A Pen for Tibong

Every time I look at a poorly-sharpened pencil, I am reminded of Tibong, my Dumagat classmate in

the second grade who came in our midst as a stranger and a stranger when he left.
Tibong is one of the few Dumagats who opted to be in mainland Isabela just to have access to
elementary education. And like his fellow “black and curly-haired” species who suffered discrimination
in their quest for literacy, Tibong experienced the same fate—and it is the worst.
I would never forget that smile the moment he entered our class during our first day in the second
grade. It was as if the place was a total stranger to him. He scanned every corner of the room—from the
newly-painted ceiling and the tiled floor to the decorations tacked on the bulletin board.
When he approached me, I frowned when he innocently caressed my brand new bag and said, “Gusto
mo magpalit tayo?” then he showed me the blue plastic bag with barely one notebook and a three-inch
mongol pencil in it.
Tibong to us was a complete stranger, so different from a class of the “elite.” His black complexion,
curly hair, and flat nose often became a subject of mockery. While my classmates boast their new pens
and notebooks, Tibong was just sitted at a corner looking in awe. And contrary to our obsession of eating
sandwiches, hotdogs, and hamburgers during recess, Tibong savored every bit of a boiled camote
wrapped in banana leaves.
I still remember when he introduced himself on the first day of classes and how he turned to be a
laughing stock. With pride, he gave us a clear picture of his identity, his home, and his playground. He
shared that he loved swimming and fishing in the crystal-clear water of the Pinacanauan River. When
our teacher asked where he lived, he said proudly that they dwelt in the bosom of the wilderness of Sierra
Madre.
The class laughed when he said, “Sa gubat Ma’am, kasama naming naglalaro ang mga unggoy!” And
the laughter became louder when my classmate commented, “Mukha kasi siyang unggoy, Ma’am!”
When the laughter died down, he stooped and shyly moved to his seat at the corner of the classroom
with no one to talk to. Despite the sitting arrangement made by the teacher, nobody even dared to sit
beside him and so he remained alone on his first week of schooling.
For a month, the chair beside Tibong was emptied and when our teacher changed the seat plan, I was
assigned to sit beside him. I was so hesitant because I was sure then that I would be part of the mockery
—and it did.
“Mag-ingat ka baka magpalit kayo ng mukha ni Tibong,” one of my classmates warned. “Uo nga,
baka mamaya pag dumilim hindi ka na rin namin makita,” the others commented and the class laughed
louder again.
Afraid that I would be sanctioned if I would not follow the sitting arrangement, I pulled the chair one
meter away from Tibong and sitted. Intentionally, I detached myself from him. But everything changed
when our teacher asked us to narrate our greatest adventures.
While most of my classmates found pleasure in narrating their escapades in various amusement parks
in the country or their adventures in Subic Safari, Tibong amazed us all when he narrated, though in a
strange accent, how he and his friends enjoyed the cool breeze of the mountain, or the clear water of
river, or the white sand beaches in Palanan. We were amazed more when he described vividly the
Philippine crocodiles, the Philippine eagles that fly freely in the canopy of the wilderness, and the
Ludong, an endemic kind of fish. But what awed us all was when Tibong described and gave the local
names of the species of birds in the Sierra Madre. In his stories, he created a clear picture of the place he
once left and the home he gambled to earn education in the lowland.
“But, it’s really hard to live here—harder than trekking the mountains or crossing against the raging
currents of the river. I felt like I was a stranger for no one understands me...for many judge me at the
outside but failed to look what’s within this black skin and this curly hair...” he said in local dialect while
wiping his tears then walked directly to his chair and clasped his plastic bag.
It was only then that I moved my chair closer to Tibong. I patted his shoulder, and said “Huwag ka ng
umiyak.” He never responded but handed me instead his plastic bag with barely a notebook and a pen.
The next morning, Tibong’s chair was empty and it was emptied until the end of the school year.
Nobody knew why he dropped schooling—even our teacher. It was as if nobody cared.
The three-inch poorly sharpened pen Tibong gave me is a reminder of the plight of the Dumagat
children. Were it not for the discrimination they received in school, we could have sharpened their pens—
the symbol of their quest for a culture-responsive education.
The Excelsior
Champion in Features Section
NSPC 2013 – Olongapo City