First grade was… something else.
I was enrolled in Section C—maybe B. Honestly, I'm not even sure anymore. In our small town, class sections weren't ranked by smarts, just by whoever signed up first or which teacher your parents knew best. Section A, though? That was different. That's where the children of the more financially stable families were placed—the ones who went to private daycare or had parents on a first-name basis with the faculty. They even had **practice teachers** from PNU, the country's top school for educators.
Looking back, it's hard to ignore the quiet message: those who had more got more. More attention. More resources. More hope.
My section, on the other hand, was something like a classroom experiment gone rogue. My teacher, Mrs. Domingo, was a chubby woman with a talent for discipline in the form of a stomach pinch. She'd grab a tiny fold of skin, twist it around, then yank it upward so you were forced to stand—like an off switch made of pain. I learned to tie my shoelaces that year, though it didn't matter much. I wore slippers after the first day anyway.
My seatmate was my nephew Gilbert—not by blood, but my parents are his parent's godparents in marriage. Gilbert and I were united in many things, especially our shared habit of skipping class. We were absent so often. The new pregnant teacher who replaced Mrs. Domingo (after she passed away mid-year) eventually just removed our chairs. Maybe she thought we are dropped outs or it is a punishment. I recall kneeling behind the classroom and using the chair in front of me as desk.
Our class was chaotic. I remember one day when a small bully got his karma handed to him. A bigger kid knocked his head against the chalkboard while lecturing him. The rest of us just watched. The small kid wailed apologies between sobs. The teacher? Somewhere. I'm not sure.
Despite the mess, I had my moments. I was a little behind in writing, but I had one thing I was proud of—math. My mom had taught me how to do three-digit arithmetic on paper. And yes, I cried a lot during those lessons—usually because I got things wrong and my mom yelled. But I learned. I was doing problems way beyond what was being taught in class. *Flex.*
I also had my first innocent crush. Her name was Aiza. I don't remember much about her except that she wore a white dress with red flowers on the first day, and she lived near the school. That was more than enough for six-year-old me to decide she was the one.
One particularly funny memory was when I thought someone stole my slippers, and I made a mini scene—only to find out I had hidden them under my desk. Classic.
That felt like first grade in a nutshell: a little behind, a little ahead, and a whole lot of confusion. But somehow, I never really complained. I just took it all in stride—barefoot or not.