough for him to give them what they want.
His only friend was his classmate, John Bravo. Johnny Bravo, everyone called him because of his name’s resemblance to that of a cartoon character’s. Aside from that, they are not similar. He was lanky, not buff. He wore glasses. He was awkward and shy. “Peter,” John would say. “Don’t let them get to you.” This was when they had to form two straight lines when going somewhere on campus. One line for the boys and one line for the girls, according to height. They were almost the same height, so they were always adjacent one another. “I won’t…” Peter would say. “Good, good,” John would say out of sight, pretending not to talk, lest Miss Bebe hear them and get scolded. They were not allowed to make noise — not with their feet, not with their mouths.
They studied in San Martin de Poblacion College. It was a school that was proud of itself, primarily because no one else was. Like every other educational institution, it lived under the shadow of Ateneo de Manila, where Peter has always envisioned himself studying. His parents would say The University of the Philippines was better, but he would always say: “I would die there.” He was referring to the violence and openness of the university, compared to the elite safeness that was ADMU. Poblacion would boast ties with all these schools, but never seemed to be quite as good as them. They still did not have air conditioning like DLSU, but so did ADMU and UP. They did not have a good library like any of them. Their teachers were under qualified and their students lacked motivation.
During the early faculty meetings, the teachers would come in groggy, their hair still in places they did not intend, carrying cups of coffee and small biscuits. They would always start with Miss Lacantra saying the agenda out loud to everyone. “Student discipline… Flag ceremony alterations… Activities for the next month…” Student discipline has always been a problem. The boys were rowdy, and the girls were having their legs opened up way too early.
The old, rude one, Miss de la Merced, who always sat at the back of the room by the window so she could smoke, cleared her throat before saying, “We should be allowed to hit them. When I was young, I was hit and it made me a better person.”
Though there were detractors, this was certainly something most of them wanted. Nothing was more fulfilling that hitting a child who just did not shut up, and most of them had done so in their daydreams. But prudence got in the way and they would always murmur disapproval at this, though she has requested this many times and even once wrote a letter to the principal about it, which was also sternly denied. They wanted to fire her, but she was too old and has been too loyal.
“We should not hit children,” said Miss Bebe. “But we should discipline them.”
“I have them stand in a corner,” said Miss Maga.
Miss Panis nodded, “I do that too.”
She does this a lot, because she frequently hears children make fun of her name behind her back.
…
(Very long brain fart.)
