My Scholastic Teacher – Work by Ramon Rosa
Work written by Ramón Rosa
Ramón Rosa based this work on the experiences of his childhood with his teacher Rosa de Mendieta. One day, at about six in the morning.
My Scholastic Teacher
One day, around six in the morning, I remember it as if it were yesterday, I felt a strong shake in my weak little body of six years old.
The phenomenon was caused by the thick and hairy hands of my nanny Julián «Patojo,» as he was nicknamed, who took it upon himself to wake me up in a hurry and make me leave my warm cedar bed and the delicious Juticalpa quilt that covered me.
Julián spoke to me in a stuttering, almost perplexed manner.
—Get up, we’re going to school. My teacher sent me.
—To school? I replied, not understanding him well.
—Yes, to school.
Since I had complete trust in Julián, who took me to see the nativity scenes and puppets during Christmas, to receive ashes at the beginning of Lent, to visit the altars during Holy Week, to admire the extravagant floats during Corpus Christi, and to witness the grotesque devils defeated by the sword of our patron saint during the festivities of Mercedes and San Miguel, I did not resist being dressed and going to school, which I assumed would be a very fun thing.
They dressed me up. They put on me some brown drill shorts that reached my ankles – at that time, neither boys nor girls wore short dresses – a clean and well-ironed lawn shirt, buttoned in the back with ruffles on the sleeves; they put on me soft and pitch-black dusty sandals; and they covered my head with a little vicuña hat, which was my greatest luxury, as it only came out into the light when our silver bell from the clock rang out, announcing the big festivities.
Already dressed and all spruced up, they gave me my chocolate with bits of solidified cocoa. Coffee was not consumed back then. They had «drinks» … as the old ladies would say, meaning chocolate. Coffee was prescribed to cure indigestion and stomachaches.
Perhaps yielding to the mysterious influence of a presentiment, I turned my eyes with a heavy heart to the courtyard and corral of my house, to the orange trees loaded with fragrant blossoms and golden fruits, and to the leafy and green pine trees, to the sprawling and lustful pumpkin plants, and to the whispering cornfield, already in its tassel stage, their fine golden hair swaying in the wind. Julián took me by the hand, we walked a block, turned into the alley of the Casa de Moneda, still called the Caja Real, even though there was no such box or king, and descended the steep slope of La Hoya or La Joya, a true hardship for passersby.
Somewhat tired, and somewhere between incredulous and credulous, I said to my tutor:
—Julián, will you stay with me at school?
—I’m only going to drop you off,» he replied concisely.
—Well, then I’m not going to school!
—Well, then you are!
I attempted to escape, but Julián cut off my retreat, lifted me onto his shoulders, or carried me «a tuto» as they say in this land, and that was the end of it.
Once captured, my screams were dreadful; they could only be compared to the squeals of the piglets that are slaughtered in our pigsties between four and five in the morning, using slow and barbaric methods. Going up and down on a rough and uneven cobblestone, we reached the door of the school.
I didn’t enter, I was entered: my body was superimposed on Julián’s broad shoulders. He almost dropped me onto the hard ground, made of old bricks with deep cracks, the only seat for the students. My nanny, upon leaving me, looked at me with all the tenderness he was capable of and let out a sigh. I stand corrected. He didn’t sigh, he snorted. That’s why I sometimes believe that he cared for me a lot. It’s easy to fake a sigh; it’s difficult to snort with the desperation of a brute.
My wild screams ceased when I saw my teacher, stern and imposing, seated on a butaque chair covered in black and glossy leather, according to the old tradition, and held together by golden tacks «in other times and better days,» but now of a leaden color.
I didn’t scream, I sobbed; and with my eyes clouded with tears, I noticed that my teacher was a woman of thirty-five to forty years old, hunched over from her arduous sewing job, with prominent and reddened cheekbones due to the consumption that plagued her; with thick and furrowed eyebrows; with round eyes like an owl’s, incredibly vivid and yellowish from bile irritation; with a large cinnamon-colored mole near her flat nose, filled with numerous coarse black hairs; with a pronounced and thick mustache that resembled a sparse Indian mustache; with dark purple lips that never smiled; with a set of teeth of white and pristine enamel; and with an overall expression that leads me to say, because of the harshness and severity it revealed, that she was, without exaggeration, a «Rufino Barrios» in a skirt.
If the sight of my teacher caused an extraordinary and painful impression on me, so did the aspect of poverty bordering on misery that the honest schoolhouse exhibited. The small room, sandwiched between two dimly lit rooms, had walls plastered with white earth, and its roof was covered with ill-fitted boards, whitewashed with lime, rotten from leaks, and abundant with spiderwebs of all kinds.
As for the furniture, aside from my teacher’s butaque chair, once the initial emotions that overwhelmed me had subsided, I could easily compile the following small inventory: an old bench made of fine ocote wood, about four meters long and half a meter wide; on it, the female students placed their handkerchiefs and the male students their little hats. On the bench, in the middle of the wall, hung from a double-headed nail was an image of Our Lady of Mount Carmel; the chair, with a tall backrest belonging to ña Encarnación, my teacher’s older sister; and a pine table that could barely stand, supported between two worm-eaten rulers, with a drawer that opened by pulling a looped cord.
Along the walls forming the rectangular shape of the room, my classmates were seated with their sewing baskets, and my male classmates with their San Juan primers, their Father Ripalda’s Catechisms, their Christian Catones, and their handwritten letters according to their level of progress.
From what I have described, it can be seen that my school was coeducational, following the North American style, as we lived under the same school roof, boys and girls from all social classes. It was also free. My selfless teacher didn’t charge a cent for her teaching. If parents gave her a gift, she accepted it with gratitude and appreciation; if they didn’t give her anything, she remained as satisfied as if they had given her the greatest presents. The other primary schools had the same character, usually led by diligent and virtuous ladies and young ladies, among whom were Teacher Bernardita, the Borjas teachers, Teacher Isidra Díaz, and Teacher Eustaquia Gil. May they receive their reward somewhere for their work in favor of educating the poor children of their town!
My arrival at school was greeted with a genuine but restrained feeling of sympathy.
Shortly after being thrown to the ground, my teacher called me:
—Come here, crybaby with big eyes.
In my teacher’s language, filled with provincialisms, «crybaby with big eyes» meant someone with big and ugly eyes.
In response, I timidly went to where my teacher was. She took me to the opposite end of the bench.
She made me kneel in front of the Virgin of Mount Carmel and clasped my little hands together in a pleading gesture.
Once I was properly positioned, my teacher added:
—Say the ‘Bendito’ prayer.
A cold sweat ran down my body.
I couldn’t say the «Bendito» prayer because I didn’t know it.
Seeing my distress, from the sweet lips of one of my classmates came these compassionate words as a gentle plea:
—If he doesn’t know it! Poor thing! He’s so little!
—What? replied my teacher, indignant, standing up.
In the face of that horrible «What?» all the youthful heads bowed as if moved by a single spring, and not even the slightest sound was heard.
Discipline was restored, albeit at little cost, and my teacher said the «Bendito, praised be the Most Holy» prayer to me three or four times, while I followed her strong and full voice with my sad, sob-filled voice.
Then, she added, less angry:
—Tomorrow will be another day, little complainer.
Now let’s see the lesson.
She took the primer from the bench that Julián had left me and slowly gave me the first three letters of the alphabet, then dismissed me, saying:
—Now, sit down and study.
I returned to my seat, or rather the floor, somewhat recovered. I placed the primer on my bent legs and fixed my gaze firmly on the letters of the alphabet, aiming to engrave them in my brain with «soul, life, and heart.»
I was somewhat comforted, learning my lesson, when taking two bites of my lunch, which got stuck in my throat, I was moved by memories of my home. I remembered my outdoor childhood games, the melodious little violins I made with cornstalks, the flutes and clarinets I fashioned from hollow ayotera stems, and the little balloons I launched into the sky using small reeds that, with a gentle blow, propelled the thick, bitter, and corrosive sap of the piñon fruit.
Recalling those memories brought me back to tears. Without realizing it, a silent stream fell onto the first page of the primer. St. John and his little lamb, along with the alphabet, were flooded. When I realized this terrible mishap, I tried to save them, but my attempts at salvation, consisting of vigorous rubbing, only made matters worse. St. John lost his head and body, and the lamb perished like its holy precursor… not a single letter of the alphabet remained readable.
It must have been four-thirty in the afternoon when my teacher called me to give the lesson.
I made an effort and recited it as a novice music «listener» from memory. She made me repeat the lesson, and she looked at the primer, whose first page was completely ruined. I felt her enormous silver thimble on my head, and in a daze, I heard these terrifying words:
—So, you’re deceiving me, big-eyed one! What happened to St. John? What happened to the Alphabet?
I didn’t know how to respond.
And yet, the answer was simple:
—It’s the fault of my tears.
In life, everything has its compensation. I compensated for the bitterness of my first day of school by listening, in the comfort of my home by the warmth of the fire, to the delightful tales of Nina. She was one of those loyal and good maidservants, only known in the old days: the marvels of the «Bird of Sweet Enchantment,» the horrendous crimes of the «Envious Queen,» the exploits and mischief of «Pedro Urdemalas,» the pranks of the cunning «Uncle Rabbit,» and the naivety and misfortunes of the foolish «Uncle Coyote.» Nina was a great storyteller, whom I would have placed far above Andersen. In my eyes, Nina was a wonder of wisdom and grace in her storytelling.
The next day, convinced that I had to go to school «by reason or by force,» I went with Julián early in the morning to buy a new primer, resigned like a martyr.
The curriculum at my school was very short and elementary:
Reading, in print letters;
Reading, in cursive letters;
Christian doctrine;
Multiplication table; and
Handwriting, with a bird feather or steel pen.
As for the disciplinary and penal system, it can also be said that it was simple, although not short, and a bit heavy:
Minor offenses, one or more taps on the head;
Minor infractions, kneeling on coarse sand or corn grains for one or more hours;
Serious infractions, the same punishment, with the «insignificant» addition of having arms crossed and a stone weight in each hand;
More serious offenses, slaps on the hands and discipline on the back;
Most serious offenses, palm slaps or «chirrión» on the uncovered buttocks;
For repeated serious offenses, more serious and most serious offenses, the «criminal» would be seated on a chair with a floral crown on their head and two enormous donkey ears.
Incentives, rewards, or prizes at school: 0, 0, 0.
But it is necessary to be fair. When one completed the Primer, the Catechism, or the Catechism for Children, the teacher made sure that the disciple received sweets, horchata, and cinnamon water at home.
Days, weeks, and months passed, and I continued, painfully and slowly, following the curriculum of my school. Just as a slave becomes accustomed to ruthless servitude, I became accustomed, sad and resigned, to the regime imposed by my teacher.
Almost all the scenes I witnessed in my school were tinged with melancholy. How I remember the bell tolling at noon! Doña Encarnación, straight and thin as a delicate asparagus, would come out of the kitchen with a pan of uncooked beans, a plate with six tortillas, and two slices of cheese of remarkable transparency.
—Colaca, Eugenia, lunch is ready.
My teacher would leave her sewing, and ña Eugenia, her younger sister of beautiful appearance, cheeks flushed due to pulmonary tuberculosis, would come out of her dark room coughing.
Those three women would take their two tortillas in their hands, add some beans, and season them by sprinkling the cheese slices. Without speaking, sometimes standing and vaguely looking at the sky, sometimes sitting on the threshold of the living room door, they would calmly have their lunch. Honorable women! With what resignation they carried the heavy burden of their poverty! For years, I never heard them express a desire, utter a single complaint, or rebel against the fate that imposed great privations on them. Their lunch was only occasionally interrupted by a coughing fit from ña Eugenia, who would leave her tortillas half-eaten because she was struggling to breathe.
—Are you suffering, Eugenia? my teacher would ask.
—Yes, Colaca.
Ña Encarnación let out a deep sigh and took the pan and plate to the kitchen. My teacher led her sister by the arm and, seemingly disinterested, glanced at the floor to see if there was a lot of blood in the patient’s sputum. Ña Encarnación, dejected, went to extinguish the fire to save on expenses and to find firewood to replenish it. My teacher returned to her armchair, somber and steadfast, continuing to sew to earn the daily bread. Ña Eugenia continued coughing without complaining or asking for anything. Such scenes tore my soul apart!
The monotony in the customs and practices of my school was only interrupted on Fridays during Lent when my teacher, at dawn, would bathe in the Río Grande with her disciples, and on days when Maestro Pablo arrived with his violin or Don Bernardo Filiche came for chocolate around siesta time.
«My teacher is fresh,» we would say on Fridays, filled with joy. And indeed, the freshness of her body seemed to refresh her soul, making her gentle and kind. On such happy days, there were no grumbles or scoldings; we could play for a few hours, games like Cucumbé and Nana Abuela, in the little courtyard of the house, and the teacher would even speak to us with affection, usually to tell us some spicy anecdote.
Maestro Pablo usually arrived in the morning after attending a full Mass at the Church of Our Lady of Mercedes. He was received with unusual signs of joy; he would settle into the leather armchair, tune his violin, and play the most whimsical preludes for us to hear. The excitement grew and grew as the artist multiplied his preludes. Finally, my teacher gave the long-awaited command, saying:
—Alright, children!
It was a sight to behold the joy reflected on everyone’s faces, as if transformed by the art of music.
Some would sing:
Golden flower among thorns
You have a mysterious throne.
Others:
I lost my heart, have you found it,
Nymphs of the valley where I live in pain?
But the enthusiasm bordered on delirium when the maestro vigorously scraped his violin and started the popular song, of legitimate Spanish origin, for the chorus:
Early in the morning, early in the morning,
As if it wants to rain!
That’s how the mornings were
When I started to love you.
You are a carnation, you are a rose,
You are a nail to eat;
You are a beautiful lily
Cut at dawn.
I am not a carnation, I am not a rose,
I am not a nail to eat;
I am not a beautiful lily,
But a wretched woman.
Chémala, waving her legs and arms, joined the concert or chaos with her booming voice and stood out, belting out a strong note in this part:
They sounded the reveille,
My colonel commanded it;
Open your eyes, my soul,
Little cat, it’s already dawn.
Suddenly, the smell of grilled sausage and fried beans and cheese wafted from the maestro’s neighboring kitchen to the schoolroom. The maestro, with a keen nose and a hearty appetite, detected it immediately. They hastily put away the violin, and he said, driven by hunger:
—Goodbye, Colaca, Dolores is waiting for me; I’m going to have lunch.»
And we were left with the greatest sadness, the sadness that comes from excessive pleasure.
When visitors arrived, we would swiftly turn around, spinning on our own bodies, to present our backs to the guests and face the wall. We «evolved» in this way to «not see what didn’t concern us» or get used to «swallowing words,» as my teacher used to say. Perhaps she was a little perplexed about it because we could see everything from the corner of our eye, and since the distance was very short, we kept ourselves well informed of the conversation.
The evolution was, as a rule, carried out with utmost haste when don Bernardo Filiche, my teacher’s «great» and «good friend,» came to visit. Don Bernardo’s real surname was Reyes, but due to his slender and small body, and his dry and very pale face, the makers of comparisons found a resemblance between him and a Mr. Filiche, one of the first «traveling actors» who came from Spain around the thirties. Consequently, my idle fellow countrymen «filiched» our don Bernardo.
After an affectionate greeting and some small talk about the heat, cold, or weather, my teacher would ask, sweetening her voice as much as possible:
—Have you already had your drinks, Bernardo?
—No, Colaca; I came to have them with you.
My teacher would rise with great joy, eagerly make her way out, and exchange a few words with ña Encarnación, the culinary expert. Immediately after, Chémala would rush out towards Don Camilo’s general stores, and before long, he would return sweaty and breathless, carrying on a plate two blocks of Guayaquil cocoa, two sweet breads, or two cemitas, and an ounce of Olanchan butter, well wrapped in rough husk. Those were blissful moments for us! My teacher would enjoy her chocolate drinks with Filiche, engrossed in conversation, completely forgetting about us. What joy! We could breathe freely. May God forgive me, but although Filiche was married and my teacher resisted tender feelings, I suspect that there was something akin to the seed of love in those two souls…
Bibliography:
Navarro, Miguel (1945). Libro de Lectura de Quinto Grado, Librería Navarro
Oyuela, Leticia de (2007). Ramón Rosa, plenitudes y desengaños. Tegucigalpa, Honduras: Guaymuras. ISBN 978-99926-33-67-0
