Student Course Requirement
English Translation of “Ang Kwento ni Mabuti”
I do not see her now. But they say she's still in the old, paint-less school, the first place
where I had seen her—in one of the old rooms on the second floor, above the old stairs that
creaks in every step, where one could overlook the dark water of the marshy drainage canal.
She's still imparting knowledge and wisdom—the kind which I have only learned from her.
I always relate her to the beauty of life—any beauty; in a scene, in a thought or in a
melody. I see her and I feel happy. But there’s actually nothing alluring in her physique nor in
her life.
Being one of the ordinary teachers that time, no one really paid her attention. From
how she dress up to the way she brought school assignments, nothing would have been beyond
the average. All of us call her “Good”when she’s not looking—for that word seems to be the
beginning of almost everything she said. It replaced the words that she couldn’t remember at
times, and became a filler to moments of hesitation. In one sense, it has become a reflection of
a kind of a belief in life.
"Good," she would always mutter, "We may now begin with a new lesson. It’s a good
thing we reached this part…very good, indeed!"
I would have never confessed anything to her that afternoon if only she had not just
caught me shedding tears; that moment, my childish heart poured out tears for childish reasons.
It was dusk and aside from the shouting of those who were watching the training of school
players, the whole area was quiet. In a corner of the library, I dealt with my problem by bawling
my tears out. There, she found me. "It's a good thing that there are still people at this time," she
said, trying to disguise her worried tone from what she had heard. "There seems to be a
problem. I think it would be better if I can help.” That moment, I wanted to flee from that
conversation and never come back. In my young mind I reckon that it might be shameful in our
next meeting, seeing that it will return to the recollection of that afternoon. But what she said
next took me by surprise.
"I did not know anyone was here. I came to cry as well.” Hearing those words from her
left me speechless. Her eyes were looking down and I saw a sad smile on her lips. She took my
hand as if she wanted to confess a problem that seemed to be worse than mine. She listened to
my dilemma, and now, I wondered how she had stopped herself from laughing after hearing
such a silly thing. But she listened attentively, and I knew her concern was genuine. While
heading home from school together, my curiosity from what happened earlier made me ask her,
"How about you, Ma’am? What brought you to the corner where I was crying?” She laughed
softly and repeated those words; "That corner ...where both of us cried... both of us. I wish I
could tell you, but ... the problem …ever…I mean ... I wish it would have been better for you ...
life.”
Good totally became a new person for me after that puzzling afternoon. As she spoke
in front of the teacher’s table, inquiring, giving answers, smiling occasionally, under her wrinkles
formed by frustrations, I could still remember hearing the footsteps near the corner of the library.
That corner, "Where we both cried," she said that afternoon. That time, I spent the whole day
guessing the reasons she had come to that corner of the library. I was guessing if she still goes
there, in our corner.
From the time I learned she is hiding a truth, I began to observe, waiting for traces of
bitterness in her words. But, as always, she looked lively and full of hope in the class. She filled
us with admirable imaginations and we learned the beauty of life from her stories. Each of our
literature lessons has been a lull in our lust for beauty and I admired her for that. I could have
never appreciated that beauty right before what happened in the library.
Her faith in God, in mankind, and in everyone, is one of the strongest I have ever
known. Perhaps that conviction has shown her the beauty of things that are seemingly ordinary
for us.
Throughout our lessons, Good never mentioned anything about herself. But she
mentioned about her daughter, her only child…over and over again. She did not even mention
about the child's father. However, two of our classmates know she’s not a widow.
There was no doubt that all of her dreams were about her child. One time, she even
said it scares her to not be there anymore once her child reached those dreams. She repeatedly
mentions her child and it’s just one thing we would always hear when she is teaching. To me,
each of those mentions gave further hint of a suspicion in my mind.
In her stories, she narrates about her daughter’s birthday, her new dress with a large
red ribbon in the waist, her daughter’s friends and their gifts. Her daughter is six years old. Next
year, she will start her studies and our teacher told us she wants her to become a physician—an
excellent one. During that part, a child behind me shouted: "Just like her father!" Hearing that,
our teacher replied, "Yes, just like her father," But blood seems to have fled from her face as
she formed a strained smile on her lips. That was the first and last time the child's father was
mentioned in our class and at that very moment, I was certain there was something wrong.
While I was sitting on my chair, knowing that there was only a small distance between us, my
heart waned in desire to approach her, because as she was holding my hands that afternoon in
the corner of the library, it seemed she wanted to let out the weight inside her chest. Perhaps it
would be a relief for her if she could confide with even just one person. But, that is what
suppresses me to approach her; the thought of my classmates, without any concern saying,
"Yes, just like her father," while the blood fled from our teacher’s face.
Then, she said something I would never ever forget. She looked at me with the
courage of stopping the trembling of her lips and said: "Good ... what Fe said was good –those
who experience hidden loneliness could recognize secret happiness. Now, we could start with
our lesson.” I was certain that those words weren’t from my mouth, neither from my speech, nor
from my writings. But as she stared at me that morning, as she said those words, I felt she and I
were the same. We are one of those people who experience hidden loneliness and yet
recognize the secret happiness.
Once more, that morning, as her old energy gradually returned, she again imparted the
beauty of our literature lesson. The rank of courage; the beauty of continuity regardless of the
color of life. And now, just a few days ago, I heard about the death of a physician—the father of
her child will probably be a physician one day yet he passed away and was in a funeral wake
two days in a home that is not home to Good and her child. And I understood everything. With
its naked truth and its cruel reality, I understood everything.