I was paspasurot when I was in Grade 1. There were two of us who were paspasurot, so-called because we were lacking several months to qualify as first graders. To be included on the teacher’s official list, one must be seven years old or older in June of that school year. There was no way to cheat her. Our teacher would get the names of children of school age from the register of births at the municipio. The paspasurot could be formally accepted as first grader depending on his or her performance during the first few months of school, or so I heard Maestra Moning explaining to my mother. From the register of births unearthed by the Maestra , my mother also learned that my name was not Victorino, as indicated on my baptismal certificate, but Severino, the name the comadrona (midwife) had registered at the municipio and that I carry till now. Zeny, the other paspasurot, and I would be seated at the back of the classroom. Zeny would later drop out of school, leaving me alone at the back. We were always the last to be called during roll calls and during the checking of fingernails and handkerchiefs. On days when Maestra Moning would suddenly announce the checking of fingernails, I would have time to bite my nails clean before laying my fingers flat on the desk, as she would always start checking from the front row. Alas, one day, she started checking from the back row and so I did not have time to bite my nails! Maestra Moning swatted my fingers with a wooden ruler. That was the last time I had dirty fingernails. Being in the last row in the classroom, I would always be requested by my teacher to go to every room in the school and look for the owners of lost and found items. I would shout, “Whose pencil is this?”, or whatever found object there was, at the door of every room to catch the attention of the class. I learned the value of not getting things that are not yours from this activity.
Made with FlippingBook flipbook maker