Chasing a light from my days of despair
At work, Paolo J.’s musings about securing his confirmation certificate from Colegio San Agustin, his fixation on Lego bricks as a kid, and his stories of his own “school of hard knocks” got me thinking back to my own childhood. The first thing I mentioned was pretty important to him as he’s getting married soon.
I kept quiet, but I suddenly felt this urge to look for something from my troubled youth. Growing up in the clique-filled rich kid’s school called De La Salle Zobel meant I was a semi-permanent misfit and an open target for rejection and hate. I have to admit some of it was righteous, due to my being a social “late bloomer,” but that doesn’t mean I have a lot of fond memories of the place where I spent 13 years of my life in, either. In those times of misery, I was desperate to look for anyone who would take me in as a friend. However, searching within that very small “social fishbowl” proved frustrating.
Cheri Donato became our guidance counselor when I was in third grade. Actually, she was assigned to handle four batches, from third to seventh grade, and she was one of the more popular counselors around due to her warm, welcoming demeanor. I was an occasional visitor to her little office as a kid, but when the depressing adolescent travesty of sixth grade came along, I took to her office so many times for solace.
Back then, I had such a hard time with my classmates that I dreaded school. I came through the classroom doors every day with an uneasy heart and a wandering eye, wondering what they were finding obnoxious about me now, wondering what exactly I should be doing to have them stop recruiting upperclassmen to make fun of me. I thought part of the solution was to approach our dear Teacher Cheri for help, and I did so a lot of times. I even got my most outspoken critics to air their side in these sessions.
It wasn’t until I got out of Zobel and moved on to DLSU for college that I realized how wrong I had been. Despite my maladjustments in my youth, for the most part it was the culture of Zobel itself that made me sullen, awkward and unhappy. Worse, I learned much later that all these counseling “sessions” were anticipated by my classmates because they were convenient breaks from classes…to my regret.
Still, Cheri (I’ll drop the “teacher” tag from now on) tried her best to understand me, despite all those times when my bitterness, anger and frustration must have scared her and the other counselors. Before I graduated from high school, she became part of Zobel’s
PJ’s musings of his childhood silently prodded me to seek Cheri out. I casually headed to my computer and entered her name on Google.
Imagine my surprise when I immediately saw her on the search results. Apparently she is no longer with Zobel, she’s now working in a logistics company, and she got married to a certain Mr. Villasin within the five years we didn’t see each other. But it was definitely her. I could even recognize her in the picture, and I managed to call her up on my lunch break.
It felt so good hearing her voice again.
Despite my little disclaimer of an introduction (“I’m not sure if you’ll remember me…”), she recognized me right away. She was about to get out of her office, but we exchanged cellphone numbers in case we could catch up with each other again in our spare time.
A hearty grin crossed my face after we hung up. It was so nice to finally reconnect with one of the few memories of my childhood that I still hold dear to my heart. Perhaps now that I’m no longer a troubled adolescent (just a melancholy adult…hahaha!) and she’s no longer my counselor, Cheri and I could finally be friends as equals.
If by any chance you’re reading this, Cheri, I am eternally grateful to you for everything you’ve done for me all those years ago. Let’s have coffee sometime.
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