Just Another Manic Monday.

I open my eyes. It's 5:30 in the morning. YUCK. I hate Mondays. I struggle to keep my eyes open as I crawl out of bed and drag myself into the bathroom. I have an hour to get ready for work, which starts at 7:00 AM. I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, throw my clothes on, and slip my feet into my trusty flip-flops (my heels are waiting for me in my locker, so I won't bother killing my feet just yet).

As I brave the traffic on EDSA (as a passenger—which doesn't really make me "brave" at all—haha), I map the day out in my head. Class at 7 to 3; no meetings and no special projects lined up, so I should be done by 4, right after I finish my reports. I check the clock on the dashboard and I see that it's 6:40. Oh, no. I can't be late. I begin thinking about asking another trainer to cover for me during the first few minutes of class. What activity should I ask that trainer to give them? How many minutes 'till I get to work? I snap out of my trance when I see that the car is approaching the building. I check the clock and see that I have 12 minutes before my class starts.

I ride the elevator (which takes forever because I work in what is one of the oldest buildings in Makati) to get to the fourth floor, and I finally clock in at 6:53. I don't have enough time to check my E-mail, so I gather my training supplies and head on to the training room to officially start my day.

The class is in a jovial mood (am I seriously the only one who doesn't like Mondays?!), so it's easy for me to start the day with a grammar module. Call me weird, geeky, or anything you like, but I will never be ashamed to admit that running a grammar module always puts me in high spirits and geared up to teach the entire day. My happiness is cut short when I see the confused looks on their faces. I need to think of something else for them to get this. I rack my brains out while they work on an exercise online. Finally, I come up with a game in an attempt to get them to comprehend the lesson. The trainees half-heartedly take their places for the game, possibly because they were doubtful of their understanding of the lesson. But in the middle of the game, the mood begins to change. Both teams have their game faces on, analyzing each and every word of each and every sentence of each and every round. Team one wins, but only by five points. The game is processed and the trainees respond positively. The class is tired, but I'm satisfied because I'm able to get my point across.

During the first break I get my daily fix of caffeine. Because I didn't get enough sleep last night, I decide to order what I like to call "a slap on the face." I say goodbye to the friendly baristas after claiming my drink. I happily sip my iced double tall caramel breve latte while I go for a quick smoke. Before heading back to class, I stop by the photocopier to print copies of the quiz on the previous module.

After giving them a bit of time to review on their own, I hand out the questionnaires. While the trainees answer their assessments, I check my E-mail, reply to a couple, and clean up my inbox. By the time I got through all of the important messages, the class was done. They exchange papers (yes, high school style) and we go through each item. My satisfaction before the break was transformed into glee when I saw that all but one trainee (who missed it by one point) got passing marks. This gets me pumped for the next module, which I decide I will start discussing after lunch.

Agh! My feet are killing me! I take off my shoes and slip into my flip-flops while I grab a quick bite to eat. After chatting with some of my co-workers, I slip my feet back into the hell which are my heels. I head back to class, all geared up for the next module.

Thirty minutes pass and I'm still on the second part of my module, all thanks to a trainee who refuses to produce the long E sound. I walk toward her and stand behind her as I read the sentence of the board.

"The Philippines has a lot of beautiful beaches," I say.

"The Philippines has a lat of beautifool bitches," she replies.

I ask her to repeat the sentence. "The Philippines... has a lot... of beautifool..."

I repeat what she said. "Beautifool?"

She struggles to get the word correct. "Beauty... fool. Beauty... full. Beautiful."

"Good job," I say, and I ask her to repeat the sentence.

She inhales deeply as if she were going underwater. "The Philippines has a lot of... BEAUTIFUL... bitches."

It is now my turn to take a deep breath and force a smile. The little me in my head is starting to throw a tantrum. I calmly walk to the board and, using my "artistic skills," draw a picture of a beach beside a picture of a female dog. After 10 minutes of asking her (and the class, from time to time) to repeat after me, and having them point out that the two pictures were entirely different things, she finally gets the point. It's now time to move on to the next part of the lesson.

Finally. It's time for the last break. The final stretch. Two more hours and I'm done. After the last break, I instruct the class to do some activities to help them practice their pronunciation. I walk around, listening to them practice. I give feedback to a number of trainees. I stop by the trainee who was having trouble with her long E sounds and sit beside her. I'm happy to hear that she finally realizes the difference between the long E and the short I sounds. Although her pronunciation isn't perfect, she's started to become aware. After an hour of practice and coaching, I check the clock and see that it is 2:55 PM. Time to go home, for them at least. I give my final reminders for the day and send them off.

I rush to the trainers' room to work on my reports. I swear I could hear my feet saying a speech of appreciation when I changed into my slippers. I start writing my report and finish it in 20 minutes. After proofreading it, I send the report to my managers. Right after clicking the send button I hear laughter from the other side of the room. I follow the laughter, and 10 minutes later, I find myself engaged in a game of Taboo. No one complains about the noise so we keep on playing the game, screaming at the top of our lungs if we know what the answer is. Half an hour later, the noise dies down and we find ourselves debating the pronunciation of "mango." We laugh at ourselves because of the absurdity of the discussion, and settle on consulting trusty old www.m-w.com for the conclusion to our debate. Before leaving the office, I join some of my co-workers for merienda/early dinner. After filling our stomachs with good food and air (because of laughing too much), we decide to call it a day.

I finally leave the office at 6 PM. After an hour and a half of bearing the grueling traffic on EDSA, I finally reach the sanctity of my own house. Dinner's ready, but since I'm still full, I sit with my family and tell them about my day.

I check my mail, harvest my rent in Cityville, check FaceBook, and address pressing issues on Nationstates.net. At 11:30, I'm finally in my pajamas, getting ready for bed. As I drift off to sleep, I can't help but think about how tired I am, and how tired I will be during the week (Monday is the only day I get to sleep before midnight since there's no quiz). Nobody said that working in a call center was this physically and mentally exhausting. But everyday, you see people develop before your eyes, you get to meet people from different walks of life with different personalities, you build relationships with your peers and form wonderful friendships. And that makes the stress worth it.

Tuesday, here I come.

How to develop an actual life outside of work

*Reposted from my old blog, Belligerent Bliss.

1. Try not opting to spend Friday nights at the office. Take note, I said "opting to" not "forced to."

2. Blog, surf, chat, play and E-mail less during the day so that you can go out or maybe sleep at night (and with those words I have magically turned into my mother).

3. Stop casually watching your in-tray fill and actually work on them bit by bit instead of trying to finish it all off at three in the morning.

4. Text or call your friends once in a while to let them know that you are, in fact, still alive and are available to go out. *Will present a problem to people, like me, who do not have actual friends.

5. Come to work on time or try to avoid coming to work five hours late (and with those words I have magically turned into our cranky administrative assistant who regularly channels the spirit of my high school librarian).

6. Repeat after me: "No, I will not do that for you." There, don't you feel much better? Now, if your officemates won't stop asking then just hide under your desk.

7. Do not be caught bitching at your boss or she will go all Miranda Priestly on your ass.

8. Resist going to such sites as youtube.com, televisionwithoutpity or messageboards as they will aggresively consume your time.

9. Try to remember the last time that you've actually talked to your family, ate dinner at your house and got reacquainted with your nice, soft, cozy bed. Substitute nostalgia with regret, then with anger, then with desperation.

10. Remind yourself that, yes, life exists outside of your cubicle and said life does not include religiously following a reality tv show or successfully beating a computer game. Remind yourself that you deserve to experience said life. Validate yourself some more whilst hugging a stuffed animal. Finish off with a nice, Dr. Phil-esque bawl.


That is all for now.

What Teachers Make

I'm a student of MA Education on a leave of absence. Part of me wants to go back to school, a small part of me got tired of having to work and study at the same time. I have about 12 units left before I start working on my practicum paper and finally graduate with a Master's Degree. Then I can take the LET, move out of the corporate world and into the academe, and finally fulfill my dream of becoming a teacher.

Not that what I currently do is a lot different. I teach, train and help prepare people for what they need to do later on—corporate-style. And sometimes it gets tiring. Very tiring.

I stumbled upon this piece that I discovered a couple of years ago. It's written by Taylor Mali, a former teacher who performs poetry slams/def poetry across the US. The piece I'm about to share is something that I used to read when I wanted to give up on writing a term paper for one of my MA classes or when I just get tired of teaching and training. It reminds me of why I do what I do, and why I still do it.

He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn

from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"

He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about

teachers: Those who can, do; and those who can't, teach.

I decide to bit my tongue instead of his

and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests

that it's also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you're a teacher, Taylor," he says.

"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that

(asked me to be honest)

because, you see, I have a policy

about honesty and ass-kicking:

if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.

I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor

and an A- feel like a slap on the face.

How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall

in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.

No, you may not ask a question.

Why won't I let you get a drink of water?

Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:

I hope I haven't called at a bad time,

I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.

Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"

And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are

and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,

I make them question.

I make them criticize.

I make them apologize and mean it.

I make them write, write, write.

And then I make them read.

I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful

over and over again until they will never misspell

either one of those words again.

I make them show all their work in math.

And hide it on their final drafts in English.

I make them understand that if you got this (brains)

then you follow this (heart) and if someone tries to judge you

by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break if down for you, so you know what I say is true:

I make a goddamn difference! What about you?

What Teachers Make, or

Objection Overruled, or

If Things Don't Work Out, You Can Always Go To Law School

Taylor Mali

I feel wonderful having read this after a very long time. Let me now get ready for work. BRING ON THE CLASSES.

Sleep working

I posted this in my old blog, Belligerent Bliss, almost six years ago. So much has changed since then.

It's three a.m. and I am walking down Ayala Avenue. It had rained hard earlier (like it had been since... forever) and I am careful not to get the hem of my pants wet. It's quite unbelievable really, the way my work has evolved into something that rivals industries with graveyard shifts. And I'm not even sleepy. 

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that it's been hours since I last ate (though it definitely does not look it). I want tapa or any other oily, MSGd thing that goes well with fried egg but the odds of finding such a meal given the hour and location does not look good. But after passing BOC, I notice that the Jollibee there is still open. I realize that both it and the McDonald's in Banker's Square are open 24 hours. My feet steer me inside. The slightly bored counterperson informs me that I was in luck - they were already serving their breakfast meals! Rice and cooking oil before dawn breaks! What joy! Thank the heavens for the thriving call center industry in this city. 

I take in the atmosphere inside the resto. Groups of people, probably down for a break from their call quotas, huddle together, sipping coffee and being as loud as possible. Outside, a small circle of people are smoking and littering the sidewalk with their hundred or so cigarette butts. They are trying to treat this hour like that of a normal shift, trying to reorient their body clocks as best they could with overreactions and tar. 

This blasphemous hour interests me. Whenever I take the jeepney home, I take note of the people around me, largely for security (need I flaunt my phone-losing record once more?) but also out of curiosity. I try to create storylines and collegiala dialogue based from their expressions and their non-verbal cues. (You can not not communicate people. Communicologists rule!) I see tired and sleepy guys, probably just ending their shift as a guard or a construction worker, hugging their worn backpacks. ("Manila is the answer to all my problems. I would rather be here with my fifteen children, living in a shanty than go home and suffer a provincial life. How droll would that be?") I see women lugging huge plastic containers filled with ice and fish from the fish market in coastal. ("This frickin' stink does not come off. Ever. And that bi-atch just ripped me out of five bucks. Again.") I see people with suspicious looks on their faces, as if they have just committed something that their spouses would make them regret later on. ("Let's see, which excuse have I not used before? 'Honey, I was ambushed by a gang of munchkins who insisted that I give them my salary and drink fifteen bottles of beer. Oh, and one of the munchkins wanted to test the shade of his lipstick on my neck. Munchkins are weird.' Yeah, that's sounds about right.")

I have always said that I can never take working, thinking properly at this hour. Yet, here I am, somehow functioning at a mechanical pace with the rest of the nightcrawlers. ("I am 30 pounds overweight na and I treat my house as if it is a hotel. My parents keep on giving me sad, hurt eyes, which distinctly screech, 'WE DON'T KNOW YOU ANYMORE'!")

The cholesterol hits my bloodstream and mates with the five cups or so of pure caffeine I had inhaled that day. I am filled with euphoria and a diligence to proofread the preamble to the Philippine Constitution. 

It's three a.m. and I feel lost. But alive.