Sister
/She was the Principal at the Catholic School I attended. I was in the second grade, wearing a polo shirt with the school’s insignia on the left chest pocket, blue slacks, and shined black shoes. She always entered the gate in white and blue, too. Her skirt flowed below the knee and was immaculately ironed. Her white blouse buttoned properly was topped with a blue vest, sometimes an argyle. She carried a brown leather case for a bag, but it was her sandals that took up most of a curious observer’s attention.
She always was on those brown rubber sandals. When she walked through the corridors to go through her customary checks, it would persistently, though lightly, tap through the corridors. It would send less of a warning than a greeting. For Sister, as we called her, was a very benevolent and strong image of a woman. When we rose to greet her as she visited our class, we would all stand erectly and brightly, trying to outperform each other and striving hard to attract her interest.
Every morning, before the bell struck three times to signal the final call for the queues, we would eagerly await by the school gate. As teachers got off from jeepneys, we would all rush to meet and relieve them of whatever load they had: bags, books, even scarves, sweaters and lunch kits. And whenever it was Sister who alighted from her ride, we would do the same; but gather around her we would, as a company, as her students, as her children.
Art by Mark Teves, courtesy of the author.
Her presence was very strong and palpable. She would tread through the playgrounds, and would later be in the garden, looking into the flowers and vegetables that the higher-grade students planted. She led the praying of the Rosary every October, where year levels took turns to pray in the chapel. She would remain, holding her own string of beads and cross, praying through and through then back again.
When she read the announcements, her voice sounded a finality so incomparably strong. But she could mellow in a second, reading the Gospel with a voice tender and subtle in the cold concrete halls.
I remember that afternoon. It was my grandmother’s turn to fetch me. Classes ended at four. Two hours passed. With no one else left on the school grounds with me but the school staff, I started to panic and pace around. I did not have any idea how greatly chagrin could cross a child’s face, but there must have been something in my face that earned me Sister’s attention.
“Aren’t you supposed to be home?” she asked. “Who is supposed to fetch you?” she added in her Ilocano tilt.
I told her my grandmother would come, and she shook her head. She told me no one would be left in the school once she leaves. Her students’ welfare and safety was always paramount for her. When thunder clapped, she motioned for me to go to her office.
Once inside, she pulled her leather bag and keys. She told me she would bring me home, and that I just give her directions. I saw shuffled paper on her desk, waiting to be attended to. Even before I could object and tell her that dropping me off from a jeep would suffice, she let us out and locked the door.
My grandparents were living in Camp Dangwa in La Trinidad, Benguet, a training venue for aspiring policemen. We had to climb up a high gradient of asphalt and earth to reach home. In the rainy seasons, we had to stop by a little sari-sari store by the road to change our shoes into boots before going on. The mud would be slippery, so my grandfather had a habit of using a walking stick. As Sister and I climbed up that slope, the rain started to pour.
At first, we tried to shelter under her small foldable umbrella. But when the rain grew strong, I felt Sister nudge me by the shoulder. I looked at her and she extended her hand, beckoning me to give her my backpack. When she had it, she stooped low, and without a preamble, carried me on her back, her breathing laborious but intense, her fingers unrelenting. Carrying two bags, the umbrella, and a child, she continued to ascend.
I could see the water flowing through her shoulders. The water, now a few inches high, lapped at her sandaled feet. She did not say anything. She did not even sigh or groan. My hands around her neck, I told her we had to go up the muddy path, which was actually shoveled earth that passed for a flight of stairs. And even with that, she simply asked me to hold tighter, and she clambered without even a walking stick, until we saw the house.
A core memory. Art by Mark Teves.
When we got there, my grandfather opened the door. (My lola, came an hour later, telling us she went to the market and took time, but stopped by the school and the guard told her Sister had brought me home already.) He asked Sister to dry herself first and have a cup of something hot, but she politely refused, telling him she still had some work left in the office and she must get back to them right away. I remember her bidding goodbye. I thanked her, and my grandfather accompanied her to the main road.
I would see her the next day, and she just smiled. In the course of the few months left for the school year, she never mentioned it. But many of us, young as we were, knew that Sister’s kind deeds were many. Many of us were blest by her wisdom and words, but I am not sure anyone else was carried on her back. To this day, I still harbor a silent pride that Sister carried me—just me—through that rain.
She did not return the next school year; she was always a woman of adventure. I never saw her again, and gradually, her face receded from memory.
But I will never forget looking at the world from her shoulders. I will never forget the sight of her sandaled feet overcoming the elements. Sometimes, when I feel tired or ready to succumb to anything that seems bigger than me, I always go back to that time, when one rainy afternoon, Sister carried me on her back.
Ian Layugan hails from Baguio City and is currently based in Gunma Prefecture, Japan where he works with the Kiryu City Board of Education under the Japan Exchange and Teaching Programme. He has written for Rappler and has led research projects for Oxfam, Asmae International, and the Asia Research Institute at the National University of Singapore. Follow him on Instagram/Twitter at @ijlayugan.
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