Sixth Grade Stories: Remembering Sab

Sab during Intrams season :-)

In the sixth grade, I was assigned to section 6-D.  I was shy - and very, very awkward. I was reconciling myself with the onset of puberty from the year before - too early, in my opinion. (Our helper singing Pagkat dalaga ka na to me every time my time of the month came didn’t help either. It was painful. Just painful.) I was coming to terms with my monstrous height and the fact that I would never, ever be as inconspicuous as I'd wanted. I was also smarting from the bipolar relationship I had had with my fifth grade barkada, where we’d be the best of friends one minute, then I’d be persona non grata the next. They were not assigned to 6-D, much to my relief - and my utter dismay. I had been left virtually barkada-less. My verdict to self: sixth grade was the grade that I was destined to be alone.

The ensuing events reversed that verdict slowly but surely – like when, during one art class, I was seated next to a girl named Lisette. We had an awesome discussion about whether or not Santa Claus existed, thus paving the way for more interesting conversations and debates. I formed a lunch group with two funny, hilarious girls named Myra and Cecilia, who shared the same last name and sunny disposition but were not related in any way. It was also the year where I met my first ever best friend, Annie (who will serve as the subject for another blog entry), and the year that I was assigned to sit at the second to the last row, right next to a girl named Sabrina Roxas.

A Lesson on Love: Meeting Fr. McCarthy

Lovely photo from http://designyoutrust.com

Every Friday afternoon, the Catholic students of Daniel Thompkin’s Elementary School (P.S. 69), would hop onto a bus to a nearby Catholic school to receive their weekly catechism lessons.  While these students were learning about Jesus, the Bible, and the Sacraments, those remaining would be left with a free period where they could play with puzzles or other materials, interact with classmates and the teacher, read books, or catch up with work.

I was in the third grade and I was not enrolled in this program. I do not remember the reason why. But I do remember waving goodbye to my friend Debra as she went off towards the bus, then proceeding to settle down with some book or word puzzle, all the while feeling an odd sense of loss and displacement.

I should be on that bus, I thought to myself. I was Catholic and I should be learning what that was all about.

Then came the day when my mom said that she would be enrolling me and my brother in these classes. I was so happy and excited. I couldn’t wait to ride the bus with my friends and be headed somewhere other than home, to see what a Catholic school looked like, and most of all, to learn about my faith. I recall waiting in anticipation as my mom contacted the people in charge, waiting for her to tell me, “Okay, you can go on Friday.” 

How I Learned to Speak: Meeting Mrs. Deluccio

I had the recent opportunity to attend Speak Your Truth: The Improv Way co-conducted by visiting applied improvisation expert and lovely human being Belina Raffy  and Creative Director of Silly People’s Improv Theater (SPIT) and equally lovely human being Gabe Mercado. It was a wonderful, nerve-wracking, ultimately empowering experience where it was affirmed that the very best of stories come from our own truths, and we are able to reach others in a deep and powerful way when we share these.

This entry is my attempt to recreate, through writing, the story I told during our culminating activity of the day, about how my life was touched by an amazing teacher named Mrs. Deluccio. And although this cannot convey the raw emotion I experienced during the live and unscripted telling of it (I think I was on the verge of tears at the time!) nor the magical moment when you struggle for, then find the words to describe what is in your heart, I hope that the message comes across all the same:

Back in kindergarten, I was known as the girl without a voice. I was shy, so painfully shy, that it was so difficult to participate in class, talk to my classmates, or even raise my hand to ask permission to use the restroom. The latter led to a few embarrassing disasters in the classroom and my mother, who had to frequently pick me up with a fresh change of clothes, would oftentimes ask in exasperation, “Why didn’t you just tell your teacher that you needed to use the bathroom?” Time and again, this question would be answered by silence.

My teacher at the time even called my parents in for a conference to discuss my situation. She asked them what language I was comfortable with, and if I knew enough English to understand what was going on in class, to which my father answered, “Mrs. Lauterstein, English is the only language she knows.”

My silence in school continued, much to the frustration of my parents and teacher, and the wonderment of my classmates who called me “The girl whose tongue was stolen by the cat.” 

Then one day, I was a preschooler no more, but a worldly, grown-up first grader. I walked slowly into my new classroom and saw a petite woman with curly blond hair, sparkling eyes, and a warm and open smile. Mrs. Deluccio, she had written on the board in big swirly letters.

“Hello there,” she said to me, “Come and sit here in front.” I walked forward with shaking knees and sank into a seat right in front of her on the first row.

“You look like a princess,” she told me. I smiled back tremulously, feeling that all-too familiar lump in my throat. I couldn’t say anything. I just couldn’t.

“Petunia. Can I call you Princess Petunia?” She asked. I stared back at her. She smiled back widely, not noticing my silence. Or not seeming to mind, at least. I nodded.

And so I sat on the first row for the rest of the semester. For the first month or so, I still didn’t talk. This didn’t faze my teacher. She still referred to me as her Princess Petunia, oftentimes meeting my eye during class discussion to give me an encouraging nod or a playful little wink. I’m your ally, was what she seemed to say.  During seatwork, she would pass by and take a look at my work, never lingering too long, but always saying, “Good job, Princess Petunia,” or “You’re on the right track, Princess Petunia.” For the first time in my life, I felt like there was someone else outside of my family who truly knew me and understood what I was going through. Someone who didn’t judge me for my silence but accepted it, and cared for me all the same.

My silence eventually evolved to giggles over her jokes or little whispered side comments to a seatmate during class (Princess Stephanie, if I remember correctly). Then finally, on one fateful day, I raised my hand. And I spoke. And it felt good. As I looked breathlessly at Mrs. Deluccio, she smiled a smile with the warmth of a thousand rays of sunshine. And she said, “Princess Petunia. I’ve been waiting for that.”

Since then, I grew up and eventually dedicated my life to speaking up and sharing stories through my work with Make Believe, through theater, film, teaching, and writing. And although it will always and forever be a nerve wracking experience for this shy little girl at heart, whenever I am afraid or hesistant or unsure, I remember Mrs. Deluccio - and I, Princess Petunia, speak up J

 

She also came to my birthday party that year.
From left: me, Mrs. Deluccio, and my good friend Jackie

Thank you, Belina and Gabe, for helping me remember and speak this truth J