Trouble is our only defense against boredom – Tim, from Chris Fuhrman’s The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys

One particular childhood memory I carry vividly up to this time is when my Grade 5 homeroom teacher threw a plastic glass at me from her table up front, in front of all my classmates. She was discussing a trip to Boystown, Davao's resident shelter/orphanage for male street children and orphans. It was an exposure. The school's way of convincing itself that it was not too much of the elite institution it was reputed to be; that the children it raises are actually good, peace-loving, proletariat-embracing kids.

I had no problem with going to the place really. It was a welcome change to the usual brat I came across withevery 30 seconds at school. Most of my classmates came from rather well to do families. Who wouldn't? The school charged a regular house and lot's worth for a year of so-called Ignatian education. It was the type of institution where the class treasurer would go around collecting 50 centavos for every word spoken in the native tongue.

English was the norm. Anybody who spoke Filipino was an outcast.

I do not hate my school, though. It was where I learned of the growing disparity among social classes. It was there where I discovered what kind of power I had over millions of others and used it to my advantage. In college. Even at work.

Going back to the story, my teacher was giving out reminders on how to behave in such an environment. She warned us that we were not to exude any hint of affluence at the site and should always speak in Bisaya or Tagalog, because English would seem imposing and threatening, and, well, boastful. Ironic.

They teach us to become brown Americans at school and expect us to hobble around with Filipino when we get out. Hypocrites.

As she rambled on about the do's and don't's, she said something that immediately made my ears perk up. "If they touch you, don’t flinch. Just let them touch you when they want."

I was a girl in Grade 5 brainwashed to be all holy and proper, and my so-called adviser tells us not to jerk away when those boys laid a hand on me. It was no biggie, really. But what ticked me off was her statement, "just let them touch you when they want." WE all knew for a fact that the 'boys' she was talking about were our age and older.

Touch me where? I asked within. I stole a glance at a girl classmate seated somewhere infront and saw the same look of horror on her face. I nodded at her and we both shared a slight grimace. Understandable, right?

All of a sudden, I saw a plastic Selecta glass flying from my teacher's hand and landing at my feet. Next, I heard her screaming how obnoxious I was for grimacing.

I kept myself from crying and told her I reacted to the way she said the boys should be allowed to touch us whenever they wanted. She didn’t hear me. She kept yelling at how ungrateful I was of having the kind of education I had and for having a comfortable life. Then she called me a problematic child.

I was not as aggressive then as I am now. I should have lunged at her or reported immediately to the prefect for what she did. When the report cards were released and my parents came to collect mine, she told them about my being difficult. That I was constantly giving her headaches. I was a kid and helpless. I did not dare defend myself in any way. I simply hung my head and took in all the verbal lashing.

My parents gave me a good whipping for the embarrassment I allegedly caused. As each tear fell from my cheek, I became tempted to tell them what I really thought about my teacher and what happened that day. But I knew they wouldn't listen. Adults only listen to fellow adults. Speaking out would only have me accused of insolence. It would only gain me more physical pain.

I remember my teacher's face very clearly. And, somehow, I am hoping that she has not done the same thing to the other students after me. She has, in a way, contributed to the great anger I felt toward the world as I grew up. I still hate her for that.

Now that I am older and know much better, I promised myself to face her someday, introduce myself as the student whom she threw a glass at in fifth grade; remind her that I never forgot. And, no, I still had not let it pass.

Maybe then, I could erase that judging face that continued to haunt me from memory and replace it with a look of shock and embarrassment from a woman with wrinkled skin and gray hair.