THE HANGERS
by J. MARCELO BORROMEO
The forum opened with a question about uniforms: would the school be strict if the parents moved to delegate certain days for non-uniform school wear? Necktie Tuesdays, Formal Fridays, etc. etc. It’s not easy to launder clothes twice a week, and the school can’t possibly expect the parents to buy five whole sets of uniforms, not at the rate these boys are growing.
The school answered that it was currently entertaining discussions, but for the time being it was not anticipated that the uniform policy would change.
Next came a question about the budget: was it true that this year’s tuition increases were going entirely into the rubberization of the basketball court? How would this benefit students who didn’t use the court as much?
The school provided a three-fold answer. First, the budget increases would be disbursed towards several projects meant to distribute its value to meet the diverse needs of the student body, such as the school play. Also, the school was redeveloping its fitness program to encourage those less inclined towards sports to make better use of the school’s fitness amenities. Finally, the school suggested that “as much” was perhaps not the best phrase to use in this context. Would the parents be inclined to consider “as often”?
The parents nodded, some of them repeating the phrases as if they were splendid jackets or two new styles of gala dress. It pleased them to get a taste of their own sons’ education.
The third question was directed towards a particular teacher: would Mr. Guevara provide his rationale for assigning this novel, The Iliad, to his ninth-grade students?
The school, calling forward Mr. Guevara, corrected the misconception that the Iliad is a novel. It is an epic poem that aligns with the national curriculum’s requirement to teach students diverse literary forms that improve comprehension, as well as the students’ engagement with relevant questions pertaining to society, values, and human dignity. The school determined that the text would appeal to boys at this age, apart from being a classical text aligned with the school’s promise to offer world-class education that brings the world to the classroom.
And now, a question on college preparations: is the school considering engagements with foreign universities? It would be nice to encourage the boys to pursue their further studies abroad.
The school answered that they were currently working with an academic partner to draw representatives for an international education fair in the coming semester. It was expected that the boys would get to engage with colleges from Europe, Australia, and, God willing, at least one from the Ivy League, a possibility that swept a pleased titter over the crowd.
But then, a follow-up question, raised by the previous parent: could Mr. Guevara please discuss his lesson plan and how he expects to finish the text by the end of the year when the students are still in Chapter 4?
Calling again Mr. Guevara, the school explained that novels did not yet exist in the time of Homer, so it is proper to say that the Iliad is divided into books, not chapters. Furthermore, the lesson plan is based on the Meyers-Whit responsive teaching framework, making it necessary to work according to the median skill level of the class majority. Because the students had difficulties engaging with the assigned text due to its length and rhetorical style, it was necessary to remain in the early modules of the lesson plan until the students could demonstrate comfort with the material.
The parent refused to budge: do you realize that we are five months into the school year?
The school answered yes.
The parent continued: if it takes almost one month per chapter, do you really expect the students to finish reading the book by the end of the school year?
The school answered that, once again, the Iliad is divided into books, which was already rather confusing to the parents, none of whom had ever been required to read the Iliad before and had thus been given the impression that their boys were being expected to embark on a multi-year, multi-volume series about the Mediterranean. They had enough trouble at the end of last summer, forcing their aggrieved sons to spend an hour plucking the assigned texts from the shelves at National Bookstore. They all wanted their sons to be geniuses, yes, but if they were that disinterested in books, what point was there in having any more to look forward to?
It was through this lens that they could appreciate the parent, who stubbornly secured his position by gripping both sides of the podium, as if he intended to fix it through the tiled ground: that is both condescending and beside the point, Mr. Guevara! You know exactly what I am talking about. I’m trying to see the point of forcing our sons to read a book that not only bores them but pushes them past their limits. These are boys, for God’s sake! I’m sorry to say it, but if anything you are teaching them to waste their time!
To this the school asked their own question: how do you mean, sir?
The parent, who one might say now spoke on behalf of all the parents present, given his interest in dismantling the system of abuse that his son had suffered, which meant that he was interested in preventing that same abuse from happening to everybody else’s sons, including those who were younger and had yet to study under the new faculty addition, Mr. Guevara, answered that his son, Raffy, his second boy, who had never so much as frowned at his own cousin’s funeral, suddenly started crying at the dinner table the other night because he was agonizing—inconsolable even—over this book he had to read for class. Raffy’s father was shocked. What kind of a book would do that to a kid his age? He turned to his co-parents for support. Have you ever read a book that made you cry? No? Is it because you have common sense? Is it because you know that when a book—or anything for that matter—starts making you feel things you don’t want to feel, the least you could do for yourself is to put it down? Who are we to force our children to endure experience that traumatize them? Is this how we support their mental health?
The crowd let out a noise of approval after hearing those last two words, as if to say without language, Yes, of course, you cannot doubt that we love our children! Some of the parents were standing now, speaking over one another as though they all occupied the podium. Or rather, as though the podium had extended itself, stretching to catch the weight of every single parent who rose to their feet.
The school assured: yes sir, thank you so much sir, for sharing your concern with us, sincerely, and I can promise you that we will conduct further review on Mr. Guevara’s lesson delivery as soon as possible. But if I could just, you see, in the hopes of reassuring you of the quality of education here, I just want to speak a little to our trust in Mr. Guevara’s expertise. Mr. Guevara is a national scholar whose sheer effort and sense of industry allowed him to earn his way into the halls at Oxford and Yale. He is perhaps the pre-eminent scholar of literary pedagogy in our academic community (to the point that we might even say he is our only scholar in this field), which is why we did not hesitate in selecting him for our faculty, since it is and has always been our promise to offer world-class education that brings the world to our classrooms.
The parents said nothing to this, apart from the few satisfied grunts, as if to say that they could not doubt a man who went to school abroad.
But then the teacher clarified: I think what I meant to ask is how you felt that reading was a waste of time. He wanted to hazard a guess, though he did not voice this aloud, that Raffy’s father was leaving something out of the story (or more likely, had missed something important). He was showing the same grit they told him he needed his first day at the school. Don’t assume you’ll command respect just because you’re the only adult in the room. Applies surprisingly well to parents as it does to their boys. Wasn’t hard to feel that way anyhow on the first day. The absolute state of the curriculum. Could hardly teach “The Lottery” without the boys reminding him: But tell us what the moral of the story is, sir. He tried to impress on them—with grit—let’s not talk about the morals. Not yet. Go sit with that discomfort. Go ask the right questions. Privately thought to himself, these boys don’t know where they’re going, do they? What they’re getting into, doing exactly what they’re told. The moral, sir? Not yet, not now. A week after, he assigned them the Iliad because that was what he saw every time he walked into the classroom. Let’s talk about what’s happening in the text, shall we? Tragedy waiting to happen. Endless days on Book One. Meet Hektor, tamer of horses. Groans, the struggle to make it to the end of the page. So it went for weeks and weeks. Raffy found him one morning, just after flag ceremony in the faculty room. He was solemn, on the verge of tears, Mr. Guevara could see. Raffy was one of the better students in the class, took to the material really well. He was reading ahead, Mr. Guevara knew. While all the others stumbled through the naming of the Achaian armies, Raffy went on ahead. Is it okay, Mr. Guevara? Sure. He asked Raffy if he wanted to talk somewhere else. I’m good, sir, I just. He just. He just finished reading the Iliad. Sir. The death of Patroklus. The death of Hektor. Can you. Um. Did you. Sir. Did you ever know anyone who died. Who died.
Who died?
My cousin, sir. He’s like a brother to me. Was.
But you have a brother.
Had.
All the while, his father explained (Mr. Guevara only caught snatches of it, still thinking, sir, did you know, did you ever know): do we really need to teach this? What’s the point? Where are the practical skills? Raffy has enough to deal with studying trigonometry and intro to philosophy and the constitution and world history and biochemistry, and you want him to focus on some dead guys who didn’t even exist hundreds of years ago? Again, what’s the point? Because I can name just as many things our boys should be learning. When I speak to my first boy, Marco, he’s in Manila, he tells me all the things he wish he knew when he was younger. Like how to drive a car, how to file his taxes, how to write a cover letter and a resume, how to make a business plan or how to make a career plan, etc. etc. He never once asked me, oh, Dad, how did the Greeks conquer Troy? Never, and you know why? He saw a movie about it! It’s all ancient history, you only need to see it once.
The school would have called security if they hadn’t been there already. Many of them, along with the custodial staff, had sons of their own, enrolled on service scholarships. The school tried to catch their gazes, tried to beckon them to the front.
While Raffy’s father spoke, the parents forgot their uniforms.
The parents asked: why don’t you teach them the things they need to know to survive in this world?
The school said, in simple terms, that they were.
The parents demanded an immediate overhaul of the curriculum.
The school said they would put it to discussion, but it would need to align with government requirements still.
The parents said it didn’t matter, this is a private school.
The school suggested that it would invalidate their authority to grant diplomas.
The parents asked what they were paying them for.
The school tried to explain with tired terms, world-class education, etc.
The parents asked if that was all they could say.
The school explained what was in their mission-vision.
The parents suggested hanging them.
The school asked them to wait, wait a minute, wait just wait.
The parents outnumbered them four to one.
It was a simple process. No one to wait for, nothing to fuss about. There’s always enough rope for the whole faculty at school, God only knows why. Someone said something about a long tradition of excellence. The joke was buried under seven kinds of screaming.
In the week that followed, the faculty was replaced. A board of parents elected new teachers based on a manifesto of aims they read before the hanging commenced. The police chief among them observed that it was a smooth and peaceable process, which spoke to the parents’ belief in the democratic process.
The hanging was attended by 43 parents and two students. One of them was a fourth grader named Charlie Go, who had never been Mr. Guevara’s student but would twenty years later become an orthopedic surgeon at a private hospital. That wasn’t really much to really smile about. There were 2,000 of them at the hospital and not enough patients. They spent their days scuttling about to lend a hand to the nurses. As in, Here, let me hold that IV bag up for you. In their free hour, the doctors talked fancifully about what they could’ve been if they went back in time. Business owner, economist, engineer, stock broker. Charlie didn’t participate in these conversations for a reason he couldn’t name. Many of the doctors thought about leaving the country to become nurses and doctor’s assistants. Sometimes, Charlie watched those doctors when they hanged their coats on the coatrack. There was a difference between hung and hanged, but he was too embarrassed to ask what it was. It didn’t matter or make much of a difference to anybody. No one ever heard from those doctors again.
author pic here
J. Marcelo Borromeo is a Filipino writer with an MA in Creative Writing (Prose Fiction) from the University of East Anglia. His work has appeared in Joyland, Split Lip Magazine, and Catapult, and was longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50 Very Short Fictions of 2023. He is an alumnus of the Tin House Summer Workshop, the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and the Granta Writers’ Workshop. He currently lives in his hometown of Cebu, Philippines, where he is working on a novel-in-stories.
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