Mr. Zombie

[caption id="attachment_844" align="aligncenter" width="486" caption="(Left) City High's Main Building. (Right) The Oval. (Photos by Jed I. Bete) "][/caption]

My friends in college wondered why I know lots of foreign words and phrases. They are sometimes amazed how I could easily rattle off Latin phrases like “Ignorantia legis non excusat,” “Dura lex, sed lex,” “Volo non valeo.”

There is, of course, no mystery with my ability. I owe a great deal of it to Mr. Felipe Zombilon, my English teacher in third year at Davao City National High School.

Of all the teachers I know, he’s the only one who is not offended when called Mr. Zombie. In fact, he himself told us right from the start that he preferred to be called Mr. Zombie. I don’t know why he relished the moniker. Is it perhaps to strike terror among the students? Not really. Oftentimes he is more jovial than terror.

Mr. Zombie—he made this fact clear to everyone—is teaching now only because he was invited by no less than the late former Davao City Mayor Elias B. Lopez to teach. But that doesn’t make him less passionate about teaching. Though he least wanted to be a teacher, he’s more passionate than a teacher who most wanted to be one.

One peculiar characteristic of Mr. Zombie is that he’s fond of making up a world where everything is named after him or inspired by him. In Mr. Zombie’s world, the month next to December, the thirteenth month, is called Zomber. Everything is floating—from Zombie’s Floating Mall to Zombie’s Floating Bank. What about Mr. Zombie, the owner? Well, he said, he’s just a Zombillionaire because he has Zombillions of money deposited in the bank.

In City High, a caste-like system exists. The highest tier belongs to the Node students, the really smart students. The higher tier belongs to the Honor students, who are less smart than the Node students. The high tier belongs to those who are smart, but not as smart as the less smart. We mockingly called them “salin sa Honor,” meaning dregs of the Honor section. They are still smart dregs, but dregs nonetheless.

Those who have special talents like, say, dancing, singing, painting, and playing musical instruments, belong to what is called SPA—Special Program for the Arts. Lastly, that which belongs to the lowest tier is called the General section. I belonged to the General section.

I think it is called General section because its students show nothing exceptional. They are not smart, nor less smart, nor less smart than the less smart, nor talented. In other words, most of them are an average Juan and Maria, whose common yet special ability is to cut classes and still not worry of their grades. That’s not so easy an ability to hone!

Of course in any society where a system like this exists, those who belong to the lowest tier are regarded spitefully. They do no take schooling seriously—so unsympathetic others believe. They might as well be denied entry to the school. They are a burden to the government. (Back then, the government spent more or less 10,000 pesos for each public school student. I don’t know how much does it spend today.)

During my time, Mr. Zombie handled both Honor and General sections. But what I admire about Mr. Zombie is that he did not underestimate us. He taught us whatever he taught the Honor students. So when he taught them foreign words and phrases, he also taught us the same.

I may not have noticed it then. But now, I find it as a good gesture that subtly tells you, “You’re smart. You need only some push.” I felt, however, it was like a push that would send someone tumbling down the ravine.

An old school teacher who is no fan of new strategies in teaching, Mr. Zombie, at first, required us to copy one hundred different phobias in our notebook. I couldn’t remember what exactly the curse I said, but I remember I cursed him for that. I cursed him only in my mind, though.

Since I didn’t want to invite the wrath of Mr. Zombie, since I didn’t want to see him turn the chairs and tables upside down, I copied the one hundred phobias with nary a complaint from me. And so did my classmates. I cannot say that I completely liked that numbing exercise. But somehow I learned something from it: That the fear of number 13 is called triskaidekaphobia; the fear of small space, claustrophobia; the fear of spider, arachnophobia; the fear of one’s self, auto-phobia; the fear of Mr. Zombie, Zombiphobia.

I must have Zombiphobia, that’s why I obligated myself.

Just when I thought it was the end of our ordeal, Mr. Zombie required us again to copy and to memorize one hundred foreign words and phrases. Then he taught us other many a hundred things—one hundred sayings, one hundred scientific prefixes and suffixes, one hundred idioms. By the end of the school year, we could already say with great ease “arrivederci” or “sayonara” when we wanted to say goodbye to our classmates.

Have I mentioned already that I learned what tag questions are from Mr. Zombie, haven’t I?

I haven’t seen Mr. Zombie since I left City High four years ago. Surely if he’s not turning the chairs and tables upside down, or throwing brooms and dustpans, or breaking jalousies, he’s teaching students about phobias, foreign words and phrases, idioms and sayings, and scientific prefixes and suffixes.