remembering the teacher who cures insomnia

I have to admit this time and time again: blogging is very difficult. I blame this on my computer lesson teacher in high school. My goodness! You just have to listen to her voice to get your insomnia cured! I have to apologize for blaming her here, but it’s true. She deserves it. Well, I think showing her a dirty finger is just too much so I’m not going to do that. But I blame my ignorance to her.

Why?

She provoked me not to learn how to use the computer well. The way I remember our classes, she could not explain our lessons very well that I even had to crawl toward our valedictorian’s seat during our exam just to let her teach me how to answer the questions about Microsoft Excel and other programs I have now forgotten. Her teaching strategy did not excite me; it bored me to death that I did not realize I was already sleeping in her class. She is the perfect example of teachers that should re-take the teachers’ Board Exam and then undergo a one-on-one training on how to effectively teach computer classes inside an airconditioned classroom where high school students tend to fall asleep and dream. And another thing: she is struggling with her grammar. I’m sorry.

That’s why I’m way too behind with my peers when it comes to computers. I had developed this weird kind of fear a long time ago whenever I face the computer and then use the mouse and the keyboard. I remember being afraid of using the computer for fear of ruining the programs or worse, deleting them. So, besides Mathematics, cockroaches, snakes, spiders, drunkards, and gangsters on the streets, I was also afraid of computers. It’s really embarrassing.

Well, the good thing though is that I’m making up for my loss. I am actually starting to explore more about the newest programs and learning how to use them. It’s very difficult for me especially when I’m alone. The thing still scares me though. There’s still that fear I couldn’t name, couldn’t explain. It’s just there waiting to prance at me.

I’m writing this because I could not get the feeling off me that I’m such a loser in using this stuff. I wish I could just scream in front of that teacher’s face for one minute and then go.

uncle’s secret

After seeing his uncle Boyet forcing himself on Lydia at the back side of the bodega where his father used to pile all those metal scrapes and some plastic and glass bottles, he decided not to tell anyone what he saw that night. He knew why; he was afraid.

By now, Orlan had noticed the silent fear in Lydia’s eyes whenever uncle Boyet is in their house. He would notice too how queer Lydia and uncle Boyet would look at each other whenever their eyes met. Lydia’s eyes seemed to dance crazily, and those black circles would quiver in fright. As for uncle Boyet’s, he could only hiss the word “maniac” under his breath.

“Orlan.” It was his uncle Boyet.

“Uncle?” His heart skipped a bit after hearing his name being called by that familiar voice.

“What’s wrong with you?” his uncle asked after they were left alone in the kitchen that Sunday noon. Orlan’s family was having a small gathering of all close relatives of his father. Occasions like that had seemed ordinary now for his family.

“Me?” he paused for a while and forced a laugh. “No, uncle. Why did you ask?”

“You sure?”

This time, Orlan saw his uncle’s eyes piercing right through his. And he felt his ears burning.

Orlan tried to laugh coolly.

“Why uncle? You seem so worried about me.”

“Worried. You’re right, Orlan.” And he tapped his hand on his shoulder, and Orlan felt its weight.

“What do you mean, uncle?”

It took a few seconds before his uncle started to talk.

“I’ve been noticing you lately.” Orlan swallowed air on his throat.

“Like what?”

“You were looking rather strangely at me…and…” His uncle stopped for a while and looked at Orlan again. “…and at your sister.”

“Lydia?” Orlan tried to laugh but he knew it was of no use at the moment.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Orlan.”

This time, he could feel the loud thumping of his heartbeat and wished that he would blow himself up so that he could escape from answering his uncle’s question.

“Orlan.” His uncle’s voice sounded firm this time.

‘Promise Uncle, I’ll never tell anyone what I saw that night. I’ll never tell father. Please, uncle. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” He did not know why he was saying these to him. He was always scared at him, and he never wanted to taste his fury.

His uncle Boyet gave him a smile and touched his right shoulder.

“That’s my nephew. You’re like your father, eh,” he said, this time in a gentler voice. “Always obedient and never a bad boy.”

Orlan only nodded as he looked at his uncle walking away towards the door where his family was waiting outside for their usual lunch together.