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What Does It Take to be a Teacher?

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“You are a great teacher, Mommy.” That’s my five-year-old praising me matter-of-factly after I showed him how to brush his teeth properly. I was caught off-guard with his reaction to my three-minute demonstration. It was exhilarating-- almost like winning the jackpot of the one-hundred-million Lotto draw. Whew, I did nothing much to earn that commendation, but as we are often told, kids tell no tales-- especially if such kids happen to be “jailed” in a 67-square meter condo listening to and watching Hillsong kids’ live worship concert on DVD day in and day out. But such innocent quip has started to bug me to no end. It has become a cuckoo in my nest—it made me pause and think hard enough on what being a teacher is all about. Eversince I took to heart my role as a homeschooling Mom, I made every imaginable effort to be the best home teacher I can be. I read books on homeschooling lent to me by a friend in church who also homeschools her kids. I surfed the net, downloaded volumino...
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This Beast Called Rage

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Blow one’s top Go berserk Let off steam Mad as a wet hen A bull in rampage These are the idoms in my writer’s tickler that fall under my scribbles on anger. Alongside are words evocative of the same meaning – rage, indignation, wrath, ire, fury. For the past weeks, I have been brooding over this negative emotion that has caused many an earthling to make brash decisions and actions that have damaging consequences. It has also caused needless grief and heartache. I have encountered people who often display this emotion – at school, at work, at home, in the grocery store, in the parking lot, in the restaurant—practically anywhere. I have also observed that its display is not confined to a particular class or age group. When piqued, kids fight back. When scolded, teens lash acerbic words. When bored or ignored, wives nag. Fathers spank. Bosses shout. Employees backbite. Soldiers shoot. Still, others kill. Where did this ticking time bomb of emotion originate? Why do we experie...
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When a Tower Collapses

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My heart sunk when I saw him lying in that bed—oxygen in his nostrils, a wire of the cardiac monitor (that looked like it had seen better years) attached in the puffy middle finger of his left hand, a dextrose needle in his right wrist. He was wearing a grayish, faded hospital gown and his lower trunk was covered by a thin fleece blanket. He appeared pale ( though my sister Lilit commented he already gained color compared to his first few days in the hospital), and looked helpless. His eyes were closed but his brows creased from time to time, as though even in sleep, he was grimacing in pain. While the room manned 24/7 by a nurse exuded special care, the patient—my father, all of his 84 years, certainly looked like it was the last place he would want to be in had he a choice despite the squeaky clean environs and the nurses' constant, albeit mechanical scrubbing of Lysol-laced rug over the bed rails. The hustle and bustle of gloved hands and masked faces and even the o...
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