By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

I like telling the story of how I wound up going back to school after nine years. In fact, I’ve written about it on this very blog. Suffice to say, I worked in the newspaper industry for almost a decade and taught at the same time without taking up my Masters.

When an opportunity to take it on scholarship came up, I took it. I have to say, I had no idea how difficult it was to stay still in the classroom for an hour much less three (which is the usual length of my classes). But more than that, I experienced how it was to be a real student again, with deadlines and requirements and presentations and—gasp—grades!

The whole experience of studying taught me so much more about being a teacher that it redefined my classroom rules when I returned (yay) to the confines of the academe in front of the class instead of in the class. But I can’t imagine going through that again, even though the idea of a doctorate is always alluring. It’s just that the moment that, as a student, I got back into school I couldn’t wait to get back out again, In fact, during the end of semesters when the paperwork would be flying and the deadline would be creeping closer, I found myself promising “I am never going to do this again!”

I guess it’s different when you tackle a skills class, like learning how to cook, make movies or even how to eat fire. Non sequitur: I always thought that fire-eating and balloon animals would make great additions for my classroom presentations. I still do.

Back to regular scheduled programming: but there are just time in Masteral (and I am sure Doctoral) work that you ask yourself why exactly are you doing this. Part of it, I’m theorizing, is because MA work doesn’t have a universal end transformation, such as that waiting for the brave souls in law school and even braver souls in medical school. Masteral study, particularly in the liberal arts (MBAs are a whole other bunch of bananas), is an experience in the abstract, where learning becomes an almost physical process. Weird? Yeah, but probably also true. Now, if I were a Ph.D., wouldn’t you believe me?

Read about different kinds of education in the May 3, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

AS far as I am concerned, the pinipig crunch is the height of ice cream engineering. It is an amazing balance of the solid chocolate shell, creamy vanilla interior and, the piece de resistance, the crisp rice embedded in the shell. It was all the different sensations you can possibly get, all in one confection. It was a delicate task, eating the pinipig crunch, because you had to keep just enough of the shell intact so the vanilla doesn’t just plop on the floor, and yet it was also a race against time because wait too long and even the chocolate shell would start to melt.

Every grade school field trip to the Magnolia factory along Aurora Boulevard was laced with the promise of ice cream at the very end, usually in those huge gallon plastic containers. I wanted pinipig crunch, of course, which is interesting considering that I don’t usually enjoy ice cream: the cold of the treat tends to give people like me a sore throat. Early on, my pediatrician gave me a choice, ice cream or my tonsils. I chose to keep my tonsils.

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By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

SUMMER means kites. Or at least it used to. It’s almost a magical emergence: the sun goes high, the air gets warm, the wind picks up and then a host of kites, all sorts of shapes and sizes, fills the skies. There are amazing kites made of smooth, flashy plastic, often in the silhouette of avians and raptors. These kites soar the highest. There are the boxy kites, often made of Japanese paper or cloth, filling the airways like order being imposed on the realm of chaotic wind.

But when Filipino children say our word for kite—saranggola—they have one particular kite in mind. It is lashed together, small sticks or even the bristles of the walis tingting, bound by threadbare string, wrapped in a skin of old newspaper with a tail of the same material. If made from sturdy old paper, you could even eschew the frame completely. We know it by its evocative name: boka boka. It is a project for fathers and sons and daughters, or between friends on the streets. It’s a collaboration for playmates when any time becomes free.

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