How Could I Not Love My School?

 Life Lessons

The queue in front of Don Anatolio’s house was long. We had to undergo a medical exam as part of the requirements to enter secondary school. We had to arrive at the school in youthful good health, and that verdict was confirmed by Doctor Blanco, a GP who often vacationed in Chiscas and was in charge to confirm in writing that the students’ health was in optimal condition.

Doctor Blanco, with one hand, greeted my father and with the other opened my eyes to examine me. The medical certificate's text was the same for all students, and he prescribed the same multivitamins to all of us.

On the way from the town to the school, by the road called La planta to complete the enrolment, the parents talked about the school uniforms—both the physical education and daily wear one. Some, including my own father, were worried because there was no fabric for the girls’ aprons, despite having ordered it week after week from the town’s merchants.

 

The enrolment day ended with a visit to Ramírez's drugstore, where some parents went to buy such vitamins or put them on the slate. Lolita, the municipal health officer at the time, glanced at the prescriptions and kindly reminded everyone that vitamins were just dietary supplements. My father spoke up and said that if it was about nutrition, then they should pack more stiff arepa for breakfast, more toasted broad beans for break, and more curd with sugarcane honey for snacks. He added that since the guarapo was so strong, they should take the kids to drink rice masato at Doña Lucrecia’s stand.

 

The following week, in our courtyard, Paloma the mare, my father, and I were ready to depart. The adventure of my secondary school journey was beginning. It was a radiant afternoon, accompanied by the sound of the stream and the music of the cicadas. In the distance, the peak of Rechíniga loomed on the horizon, pointing up to the sky. We arrived at the town center, where several students were chatting animatedly around the fountain.

        

Before heading home, my father hurriedly took me by the hand to pick up my red sweater from Mrs. Nelly’s house and my blue skirt with red checks from Don Anacleto’s tailor shop. That night, I spent time covering my notebooks, which bore the labels “Norma” and “Cardenal” on the covers. For dinner, we ate mute made of yellow corn that Doña Lucrecia had prepared to welcome a group of students who were going to live in her house- yes, the same lady from the masato stand. My parents knew her well because she had provided lodging and food for my brother Lucho during his secondary school years.

Even now, I get goosebumps when I recall the History lessons taught by Mrs. Gloria Aldana. She narrated the process of the glaciations with such passion that I could imagine the entire world covered in shining white stones, as I hadn’t yet seen ice. Her accounts of the world wars transported me to the trenches, and names of distant countries and important world leaders were etched into my mind. While enjoying her classes, I wondered if I would ever step on Winston Churchill’s land or if I would ever see the Berlin Wall with my own eyes.

All these mental wanderings were brought down to earth as we explored the world map with her in Geography class. To travel to Europe, you had to go by plane, or in a Gallio like Christopher Columbus. I lived in Chiscas, where it took a full night’s journey by bus, on the Expreso Paz del Río bus company, just to reach the capital. Europe was so far away, I thought, but at the same time, the peak of Rechíniga invited me to dream, reminding me that its tip pointed upwards, showing me the infinite.

 

From a young age, I always had a great interest in words. The library in our home at El Guichalito was tiny. We had a book of sacred history, Carreño’s Manual, Father Astete’s Catechism, and La Alegría de leer (The Joy of Reading), which we knew by heart. This library grew when we moved to La Cabrera farm and added a book my brother Juancho brought: “The Little Larousse.” From that dictionary, I learned what a metaphor, anaphora, and epiphora were- words with beautiful sounds I heard in my Spanish classes.

 

One day in a RE lessons, Miss Gladys Caycedo read us a passage from the Gospel of John that said, “And the Word (Verb in Spanish) became flesh and dwelt among us.” My narrow mind at the time couldn’t grasp the theological concept of the word “Word,” (Verb in Spanish) so I clung to Mister Daniel Antolínez’s definition, which has been engraved in my memory ever since: “A verb is the word that indicates action or movement and can be conjugated.”

Without a doubt, Spanish was my favourite subject. In some of the classes, Mister Antolínez recited excerpts from García Márquez’s works. I still remember, as if it were yesterday, his words: “The day they were going to kill him, Santiago Nasar got up at five-thirty in the morning to wait for the boat the bishop was arriving on…” from Chronicle of a Death Foretold. It was there, in his lessons, that my love for writing and the world of letters was born.

In Math class, I remember teacher Víctor Suárez explaining that of (a+b)² = a²+2ab+b². He reiterated that this was called a perfect square binomial.

 

Dealing with abstract concepts gave me headaches and the terrifying fear of failing the subject. This panic was eased by making cheat sheets that a few classmates and I would prepare together after memorizing countless equations and mathematical formulas. The purpose of the cheat sheet was simply to remember since I never had the courage to use it during an exam.

One night, I asked my father if he knew what use the result of (a+b)² would be in life. He replied that the only square he knew for sure was the wooden retablo (a picture frame) of the Virgin of Chiquinquirá that my mother kept on an altar on the wall at home. He ended the conversation by saying that what they taught at school was useful, even if at the time I didn’t know how that knowledge would serve me in the future. He added that the teachers had burned the midnight oil studying to teach valuable things to their pupils.

Nepito Becerra was more practical with Math. One day, he came to class with a small box- or to put it in more sophisticated terms, a blue geometric figure in the shape of a cube, made of cardboard, with sides measuring ten centimetres. He told us that this unit of volume was called a cubic decimeter. Under his arm, he carried the rest of the cardboard and made a kind of cross, which he then cut and joined with tape to show us how to make a cubic decimeter at home, which was the assignment for the following week.

 

In Agricultural Production class, I learned about the origins of sheep. My father thought it was good for us to know these details since he had already taught us to shear at home. Mister Gustavo Cuadros repeated that the Lincoln breed came from a British county called Lincolnshire. When I told this to my sister Tun, she added that it also helped us review the English taught by Miss Emma Ruiz. I never imagined that 20 years later, that same county would open its arms to me and become my home.

 

From my first year of school, I remember Agricultural Production classes. The technical name for a carrot was daucus cartora. I liked the nickname so much that I still write it that way on my shopping list. However, my fondness for agricultural topics quickly faded when Miss Rosa Maria assigned us the task of bringing a sack of organic fertilizer.

One classmate from Duartes arrived Monday afternoon to the Projects class covered in a plastic apron. The fertilizer he had collected was fresh, and drops of green, foul-smelling water dripped from the plastic onto his uniform. The teacher gave him a grade of 5. A girl from Las Higueras brought a bag of dry dung, and she got a 4. Another classmate from Peña Blanca brought her task in a fique bag with a blue and pink border. She also got a 4.

Some students frowned in disbelief, others slowly opened their mouths, and even the eucalyptus wind calmed, adding drama to the situation. A girl from La Poceta broke the silence and justified the grade by saying that the fertilizer in the bag was of better quality. I immediately heard a whisper from a particularly bright student who wondered aloud if dung could really have different qualities.

 

My parents always wanted to know what I was learning at school. When I told them about the fertilizer assignment, my father said the grade of 4 was fair since the girl had brought finely ground dung, almost powdered.

“And what was your grade?” my mother asked.

Without hesitation, I replied, “Zero.” I explained that there were two large classes in year six, and those who had taken the trouble to collect the fertilizer first didn’t leave any for the rest of us.

Upon hearing my confession, my brother Pepe said that I was such a bad student that I wasn’t even good for collecting bullshit. My sister Checha, who was in the courtyard feeding the chickens, stood up for me and retorted that I was lucky because others had already cleaned up the manure.

The argument was starting to heat up. My mother shouted, putting an end to the conversation. She looked at me firmly and said:

- "School assignments are meant to be done."

She gave me two sacks and sent me to collect manure all over the farm. The two sacks were taken to school over the weekend and stored in Don Humberto Ríos' workshop to be handed over to the teacher the following Monday.

I have so many beautiful memories of my school—the marching band, the parades, cultural weeks, inter-school competitions, flag-raising ceremonies, marathon races, May rosaries, cultural centers, and the trips to drink coffee at Doña Joaquina’s store, and so on.

My school, my secondary school, or as they say in Spain, my institute. How could I not love my school? How could I not remember it fondly when it laid the foundations of my life?

To my school, to my teachers, my eternal gratitude and love. Happy Anniversary!

 

Glossary:

·       Guarapo: A traditional Latin American beverage made from panela, which is unrefined whole cane sugar.

·       Arepa tiesa: a hard flatbread made of ground maize or white dough.

·       Masato: a beverage made from rice.

·       Mute: Colombian yellow hominy soup.

Fique: A natural fiber that comes from the leaves of the Furcraea plant, which is native to Colombia, Ecuador, and other Andean countries.