Germination

It was in the fourth grade that I began receiving the type of instruction in formal education that made me really, really fond of writing, or so I recall. Our English teacher, Prof. D assigned us tons of activities involving writing and vocabulary. One of those activities was a daily presentation allotted for the first few minutes of class, wherein students randomly called shall present a new vocabulary word. Since the presenters were randomly assigned, everyone had to be ready, otherwise the student who didn’t do homework would receive a grade of zero. Prof. D was strict, and a bit scary, as I remember.



There were guidelines on how to choose the vocabulary word, and how to present it. I don’t remember why but for some reason, I didn’t get what they all were, and before I could even figure them out, she called me in front. I was terrified. Aside from being afraid of her, and speaking in front, I never ever wanted to get caught unprepared for an assignment.

Fortunately, I knew that the word had to begin with the first letter of the presenter’s name, and I had browsed the dictionary the previous night, copying for emergency, the word on which my finger blindly landed, with, of course, it’s definition. I was supposed to look for another word after I asked to see a classmate’s notes. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time for that so I made do with what I got, hoping to be able to improvise.

Germination n. the development of a seed into a plant  

I shared. Maybe I also used it in a sentence,  or maybe she asked me to after it became apparent that I didn’t abide by her instructions; I don’t remember. What I do remember was the feeling of doom when she asked something that sounded like, “What does that have to do with you? How do you connect that to yourself?”

So I just stood there quietly, trying to think fast and failing. I don’t remember coming up with anything. Or maybe I did, like “I like germination,” but I never said it out loud. After a few minutes of just standing there I think she made me go back to my seat, humiliated. I never forgot that word since. The impression it left may have been even deeper than I ever realized.

That same year, I joined the reading club at school, YRAP (Young Readers Association of the Philippines). One time, we were holding writing contests for different grade levels. For my grade-level, it was slogan-making, with the theme of reading or books. I wanted to join so I racked my brains for days. When that didn’t work, I asked my mom for ideas, but didn’t like anything she suggested. One day, I was just walking to the kitchen when an idea hit me right on the head.

“Knowledge is a seed. It will grow when you read.”

It was beautiful! I couldn’t believe I thought of it. A metaphor! We had been learning literary devices, and different kinds of poems (which for each type, we were assigned to compose our own five). So after writing it on a piece of oslo paper, and designing it as prettily as I could, I proudly submitted my entry. It won first prize.

A few years later, another contest was held. I didn’t join. When the winners were posted, my classmates alerted me that a batchmate of ours submitted my work, and passed it as her own. It was also my first-prized slogan that won that year’s contest. It felt wrong, yet I didn’t know what to do. Was she allowed to do that?

Looking at the other entries, and remembering those that lost to mine, I realized that most of these children were very confused. They took famous quotations, wrote them on oslo and drew something usually irrelevant. I wouldn’t have known that those slogans weren’t their own had they not chosen the same ones, with some attributing it to its rightful source. It was then, that I knew I could write.

I didn’t fully understand what plagiarism was then, and I don’t think that batchmate did, either. Nor any of those other contestants, for that matter. I never talked to a teacher about it. I don’t know if my classmates did, but no one told off nobody. An early welcome to the literary world.

In the last year of high school, that batchmate and I became close enough for her to want to give me a book for Christmas. We were classmates in our writing elective, but the incident never came up. I don’t think she remembers anymore. I never forgot, but I never took it against her since we didn’t know better back then. To this day though, the memory makes me feel wronged. For years, I’ve consoled myself with the thought of how good a slogan it could’ve seemed to her, and how my design was prettier than hers.