Letter of Condolence

By A. Oliver Flores

Somehow I felt that I had to do something about my studies. Miss Guzman, my teacher in second
year English, had written to Father complaining of my behavior and academic deficiencies. She
had called me, among other things, “indifferent”, “inattentive”, “easygoing”, “rude, and “very
negligent”.

For the first time in my life I was worried. My birthday was only two weeks away and I was
expecting a “Super Bike” from my Father, plus an increase in my allowance. If I didn’t make up
for my poor grades right away, Father might find cause to withhold the gifts. So, the next time
Miss Guzman gave the class a writing assignment, I welcomed the chance to redeem myself.

Of all my teachers in high school, Miss Guzman was the most difficult to get along with. Her
severity more than her homeliness (she had an atrocious ball of hair on the back of her head)
made me brand her the most unpopular member of the faculty. She heaped upon the class all
sorts of assignments, harped on daily attendance and punctuality, frowned at the slightest noise
and insisted on perfect, military-like order leaving the classroom—an injunction which most of
us boys often violated, because her class was the last in afternoon and at its termination, the
stored feelings of deliverance rebelled at the last hours of the day. Bulky in her middle years,
Miss Guzman terrified us with the ruthless zeal with which she conducted with her class. Her
sharp tongue, her terrible swagger and her snapping eyes (which looked more terrible behind her
gleaning spectacles) were enough to make the object of her disciplinary ire writhe in shame.
Sometimes, I suspected that she took special delight in calling me down for the faintest
misdemeanor. To this end, she made me sit at the front where she could watch my every move.
Once, when I openly sulked at her refusal to let me take a vacant seat at the rear, she promptly
made it known to the class that she was not afraid of anyone, “not even the son of the President.”
At this and other such acid remarks I took umbrage. I hit back with all impetuosity of a 13-year
old lad who could not understand why people like Miss Guzman placed so much importance on
so tiresome a subject as grammar and composition. With deliberate frequency I skipped her
classes, ignored her assignments and took occasion to display an utter lack of interest in the
lesson when she called on me to recite. The low marks which she consistently gave me did not
daunt me a bit. Only when she wrote my father did I feel the danger of my belligerence.
Although my Father seldom bothered about my class standing (he was always a busy man), he
might get around to check on my studies on the strength of Miss Guzman’s report. Good thing he
was called away to the hacienda the day he received the note, and he had to refer it to Mother
who was herself busy preparing the lawn for her friends. After a word of rebuke, the matter was
forgotten. However, I did not feel safe enough. There was still possibility of Miss Guzman
following up her report with a more severe one. I knew too well her persistence in matters of that
kind. For all practical purposes, I decided to temper my actions.

The writing assignment was to be in the form of a letter of condolence. We were to submit it the
following day. Miss Guzman gave the assignment just after the bell had rung for the dismissal. A
few minutes before that, a barefoot young woman in a loose black dress had come into the
classroom and mumbled a message to Miss Guzman. As the young woman bade good-bye, Miss
Guzman placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder as though she was reluctant to let her go.
When the young woman was gone, Miss Guzman sat down, clasped her chubby hands on the
edge of the table, and was silent. She stared ahead, looking at no one in particular, I was rather
amused to see her start at the sudden ringing of the bell. She straightened up then, adjusted her
glasses on the bridge of her nose said:

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“Class I have sad news for you. Eusebio’s father died this morning.”

There were murmurs from the class. At first I did not quite know what it was about. Who was
Eusebio? Then I remembered the vacant seat at the back row. That was the seat of the boy who
had been absent for more than a week now. I had forgotten all about him.

“Since it is time for you to go,” Miss Guzman went on, “I shall tell you, as briefly as I can what I
should like you to do. For your assignment tomorrow, bring a letter of condolence addressed to
Eusebio. We haven’t studied that yet, but now is the time to do it. In a letter of condolence, you
express your sorrow for somebody else’s grief. There is an example of this type of letter in your
textbook. You may study it. But I would rather have you write without any guide. Just write what
you feel in your heart and you have a beautiful letter.” She paused to look the class over, as she
was not used to do. Then with a slight nod, she said, “all right you may go”.

That night, as in the past two or three nights, uneasiness assailed me as the family sat down to
supper. I was praying hard that Father would not remember Miss Guzman’s report—at least not
until I was ready to neutralize her accusation with the letter of condolence. Fortunately, Father
had other things in mind. He was talking about of his plans for a huge irrigation system that
would double the output of his land. At the other end of the conversation was the overseer whom
Father had invited to supper for that purpose. Mother, my elder brother Eddie, and I were
listeners.

The supper was over, I went straight to my room to do my assignment. First, I looked up the
sample letter in our textbook. After reading it twice, I still couldn’t think of a good way to start.
For a trial. I wrote: I am sorry to know that your father died, Miss Guzman told us this afternoon.

That was all. For a moment I was tempted to use a line from the sample letter. It went: I want
you to know that my heart is heavy with a sense of personal loss. It sounded very nice. But Miss
Guzman would find out.

I badgered my head for an inspiration. I tried all sort of position in my seat in an all-out effort to
arouse enthusiasm in me. It was of no avail, I was simply not used to that kind of work. Theme
writing had always been the bane of my life.

In near exasperation, I decided to seek Father’s help. On my way downstairs I hit upon the
timeliness of my idea. At the risk of reminding Father of Miss Guzman’s complaint, I would
show him that I was interested in my studies after all.

Father was in his study with the overseer. I believed they were still talking about the irrigation
plans. I stood at the doorway, waiting, paper and pencil in hand. Finally, Father looked up and
saw me.

“What is it hijo?” Father asked.

“Excuse me Father,” I said, “will you help me with my … work?”

“Work? What work?” Father sounded impatient.

“It’s a letter,” I pressed on, “It’s for our English subject.”

“Go see your mother,” Father said and waved me away.

Again I went upstairs. Mother was in her room polishing a big diamond-studded bracelet with a
fine brush.

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“What is it you want?” Mother asked.

“Mother,” I said,” did you ever write a letter of condolence?”

“Letter of condolence?” Mother echoed. “What made you think of that?”

“I have to write one for our English class,” I replied.

“Oh,” Mother said, “Why don’t you see your brother Eddie? I’m sure he can help you.” She
went back to the business of brushing the bracelet.

I was tired of moving about the house, I felt hot and ridiculous. I had a time fighting off the
impulse to give up the whole thing.

Eddie was in his room reading a magazine and listening to his portable radio. Eddie was in the
fourth year. He had an exceptionally good head. Although he was not diligent type, he managed
to get good marks on his card. Sometimes I wondered how he did it.

“Well, kiddo?” Eddie said as I came in.

“Eddie,” I began, “will you help me with this letter writing?”

“Now, kiddo,” Eddie said, grinning,” don’t tell me it’s a love letter.”

“It’s for our English class,” I said, too irritated to mind his remark.” It’s a letter of condolence.”

“Ah, that, “Eddie said, “We had that too before.”

“Do you still remember what you said?” I asked eagerly.

“I think so,” Eddie said. “Wait, I’ll show you something.”

He bounded off his bed, strode over to shelf and brought out a pile of theme notebooks. He
picked out one and shuffled through its pages. When he came to what he was looking for, he
turned to me and exclaimed “There you are!” triumphantly.

I glanced at the page. Its rating of 94 greatly impressed me. Save for two minor errors in
grammar the piece was perfect. Eddie himself lost no time in saying so.

“Listen,” Eddie said, “I’ll read you a part: “I know how difficult it is to lose someone as your
mother. Let me offer my prayers with your prayers. May God give you strength to bear your
present sorrow.” Now, what English teacher will not like that?

From there the work was easy. Back in my room I made the necessary changes on Eddie’s piece
to fit my letter to the assignment. If Eddie got 94 for his work, I knew no reason why I should
not get at least 90 for practically the same thing. Wait till Miss Guzman sees my letter…

Afternoon of the following day saw me eagerly awaiting Miss Guzman’s class to begin. Looking
around, I saw my classmates very absorbed in their letters. Mine was tucked in my book. I did
not have to review it. I had done that many times the previous night. Moreover, I had written it
with such a careful hand I myself was surprised at the neatness of my paper.

At last Miss Guzman came in, a big cardboard box in the crook of his arm. This box she laid
aside as though it was something special. After the attendance check, I thought that she would
ask for the letter. She did not. Instead, she opened a book and read the story of a young man who
had lost his old battered hat and would not be consoled even when friends offered to buy him a

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new one. He had become very fond of the hat, it had fitted him so well, and he would not rest
until he found the hat. Some thought him funny for being so solicitous over an old, battered hat.

The reading of the story and the discussion that followed it took up a good part of the period. The
class seemed to enjoy the story very much. Perhaps I would have enjoyed it too, were I not so
anxious over the letter. All along I was worried by the thought that Miss Guzman might have
forgotten about the letter. Finally, after what seemed to be a long wait. Miss Guzman glanced at
her watch. The class settled back to silence.

“All right class,” Miss Guzman said, “you may now bring out your letters.”

The class responded with alacrity. I held up my letter for a final scrutiny, eyeing it with a
seriousness that could not have failed to catch teacher’s attention. After a while, Miss Guzman
opened the cardboard box and took out bundles of envelopes. “I shall give each of you an
envelope,” she said. At a signal, the class monitors stood up and went over to her table to receive
their allotments. When everybody had his envelope, Miss Guzman spoke again:

“Fold your letters neatly, place it in the envelope and seal it.”

We did as we told. Next, Miss Guzman wrote Eusebio’s full name and his address on the
blackboard and asked us to do the same on the envelope. I began to chafe under proceeding.
Why didn’t she just collect the letters or better, ask each us to read his work? My, didn’t she just
collect the letters or better, ask each of us to read his work? My impatience turned to surprise
when she brought out two perforated sheets of stamps and called on the class monitors to give a
stamp to each student.

“When you have fixed the stamp on the envelope,” Miss Guzman said,” come forward with your
letter”.

The class began to file to her table, row by row, starting at the back. When my turn neared. I
became rebellious, “Ma’am.” I blurted out, “are you not going to read our letters?” that I had
forgotten to raise my hand for permission to speak did not even matter.

“I need not to read them, Jose,” Miss Guzman said in an even tone. “They are for Eusebio.”
Passing her hand lightly over the pile of letters, she addressed the whole class: “I shall ask the
janitor to mail these letters right away. It takes about two days for the mail to reach the barrio.
Let us hope that Eusebio will receive all these day after tomorrow. I’m sure he will find much
comfort in your thoughtfulness”.

Even as Miss Guzman spoke, I dropped back in my seat, scarcely, noticing that I was the only
one who had not turned over his letter. “After all those efforts,” I muttered.

Miss Guzman must have heard me, for she fixed me a look. I avoided her eyes and tried to look
casual about it. Luckily, before the situation could come to a head, the bell rang.

I got up with the class, feeling very much relieved. But sooner had the students nearest the door
begun to troop out than Miss Guzman turned to me and said: “Jose, you are to remain.”

At once the curious eyes of my departing classmates were all over me. With an air of bravado, I
glower back at them. Soon I was all alone facing the awesome figure of the teacher. I braced
myself for the ordeal. If she was going to lash out at me, I would stand up to it. I really didn’t
care anymore.

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“Jose,” Miss Guzman said her voice unusually soft, “maybe I was wrong in asking you to write
the letter. Maybe I should have told the class. Those who wish to write to Eusebio, may do so.
But I took it for granted that all of you wished to write a letter.”

I felt queer under her gaze, yet I could not take my eyes off her. Silence filled the room.

Then:

“You never got to know Eusebio well, did you? He was never your company. I don’t blame him
or you. He is but son of an old kasama who had worked hard to send his boy to school. Do you
remember the young woman who was here yesterday? She is Eusebio’s sister. She walked all the
way from their place to see me and thank me for the little visit I paid to them the other night. I
really could not do anything. The Father was dying. He had been very ill for more than a week,
that’s why Eusebio has not been with us for many days. And he’s not coming back. I think you
know why?”

She turned away and walked quietly to the window. I stared at her back. I saw her take off her
glasses and lifted her handkerchief to her face. I heard her say, “You may go, Jose, you may go,”
urgently.

I just stood there, not knowing what to do with the letter in my hand.

Vocabulary

Find and write the meaning of the following words in your Literature notebook.

1. atrocious
2. ire
3. assailed
4. badgered
5. strode (stride)
6. solicitous
7. scrutiny
8. chafe
9. ordeal
10. queer