Teaching, learning


MEDIUM RARE

Jullie Y. Daza

Like most people, my mother was my first teacher. She was a real teacher, with a bachelor’s degree in elementary education.


Yaya Andrea was a real public school teacher who helped me with my Tagalog and handicraft projects, plus her uncanny knowledge of the names of flowers, plants, and trees.
My father was a wizard with his abacus — he could do fractions on it! — though none of his mathematical genius went to me, only to my two brothers.


Weeks before my graduation from UST, with a degree in philosophy and letters, Fr. Alfredo Panizo, O.P., offered me a teaching job “but not now, you look younger than your students.” I was in no hurry to teach, anyway. Two years later, Father Dean reminded me it was time to “give back” to my alma mater. I started teaching, earning a fabulous ₱7 per hour, until the faculty was forced to raise the rate to ₱8 for the evening class described as “newspaper practice,” with an unheard-of head count of 70 students. Sure, I was given a microphone.


It is well known among professionals that journalists don’t get rich, they just get famous or wiser, which is when they switch to another job.


I didn’t remember how true that was until last week, when I sat down for a little reunion with three former colleagues: Joyce, now a managing editor; Chong, our former art director; and M, a former reporter. The three looked happy and healthy, but especially M, who looked healthy AND wealthy — he wore a collar of amber stones (which he insisted were fake but I didn’t think so).


M got rich because he got wise early enough by quitting his job in the newspaper and quickly switched to public relations. “I don’t need an office. I meet my clients in coffee shops, I don’t need a staff. The more low-key I am, the better for my clients,” most of them politicians.


All that money saved, so he carries a signature leather bag and wears shoes with three-inch platforms. His car is an SUV good for seven passengers. Of course, we allowed him to pay for our lunch at Little Quiapo, no big deal, but next time we’ll insist on some place swanky.