By Rex Catubig

 

I was raised on Caton, that handy vernacular alphabet primer that looked like a thin prayer book. While we had the primer on hand, the teacher wrote the alphabet with chalk on the blackboard, said them one by one, and we would repeat after her.

It is based on the vowels: A, E, I, O, U which we recited out loud opening our mouth and forming our lips to produce the proper sound for each. After which the consonants are affixed to the vowels: Ba Be Bi Bo Bu—and so on.

Following that, we practiced writing in block letters on a lined pad, using our Mongol pencil with an eraser on one end. Three lines made up the guide. The middle line, colored red, was where you drew the half of the lower case of capital letters.

We were then introduced to Arabic numbers and taught to count using our fingers. Starting with a closed fist, we stretched each finger one by one to correspond to the ascending count: Isa, Dua, Talo, Apat, Lima, Anem, Pito, Walo, Siyam, Samplo. But in an odd way, Arithmetic was taught in English: One plus One, Two plus Two.

We already knew how to read simple words when we reached Grade 3. And to further improve our skill in writing, we learned how to write in script or “sulsuldong”. We no longer belonged to the “No read, no write” sector.

If I remember right, we started transitioning to English starting at Grade 3. And by Grade 4, we were proficient enough—maybe not conversationally, but reading-wise.

Grades 5 and 6 were for us, barrio pupils, a big jump. Because it was when we left the Primary School that covered up to Grade 4 only. Which meant we had to transfer to an Elementary School—a larger school that is made up of Grades 1 to 6. Which meant, a whole new world to conquer.

 

But I was fortunate to have transferred to West Central in the Poblacion. It’s where I came in contact, not only with the urban pupils, but with more modern teachers—who possessed two basic things: the ability to instill discipline; and their mastery in imparting their subject matter.

I felt that I grew up here by leaps and bounds. The barrio boy proved equal and could compete with the city children. The barrio boy had arrived.

Graduating from elementary school meant another move. To yet another bigger challenge. As an honor student, I was lumped with all the other honor students of the various elementary schools in a novel program. We were proudly labeled as the “Opportunity Class”, the best and the brightest. An expectation we had to live up to as the “Aster” section.

We encountered some of our most amazing teachers during our four years of high school. Though some were admittedly eccentric and earned unkind monikers, they were undoubtedly an influential set of mentors.

What I find most amazing in retrospect, is that these teachers that we had been under, who initiated us in the intricacies of learning, who inspired us, who greatly influenced our outlook and way of thinking, who in sum, built our character and personality—were not at all gilded with academic credentials. They majored in the subjects they taught, but they could not boast of a professional prefix or suffix to their names. As far as I know, they did not bear the distinction of a Master’s degree.

And this is the crux of the matter. Because nowadays, a Master’s degree is definitely an ace in the teaching profession. And rookie teachers are encouraged and even required to obtain additional credentials to earn ranking and the benefit of promotion.

 

On top of these, teachers and administrators are bombarded with all kinds of seminars and workshops with highfalutin kilometric labels that they are required to attend. Still more, schools are subjected to the rigor of ISO certification which is the equivalent of the Pope’s imprimatur on godly standards.

AND YET, sadly, pathetically, the students who are now condescendingly called learners, do not evidently profit from all this academic gobbledegook. Instead, the abracadabra only contributes to forming an unprecedented embarrassing body of illiterates with the distinction of being in the lowest rung of academic inferno.

What does it profit a student, if suffused with all the riches and surfeit of credentials and bureaucratic rigmarole, they lose their literacy?

Repeat after me: A,E,I,O,U.

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