Chocolate Mousse Cake

Met my High School English Teacher today. I gave him a Chocolate Mousse Cake, an inside thing. I'll explain.

When I was still a junior in some unknown High School in Quezon City, he saw potential. 

I was perennially late even back then and he is one of the people that really nailed in my head that this is not an acceptable behavior (so guys, I have actually improved, I'm so much worse back then). As a punishment, I would stand in class and have to give an extemporaneous speech. That's 3 minutes of rambling that makes use of the previous day's lesson. 

Every. Single.Time. 

It was embarrassing and unnerving. 😍

There's this one time when I think I came particularly later than usual and instead of giving the usual speech, he asked me to write a composition. After the class he told me to meet him in the Principal's Office's Lounge Area after the lunch break. "Now, I've really done it", was what I thought. I couldn't eat my lunch.

I walked ever so slowly up to the step of the Principal's Office. I waited for a good 30 minutes at the lounge area and when I thought that he is no longer coming, I breathe a sigh of relief. As far as I am concerned I am just on an errand for my English teacher and I am already missing out on my Culinary Elective Class (we were discussing the difference between cookies and biscuits then). As I was standing up, the door to the Principal's office opened. And out came this guy with the weirdest mustache I've ever seen, followed by my English Teacher. He gestured Mr. Mustache towards me and said, "Alvin, I think I just found you a new writer for the School Paper". I was freaking out. 

When Harry Potter was recommended by Prof. McGonagall to be the new seeker I felt, as a fan, an immense feeling of joy because I knew he would be excellent in it, but perhaps he didn't feel the same, perhaps he was freaking out too. Perhaps he doesn't have an inkling of what to do. Maybe, quite literally, he was crapping his pants at his first Quidditch match. And I get that, I felt like a tumbleweed thrown into this whirlwind without any say in it. 

Mr. Mustache became my Journalism adviser and for the next 2 years after that afternoon he mentored me.

I have already been keeping a diary then, writing these musings of a teenager as a way of coping with my dreadful life (it was really dreadful tbh) and being involved in journ taught me to share these going-ons in my head.

At most, I was a decent writer. Some people liked it and I got some awards. The School Paper managed to get to the Regional Level of the Inter-School Competition and on my Senior Year we were included in the Nationals. Writing was everything, it kept me sane and gave me direction. I have even considered taking up a Major in Uni that is related to writing one way or another. (But since people are already expecting this, I changed my mind and took up Psychology). When things get really tough, I write and sometimes I share it with people (just like now).

And though I owe the training to Mr. Mustache (he already transferred schools, still honing writing skills of high schoolers), it is to Mr. Ronnie Lugtu, 3rd Year English Teacher, I owe the start of my crazy relationship with the written words as an attempt of making literature. He saw potential in a tardy student and actually fanned the flame (he helped write the excuse letters for my other subjects during competition seasons because we went through vigorous training) and supported me as much as he can. 

There was one time that he jokingly told our class that most of his students put him as Character Reference for their first job interviews but not even one of them thought of him the time they receive their first salaries. Not even a Chocolate Mousse Cake as a sign of thanks.

Today, even though it's 13 years late, he get to eat his cake. He deserved it.