When I think about the many teachers I’ve had in my life, one name always stands out, even after all these years—Mrs. Tessie Bariwa, or as we all knew her, Ma’am Bariwa. She was my very first teacher in Grade 1, and even though it has been decades since those early school days, her memory remains so vivid in my heart. She was known for being strict, the kind of teacher whose footsteps could straighten the backs of even the most restless children. But behind that serious look was a good and kind teacher who truly cared.
Ma’am Bariwa lived 14 kilometers away from our school. In those days, there were very few vehicles around. Reaching our barangay wasn’t as easy as it is today. She would have to hire a motor rider just to get to school, rain or shine. It wasn’t a simple or comfortable trip. Because of the difficulty, she decided to rent a house near the school, a modest place where she and another teacher could rest instead of traveling back and forth every single day. Sometimes, when things were tough, she would even stay overnight in her own classroom, making the school not just a place of work, but a second home.
One of my warmest memories of Ma’am Bariwa isn’t from inside the classroom, but from those lunches she invited me to. She had become close friends with the Tamparong family, who were also relatives of mine and who lived near the school. Their youngest child was my classmate from Grade 1 until high school. That was where the lunches would happen — at that family’s house, not at the one she rented. If I remember it right: she and another teacher would ask the family to buy goods like fish or lumayagan (squid) from the town market, or sometimes from sellers who went house to house. The dishes would be cooked right there, in that welcoming home filled with the aroma of fresh, simple food. It wasn’t anything grand, but for me, it was always a feast.
I must have been lucky. Maybe it was because I was the smartest student at that time, or maybe it was because I always looked a little hungrier than the rest. Whatever the reason, she made me feel special. Sitting at their table, sharing a meal of ginisang lumayagan, I felt something deeper than just being fed. I felt seen, cared for, and accepted.
School days with Ma’am Bariwa were not always easy. She demanded a lot from us. She was the kind of teacher who would not settle for mediocrity. But her strictness wasn’t harsh; it was a form of encouragement. She wanted us to push ourselves beyond what we thought we could do. When I look back now, I realize she was teaching us more than just lessons from textbooks—she was teaching us about life, about resilience, about giving our best even when things weren’t easy.
Over the years, many teachers crossed my path. Each had a role to play in my life. Some faces have faded, some names have been forgotten, but Ma’am Bariwa remains unforgettable. Maybe because she was the first to believe so strongly in me. Maybe because she gave a young girl not just knowledge, but small moments of kindness that planted seeds of confidence and hope.
I know that today, if you asked her, she probably wouldn’t remember me. I can’t blame her. Teachers meet so many students, each with their own stories, their own dreams. It’s natural for the faces to blend together over time. But for students like me, there are certain teachers who stay forever etched in our hearts.
Sometimes I wonder if she knows the difference she made. I hope she does. I hope wherever she is now, she is surrounded by peace and pride, knowing that her hard work mattered. I hope she knows that the small acts of kindness, like inviting a student for lunch and sharing a simple meal, can leave a lasting impact that stretches across years and miles.
I find myself smiling when I think about those days. About her strong, commanding voice in the classroom. About the warm, simple lunches at the neighbor’s house. About the way she made a hungry little girl feel valued and important, even just for an afternoon. Those are things you don’t forget.
Life moves forward, and memories get tucked away, but the important ones never truly disappear. The feeling Ma’am Bariwa left with me—a mix of respect, gratitude, and affection—remains strong. She taught me that true teaching goes beyond lessons on a blackboard. It reaches into hearts, shapes attitudes, and stays with a person long after the last bell has rung.
Wherever you are, Ma’am Bariwa, I hope you are doing well. I hope you are happy and fulfilled. You may not remember me anymore, but I will always remember you. Thank you for every lesson, every word of encouragement, and every simple meal shared. Thank you for being one of the first people to believe in me.
