While In A Math Class
(Finished for Pulitika Issue 3)While In A Math Class
I hate the smell of brown paper. Sour, but clean. Inhalers, on the other hand, are minty and cool. A sharp brief moment of satisfaction, followed by a dull numb in the sinuses. It reminds me of Caucasian-ridden nations and Baguio, because it feels cold, like air-conditioning. I am sitting at the front row in class, as I contemplate this.
"This is a function, therefore!", my Algebra teacher energetically announced. I hate math in all its forms. So impersonal, so logical, and so boring.
My seatmate scribbles furiously on her notebook, her brow furrowed. The room is filled with a sea of voices, some are excited and some are hushed. The hushed voices are muted by the excited voices, but the blending is effective…and familiar. The teacher stood directly before me, oblivious to my blank stare. Her face animated by her equations. Her eyes are bright.
I continued my musings while I tugged my right sock. The damned boots kept eating my socks. Black, white, blue, pink etc. The boots have a taste for all socks.
I admire my teacher for her appearance. She is always tastefully dressed. Her clothes compliment her slim build, with a Joan "Dragon Lady" Crawford quality. Subtly aggressive. Though this does not change my feelings of animosity towards math.
Gibberish! I declared rather indignantly. Not too loud, so as not to attract attention. Actually, not louder than a whisper, but a silent conclusion. An avowal of my disgust. A judgment to the endless monologue on numbers.
I mentally shifted to another topic: gum. I prefer Doublemint over its sibling. Cheerfully garbed in yellow, Juicy Fruit, I decided, was too sweet for me. Doublemints are wrapped in practical somber green, giving it an air of no-nonsense. I am a gum, so chew me!
Because I am thinking about gum, I suddenly wanted gum. I guess I just proved that there is no truth to the observation: Out of sight, out of mind.
Can anyone be hungry for gum? I mean, gum is not meant to be swallowed or digested, other than it does not have any known nutritional value. The stomach cannot be satisfied by gum. So, why would one be hungry for gum, if his hunger cannot be satisfied by it. But then again I am contemplating on the level of the stomach's satisfaction. To be fair, I am compelled to ask the question: What is hunger?
In the Philippines, hunger is taken in two ways. One, the basic use of the word hunger, i.e. hungry. As in, I want to eat, because my stomach is feeding on itself. Two, the more complex hunger. Hunger that is nearly synonymous to lust, or obsession. As in: a hunger to live; a hunger for learning; a hunger for freedom, etc. But in this country, the complex use of the word hunger, number two, is debased. Here, if you are not using the word hunger in the same sentence as the word adobo, then the image of a writhing woman in the throes of an orgasm is immediately pictured. "Hunger…yeah pare, chicks!"
Speaking of disgraced words, fruits fare not a bit better in this country. I suddenly remembered someone who just dies with spasmodic laughter when the word piña is repeatedly uttered.
"Good, now we will answer the equations on the board. Let's start with you." Alarm bells went off in my head, and I immediately snapped out of my thoughts. She, the dreaded monster of my math classes (albeit tastefully dressed), started to pick out students who dutifully marched to the front. I prayed for God's mercy as I tried to disappear into the chair. Wielding her finger like a broadsword, she slowly whittled at my hope.
My face began to scrunch inch-by-inch into a slow wince. My eyes started to disappear, while my clenched teeth were revealed. This went on until my facial muscles had contracted their most, and I looked like a model in a vinegar commercial. As for the rest of my body, all limbs automatically folded to my stomach in an imitation of a fetus. Or at least, like I needed a hasty appointment with the toilet.
I am rock. I am stone. I AM WOMAN! Nge! Where did that come from? I concentrated harder as I tried to get into the psyche of stones. My thoughts suddenly swerved (they have a mind of their own dammit!) to the Rolling Stones, and then the hips and lips of Mick Jagger appeared. I squelched a fit of giggles as he went into a medley of 70s hits. This trembling rock hoped the dreaded Algebra teacher didn't notice. Mick strutted, his thin limbs rattling in their sockets, as his microphone was in perpetual danger of being swallowed. I was mesmerized by his mouth. It was amazing. I could see straight into his intestines when he leaned towards me. My muscles ached. All my tension was flowing towards my center. My acids gurgled. I couldn't stand the suspense anymore. In a sudden burst of energy, like San Goku's Kamehame Wave, I simultaneously decided that no equation will beat me and to volunteer. My hand took off faster than a rocket.
"Madam!" I screamed and waved eagerly. Mick must have been startled. He was nowhere in sight.
It took me a second to realize that my teacher was staring at me with her eyebrows near her hairline, that my seatmate was looking at me incredulously, and that someone was up front…explaining the last of the equations.
I gaped and imitated a tomato.
posted by Otherwise Maladroit @ 5:02 PM
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