Recitation Encounters

by Calliope Valmonte

IT IS universally acknowledged that a student with a failing grade must be in want of recitation points. Whatever means are necessary, we must put aside our pride and be the class clown to salvage ourselves from shuffled index cards and unannounced graded recitations. Class participation is a mixture of anticipation, dread, and succumbing to strong palpitations that make us wonder whether it came from the coffee we chugged this morning or the unnerving glare from our professor (or both). As frightful as it sounds, since rolling back to the four corners of the classroom, recitations have been an inevitable quest without the bright red ‘end call’ button to save us from embarrassment.

At the start of the semester, a friend taught me this survival technique to help me get through insufferable situations like graded recitations. Though I have experienced a handful of times returning to my seat with a contented heart after being called to recite, my confidence will continue to betray me with just the idea of talking in front of a whole class. Sometimes, I get afraid that I might stutter between sentences or throw my head at the window when my mind goes blank. So, I paid close attention to my friend when she told me how to speak to a crowd.

Like any reasonable adult, she advised me, “If you’re worried about talking in front of a whole class, just imagine them naked, and you won’t be self-conscious anymore.” It was such a good idea, I thought.

It’s a mental technique that turns my audience vulnerable, giving me power. Who would have thought I could get ahead of myself by playing tricks on my mind? I did not know though if this technique would be helpful or just downright mortifying.

The faithful day has arrived. My professor announced a graded recitation about the Executive Branch of the government, such as qualifications, powers, and their line of succession. In a nutshell, it was a lot to digest, and I still needed to learn which questions I would get. In my mind, I just wanted to have a go. In this setting, students either want to start ahead to spare the anxiety of waiting to be called or are convinced that raising their hand would cut their nervousness short. I did not have to pick from either; the professor called me at the right time. It was not like any other class recitation, though. I had to stand in the middle of the classroom and get bombarded with questions by the professor, who had an unreadable expression. Despite enjoying class discussions, I do not share the same pleasure of standing face-to-face and getting asked to explain the power of eminent domain (though I have reviewed it overnight). There’s something about knowing I’m not stupid but having no capacity to articulate my thoughts to more than forty people.

One inescapable afternoon, my fears came to life. I stood in the middle of the classroom, knowing that I was not the only one with crippling anxiety, but I remembered having what no one else has: that survival technique. Maybe it was not going to be so bad after all.

I waited for my professor to ask me the question. Me being anxious was an understatement. “Have no fear,” I whispered, “Just imagine them naked.”

“When the elected President of the Philippines cannot discharge the duties of his office due to death, disability, or resignation, who is next in line of the succession?” blurted out the professor. The heavens are aligning for me today. I was thankfully given an easy question.

The Vice President, ma’am,” I answered with confidence and a mistakable smug grin. I might not need that technique, after all. But looking at my professor, she wanted more: this is where I contemplated whether I had studied enough about the line of succession of Philippine Presidents.

“And if the Vice President cannot discharge the office duties due to death, disability, or resignation, who is next in line?” she sent me a follow-up question that unnerved me.

“The Senate President,” I retorted, reasonably sure of my statement.

“Very well, then. Is the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court also in the line of succession?”

I knew the answer. Yet, like everyone else, my brain cells have an expiration date. The riveting anxiety stopped me from producing a single intellectual thought. A yes or no answer still constituted an explanation I was unprepared for. I tried to conjure every photographic memory and cursed myself for being foolish not knowing the answer to a simple question.

Nonetheless, I had my survival tool. I closed my eyes briefly and tried to exhaust myself by imagining the silent audience naked: this was going to clear my head, I figured. When I finally opened my eyes, I found all of them naked. It worked!

Instead of feeling more confident, I was speechless. No one told me that it would probably scare me if it worked. It is just simply appalling to imagine your crowd naked. Everyone looked at me when I realized I had made a haunting decision.

I had no choice but to add diapers for them. When the mind works in splendid and humiliating ways, I cannot help but laugh. With my classmates wearing just nappies in my mind, I stifled a laugh vibrating throughout the whole room. I looked stupid, more like, insane. I told my professor that it was due to so much stress from studying.

“Get back to your seat,” my professor ordered. While walking back to my place with so much humiliation, I saw my professor scribbling a few strokes on my index card with a tired sigh on her face.

It was not a satisfying experience for my grades, but it did earn me a funny memory. Recitation encounters to spice up college life, making all these years genuinely unforgettable. Being called to recite in class or raising your hand to answer a question does not always have to be a culmination of discomfort and shame. Sometimes, it can also be a funny priceless moment you can look back to with your college friends.

Catch up on your readings to avoid imagining anyone in diapers. Best of luck, Warriors!