Bacolod City, there was my elementary language teacher, who patiently and lovingly taught us English and mentored me through two deeply terrifying declamation contests when I was just four feet tall. There was the beautiful, green-eyed señorita who taught us introductory Spanish and Rizal’s “Mi Ultimo Adios” in the original at UP Diliman, who inspired me to consider becoming a language teacher myself. But my English literature teacher was the first to bring me to the threshold of a brave new world. Was she conscious of how significant she had been in my life? Probably not. It does not matter and it should not matter, because teaching was her own journey, as learning was mine. And that day, that moment, we journeyed together, teacher and learner. I suppose it would be easy for me to recall my English literature teacher’s name. I could hunt my closet for our yearbook or ask my classmates in Facebook. But in the spirit of Gray’s “Elegy” I have decided not to name her. There is something to her anonymity that immortalizes her as the exemplary teacher in my mind and my heart. Because her feat remains, in a way, unrewarded, it remains pure and powerful. She and, through her, all other English literature teachers who continue to read out poems to their classes in the hope that magic happens embody the heroic plight of that poor peasant buried that day. They plod on, largely without gold and glory.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.
In me, my English literature teacher gained a true student. That day, she made me literate in a significant way. She gave me the key to unlock the magic of the written word. Throughout that
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