It was a bright sunlit day in Manila. All 35 of us - shiny, happy, chattering 6 year olds had just finished the reciting our allegiance to the nation and morning prayers and ran straight into our home room. Mrs. Silverio, was the object of our affections at that time - equally our mother as she was our mentor for the morning. Each and every morning we waited with bated breath to find out what she had in store for us. When she read to us, she was captivating - the sunlight through the window seemed like a spotlight and for 20 minutes, all the giggling stopped and we were all transported. Did the sky really fall on Chicken Little? We were thrilled when it was our turn to choose the book to be read. And when it was time for art - oh the colors we all discovered together! Furiously we scribbled with our pastels and crayons. Each day, there was the thrill of discovery - and achievement. In our pint-scaled classrooms with mint green desks and cubby holes, our art peppered the walls and made the room our home.
In those days, there were no rules about not bringing toys to school - we all brought our own companions with us to class - just in case, that day we needed an extra friend. My companion of the moment, was a little grey elephant named after my best friend, Suzie. So the three of us would make a happy circle when we played jackstones --- and at recess, we would all run out to the playground taking turns at the swings seeing who could swing higher, or jump on the merry go round whirling faster and faster.
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| Prep in St. Scholastica's College Manila. That's me with the only popsicle in the picture |
And then, a shrill whistle blew. We knew it was time to go back in for lessons. We all settled down, and after a while we were all raising our arms excitedly. Then there was a loud groan in the room. And a heavy thud. It was me. I apparently fainted in class - slumped across the desk. My classmates were all shocked into silence. At first they were laughing thinking I was making funny noises. Then when Suzie noticed I wasn’t moving, she cried out she told me later. And Mrs. Silverio saw me then - pale and my forehead glistening with cold sweat. She lifted me in her arms and ran, carrying me across the school playground, to the school nurse. Alarms were raised and my mother was called in from the College Department where she taught. When I came to, I saw the worried faces of Mrs. Silverio, my mother and her friends. I looked up into faces of people I loved and felt safe. For all intents and purposes, the school campus where I ran around, where the nuns knew me on sight, and where my mother taught felt like a second home. No harm could come to me.
This was not the last time I would have a seizure in school. As a six year old, I don’t think I truly understood what happened to me. Just that it was a hot day and I fainted. It was easy to explain away. I rested for a few days and I came back, with my elephant, and resumed my playground activities. Life resumed.
Later, when I was in 8th grade, it was a different story.
By the time I was in 8th grade, I was living in Singapore and had been for the last 3 years. I was attending Singapore American School (SAS)- in a predominantly American school - where most of the students either played football or were cheerleaders - it was important to fit in. Unfortunately it wasn’t that easy. I had just moved from Manila, having gone to a convent school for quite some time, I was unused to some of the social conventions. And I wasn’t allowed to participate in sports - one of the many things I could not do since I had psycho-motor seizures (I would only find out that what I had was epilepsy when I was 15, a few years later - such was the social stigma of the word). So, i had decided to go focus on academics, choir and student government. I was the only one in my group who wasn’t on the cheerleading squad - but I did own a bulldog, so I took care of the mascot for one of the football teams which wasn’t so bad, except that was the losing team.
What made school so enjoyable - was the variety of things we learned, when we were in Grade 5, in Social Studies we were taught to balance a checkbook and had phantom stock portfolios. In Grade 7, I remember researching about Jim Jones and the Kool Aid incident as well as building a replica of Jamestown (that’s how American the curriculum was). On the other hand, I began learning Spanish in 6th grade from a Basque woman who taught us by making us learn Spanish recipes and making us create menus. Conjugation had never been more fun. And literature was experienced. When we read Anne Frank, our assignment was to spend the weekend locked in our bedrooms with a stash of food - cut off from TV with a few books and a journal. No telephones. No family. Our teacher wanted us to experience the isolation Anne felt if even for a weekend. Of course there were exceptions - but we got the message. It was a life lesson for me in empathy.
So it was no surprise, that the self-same inspirational teacher who taught us to experience Anne Frank and introduced us to short stories like The Lady or The Tiger --- was my absolute favorite, Mrs. Bolton. With short cropped brunette hair, she favored simple gold hoops and gold rimmed glasses. Her accessories were simple which set off her jewel toned silk blouses well. She had flair and presence, a strong jawline with flashing eyes. Every paper we wrote had thoughtful critique and she was careful in her encouragement - she posted our scores coded with out text book numbers so she wouldn’t embarrass anyone but at the same time it encouraged healthy competition. I loved her class - she introduced us to new ways of thinking and new ways of expressing ourselves. And there was one other girl, a tall Irish American, Anne Seaton who seemed to be as passionate as I was about the class - each week we would check where were in the class rank - we just traded places - but it was fun.
One week we had a test - it was a big one - and we all sat down seriously contemplating our answers to the essay questions. And a loud groan escaped from someone. Snickering erupted. Who was the clown making fun of the exam? And that’s when it happened. With a sickening thud i crashed out of my desk hitting my temple on the steel legs of the desk next to me. I had had another seizure. The pressure I suppose of the exam - that was my usual trigger - stress or fatigue - perhaps got to me. When I came to Mrs. Bolton had me in her arms and the class was quiet. I was brought to the nurse and my mother collected me. Shame and disgust filled my entire being as I walked away from the class. When my temple hit the steel, I soiled myself and the stench of urine clung to me. My mother rushed me to Mount Elizabeth Hospital to see my specialist. We waited for 3 hours. I had never felt worse. My skirt dried up eventually but that just made me feel worse. I felt dirty, ashamed and neglected. I was weak and exhausted, my mother was tired and worried, my father was out of the country on business. We had never been in this situation before. Typically, we would just go home and I would sleep it off - but this time, I had an accident and my mom wanted to make sure I had no further head injury. But no one knew I would wait for 3 hours.
In the hours of the wait, drifting in and out of exhaustion - i remember being anxious about going back to school. What would people say? This was the 8th grade. I had already been bullied when I entered the 5th grade for having a different skin color - this was something that marked me in a much deeper way. I wasn’t sure I could bear the ridicule. And in the next few days that I remained at home, resting - the fright and apprehension just escalated. Each night I would pray for comfort.
Finally, it came time to go back to school. And by some miracle, no one made fun of me. I was welcomed back like a sorely missed friend. Mrs. Bolton took me aside and explained that her son also fainted - and he was a smart boy --- and I was bright girl and that she had talked to the class and no one was going to make fun of me. Then, a classmate, who I had barely talked to, Valerie Wheeler, came up to me and said, “I saw what happened”. I froze. I didn’t know what would come next. Then she said, “My mom is like you. She has fits too. We were on cruise once when it happened. But she’s ok.”
And, this suit of armor which I had built around me from the day I stepped away from the class wet skirt clinging around my legs, slowly fell away. The one thing that I thought would mark me, was the one thing that opened me up to receive grace and mercy. Years later, I found Valerie on Facebook and thanked her for that one kind gesture that changed my life. She remembered it when I mentioned it - but she had no idea what that tiny gesture of acceptance meant to me. I still need to find Mrs. Bolton. She not only taught me about empathy in literature - but also demonstrated it when it mattered most.
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