Of Fishers of Men and Women

Originally published via Gahum Weekly Vol. 2 No. 14 June 20-26, 2011

In 1985 to 1986, when we saw her coming, we scampered away from the makeshift school gate but not without catching her image of leveled shoulders, upturned chin, and a black umbrella on her right hand. By the time she reached our classroom we were all seated with straight backs, hands on our desks, and a ready greeting of, “Good morning Mrs. Delmo!” By the mid-mornings of our small universe, we already traversed the tenses of the English language including the participles; the gods and goddesses of Olympus; and sometimes, the works of foreign bards. Before lunch we saw our reading charts changing like the traffic signals: red for poor; blue for good; and, green was for very good. By noon we shouted, “Good bye Mrs. Delmo.” At lunch break, young as we were and everything was fleeting, we forgot whatever green we achieved and red we suffered in the morning. We ate lunch in haste and spent the rest playing batak-batak.

At exactly one in the afternoon we were once again seated with straight backs, hands on our desks, and this time a ready greeting of, “Good afternoon Mrs. Delmo.” By mid-afternoon, we uncomplainingly shed gallons of sweat from the humidity outside and the almost insurmountable tasks of deciphering algebraic expressions or geometrical theorems. Late in the afternoon, regardless of our academic achievements or should I say shortfalls, she marshaled us to the mini-garden of roses, bougainvilleas, and lacatan grass where we toiled, pruned, watered, and endlessly chattered under our breaths about significant stuffs of our young lives such as who made the best balls from coconut leaves; who had the highest Chinese garter leap; or, what flowers to bring the next day. We washed the dirt that clung to our hands and seeped underneath our fingers; and, one by one my classmates left after saying, “Good bye Mrs. Delmo!”

I silently walked beside her to her residence at Serrano Street where I spent two hours more under her instruction to peel off little by little the mysteries of mathematics regardless of my health or what happened at home the night before. While I contemplated the thickness of her graying hair strands, she explained with the clarity of pure water spring how to unlock the most Sphinx-like formulas. While her family prepared dinner which I often shared, she focused her black-rimmed eyeglasses on the remnants of my love affairs and sometimes skirmishes with numbers. While my parents quarreled at home, she taught me without words the intricate wisdom of numbers but she always said, “Flow with the problem.” On weekends whether my parents were at peace or war, I shared her space with Florissa and Jean; and, she urged us on to believe that we could master numbers and not make them our masters.

“Hi Pelimon, hi Pelimon nangisda ha kadagatan/Nakadakop nakadakop hin isda nga tambasakan/Ginbaligya, ginbaligya ha merkadong guba.” The lyrics may not be right but I prefer to stick with them because they grip me like the little memories I have left of Ma’am Delmo. On and on the song rolls on my tongue with the bittersweet memory of her adamant voice that kept telling me to continue on my worksheets on areas, volumes, and parameters as I feared for my mother’s emotional stability after it was known that my father sired a child with another woman. On and on it rolls on my tongue with the milk chocolate sweetness of the image of her thrifty smile when the three of us bagged the championship for the team division and the top three places in the individual division. The last time I saw her, I saw her from afar. I was already a CPA and she still walked with leveled shoulders, upturned chin, and a black umbrella on her right hand. I waved at her and she nodded at me with the same thrifty smile. When thinking of her, I think of a fish caught by a fisherman. It would probably end up dead, eaten, or placed in an aquarium. When I think of her, I think of me caught by her. She was a fisher of men and women thus I became alive; and, freed of fear and ignorance.