LAST 1995, when I was in Grade 5, something terribly unforgettable happened to me.

I was a transferee in our school then, but I was already kind of popular--or at least a familiar face--because I had been invited to join a "popular group." Our teachers must have noticed me too because I did fairly well in class. I was really happy I belonged, but my story lies elsewhere. It all actually started rather innocently: in a Home Economics class.

One day, my HE teacher told us we were going to study cooking first. She divided us into groups of six, then she picked each group’s leader. Naturally, I was assigned to lead one group. I remember being excited then because all those who belonged to my group seemed so eager to participate in the activity. I thought the extra work would be easy.

Next day, our teachers assigned us the dishes to be cooked, and my group landed with kare-kareng manok. When I heard this--I don’t know why--I got a bit nervous. Maybe I thought we’d cook something easier, like spaghetti or something. It’s just that only my father cooked kare-kare at home, and I never had the slightest interest in it.

But I brushed my fears aside and decided that perhaps our HE teacher would teach us how--that’s what teachers are for, right?

I was wrong. She didn’t exactly abandon us or anything like that. She did give us the ingredients and materials and some basic pointers, but they were never enough. How do we cook the bagoong or saut‚ or even boil the chicken in a big pot without making mistakes: we were all cooking this for the first time.

Maybe she thought since I was a brilliant student in school would also be a brilliant cook in the HE kitchen. She should’ve thought again. After all, an 11-year-old girl could not have known all that, and that was all I was.

Inside the HE room, I really felt nervous and a little panicky. There was just too much pressure on me. All of my members depended on me. They said I was supposed to know what to do. Then our teacher left us. She expected us to have prepared a hot, steamy, delicious kare-kareng manok, by the end of the period.

I was really surprised. How could she just leave us there like that? Although I did ask my father how to cook the dish, it all seemed a blur to me in the HE kitchen. After all, coming from a family of nine, all my other ates did the cooking, and I never had any cooking experience. None at all. I didn’t know how to boil eggs, cook hotdogs, much less prepare kare-kare!

I didn’t know what to do. I guess I was so nervous, my common sense evaporated. Since my members depended on me, we messed everything up. But the worst was yet to come.

As expected, we were really busted. We totally blew it. And the worst part was, our dear teacher never let us forget it.

Once inside the classroom, hurting words were thrown our way: about how irresponsible I was, how unprepared we were, and how palpak our performance was.

I already felt like crying. But I held back my tears. Everything was a nightmare and my members blamed me too. My teacher made it clear how stupid I was, right in front of 40 people. I was on the verge of crying. Where was our teacher when we needed her? She just expected too much of me, perhaps she forgot I was capable of making dumb mistakes, too, and she was just too disappointed for words.

Grade 5 ended, and so did that experience. It was a relief, although it still went on and on inside my head. I admit that I was wrong somewhere, too, but I definitely think I didn’t deserve to be hurt like that. It really took away a lot of confidence from me.

Grade 6 came and I was grateful because it meant new hope.

I remember walking inside our Grade 6 classroom and seeing my old classmates. It made me feel they could see right through me. I got really self-conscious. But that was nothing compared to how I felt when I saw who our class adviser was--yup, our HE teacher.

The year went on and I discovered she wasn’t all bad. She was a good teacher in class. She was smart, never late and was a bit friendly. But I never figured out why she had to be an expert in criticism.

Right now, I’m a junior in high school. Although the experience was four years back, it never left me. I even remember crying some nights after that experience, remembering how awful it was and how alone I was. Nobody stood up for me.

I realized its effects on me, too. I’m afraid to be a leader and lost a lot of confidence and trust in myself.

Although I have recovered a bit, I don’t think it’ll all leave me alone just like that. All those words that came from my teacher that hurt me so much makes it even more painfully unforgettable.

I just hope there’d be fewer teachers out there who say nasty words to their students carelessly. I hope they’d consider their student’s feelings, somehow, and I hope teachers just watch what they’re saying--they might just be remembered as a student’s nightmare.

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