STORY OF MABUTI

written by Genoveva Edroza Matute

translated by Lexi, Filipino to English

I had not seen her these days. They said she was still teaching in that old, unpainted school where I first met her. She was still teaching in one of those old classrooms in the second floor, above that ancient, creaky staircase wherein when one looked at the window, one could see the dirty, black river. There she taught knowledge from books and brought up a kind of learning I could only get from her.

I always compared her to life’s wonder. Whenever I saw a beautiful place: a lovely view, idea or music, I remembered her and it made me happy though, there was nothing really pretty about her appearance… and about her life.

She was one of the plainest teachers in school. No one gave her a second look. From how she dressed to the way she moved, there was nothing special about her.

When she was not around, we secretly called her Mabuti (a Filipino word which means good). It was often the word she first spoke. She used it whenever she forgot or hesitated on what she was supposed to say. The word mabuti mirrored the principles she lived in her life.

“Mabuti,” she would say,…. today we’ll start studying this lesson. Mabuti we reached this part… Mabuti…. mabuti…!”

I would never tell her anything if she had not found me crying one afternoon because of a problem any child would go through.

It was almost dark when she found me. The surroundings were at peace aside from the cheers of the crowd who were watching the players’ training in school. In the most hidden corner of the library, she found me crying.

“Mabuti (“it’s good that), someone’s here,” she said, trying to hide the confusion from her voice. “You seemed troubled… mabuti if I can help (I hope I can help).”

I wanted to get away from her. As a child, it was an embarrassing and pitiful moment. I did not even want to meet her again; it would only make me remember what happened that day. But, after I heard the next words she said to me, I remained in that corner and listened.

“I didn’t know someone’s here…. I’m here to cry too.”

Because of the sincerity of her voice, I was not able to speak. She looked down at my lap and then smiled at me.

As looked at my hands, suddenly, I heard myself confessing about my problem which I thought was the most difficult trouble one could ever have. She listened to me. Today when I remembered that experience, I could not imagine how she was able to control herself from laughing at that simple dilemma. She listened with understanding and I knew that she really showed genuine concern for me.

We went home together. When we were about to go to our separate ways, I suddenly remembered.

“Ma’am, why did you also go to that corner where… I cried?”

She laughed softly and repeated the words: “that place where…. we can both…cry.” Then, the soft laugh from her was voice vanished: “I hope I can tell you but my problem is not for children like you to hear. Mabuti (I hope) you will never have to face this kind of problem. What I mean is… I wish life will be…. mabuti (good) to you.”

Since that day, I had a new image of Ms. Mabuti. From the way she spoke in front of class: asking, answering questions, and smiling timidly at us, and the way her forehead wrinkles because of frustration, I could hear again her voice from the most hidden corner of the library that afternoon. “The place where… we can both cry.” I could not stop myself from guessing possible reasons why she went to that corner of the library while I heard her teaching in front. I wondered if she still went there, in… our place.

Because I discovered the truth about her life, I started to watch and wait for any sign of sadness from her voice. But what I always saw was happiness and hope which she brought in our class. She filled our imagination with wonderful ideas and our ears with meaningful sounds. Because of her, we learned about the beauty of life. Every lesson in literature she taught became a fountain of knowledge that could quench our thirst for beauty. She was amazing.

I did not enjoy her class before as much as I did now. I realized how wonderful it was to learn literature lessons from her only after what happened in that afternoon.

One of the things I remembered most about her was her faith in God and to the people around her. It was very inspiring: Her faith might have been the reason why she could see beauty in things we considered ordinary and could teach us the importance of things we regarded worthless.

In the whole time we became her students, she never shared anything about herself. But she often told us about her daughter… her only daughter. She never mentioned about the father of this child and we learned from two of our classmates that she was not a widow.

She kept on telling us about her dreams and there was no doubt that those were all for her daughter. She did not realize that whenever she told us about those dreams, we could feel her fear of not be able to see her daughter reaching those dreams. Some of us could not do anything but listen to those things she kept on saying. For me, every time she talked about her child led me to a new meaning. Because, since before, I had hunches on what her life was like.

From her story, we learned about her daughter: this child’s birthday, new dress with a red ribbon on its waist, her friends, and their gifts. She was six years old and next year she would start going to school. Ms. Mabuti wanted her to become a doctor- a mabuting (good) doctor.

While Ms. Mabuti was telling us about that child, behind me, a classmate whispered: “Like her father!”

Ms. Mabuti heard him and said, “Yes, like her father.” Her face became red as she tried to force her lips to smile.

That was the first and the last time the father of the child was mentioned in class.

I knew there was one thing that had gone astray in her life. I was sitting two yards away from her. I wanted to go to her, hold her hands like what she did that afternoon in the library, and ask her to open her heart to me. It might be better if she had someone whom she could confide her problems with. However, this hope was destroyed by the reactions of my classmates. They all seemed apathetic when they heard her say with an embarrassed and flustered face, “Yes, like her father.”

Afterward, she said something I would never forget. She looked at me with great courage while forcing her lips to stop trembling and said this: “Mabuti! Like Fe said- Only the people who suffered hidden grief would be able to encounter hidden happiness. Mabuti, now, let’s start the lesson.”

I was certain that those were not my words. That morning when she was looking at me while saying those words, I felt we were one. We were one of the people who discovered hidden happiness from hidden sadness…

On that day, while she was recovering from that scenario, she showed us again the hidden beauty of learning about literature: the beauty of bravery, the magnificence of living to the fullest whatever troubles one might face.

At present, only few days had passed since I heard about the death of that doctor. The father of her child who was planning to become a doctor, died a few days ago. He died and was buried two days and nights at the house where Mabuti and her daughter lived. I understood everything. Through all that truth and cruelty, I understood everything.