It was one of those tiring afternoons. I was finishing the last gulp of my coffee in my classroom, waiting for the campus to go quiet before heading home, when I thought about having my students publish their work in the local newspaper for National Poetry Month. I texted my principal, and he immediately gave me the green light. My editor also loved the idea and suggested that the students write about The Bataan Death March to honor veterans in a special issue.
I thought my role was just logistics and cheering them on. Since we were short on time, I asked a few students I knew loved poetry and could meet a quick deadline, and they did. One student handed me a draft in the morning, and by the end of the day, it was polished. After my last class, I typed up their handwritten poems. I found myself staying longer, not out of obligation, but because I truly enjoyed their heartfelt work. It made me believe the kids are okay and that the world will be better.
With my principal’s advice, I called parents and guardians to get their permission. My editor was moved by the poems too, but I didn’t expect him to ask me to write about the project. I hadn’t planned to be more than the teacher-editor.
My grandfather, Lolo Felicisimo Suratos, was one of the men who walked and survived the March. I never met him, but I grew up hearing parts of that story. Those who survived were buried under those who didn’t make it. They endured the weight, smell, and darkness for days. They were supposed to be burnt, but with divine intervention, they were rescued.
My grandmother, Lola Amanda , never spoke about it, and I don’t recall asking. Growing up in the Philippines, my memories of her were visits from Canada during holidays and were full of joy. My aunt had taken her when her family migrated. She always smelled of sweet chocolates and rose perfume, too positive a presence to associate with war.
As a child, I didn’t grasp the weight of those silences. My mother’s retellings were like echoes of a man she missed. I now understand my grandmother’s silence as grief. Their newborn baby had died at the hands of invaders, a trauma that was extremely painful to recall.
When I was in college, I joined a field trip to Libingan ng mga Bayani (Cemetery of Heroes). I found myself joking with my classmates that I’d see my grandfather’s name engraved on the tablets that honor war heroes. I told them we should rush to the S section, and we found his name! I was the first in our family to confirm it. The stories were true. But once verified, I avoided the topic again, especially the question of how my grandmother survived the aftermath of war.
Reading my students’ poems felt like hearing voices from my own family’s past. Their work was marked by a juxtaposition of innocence and strong emotions. I was unexpectedly moved as if I heard my grandparents in those poems. I let my fifteenyear- old son read them aloud, and it felt like he was bridging generations of memory.
It brought me back to a play I loved teaching in the Philippines - Mother Courage and Her Children.
Bertolt Brecht’s play explores how war reshapes love, especially a mother’s. Some characters become brave; others go numb. My grandmother’s quiet courage shone through those characters and my students’ poems. I was afraid I couldn’t write this article. I doubted myself, thinking the story wasn’t mine to tell. But my students’ poems taught me that remembrance is shared.
Another play I always included in my World Literature syllabus is Kindertransport, a Holocaust play by Diane Samuels. There’s a moment in the play when Helga tells her daughter, Eva, “We all die one day, but jewels never fade or perish. Through our children, we live. That’s how we cheat death.” That’s what my students did. Their poems carry stories that could be lost. Poetry helped them connect with history and helped me reconnect with family grief. It reminded me that silence, too, is a legacy, but words can give that silence a voice. Through poetry, we remember. And in remembering, we refuse to let go.
Thank you to Mr. Stanley Maschal, Los Alamitos Middle School (LAMS) Principal, for supporting our students; Mr. Christian Cothran, LAMS Librarian, for allowing them to research and write in the library; the parents and guardians for permitting them to publish; Mr. Diego Lopez, Cibola Citizen Editor, for the opportunity to write; and to my amazing students, who already loved poetry before I ever taught them.