Miss Carla Adaawan?”

The girl from Tabuk City looked up from oogling at her smartphone at the start of the evening’s class. I don’t know what startled her—that I suddenly called on her to recite without even shuffling their classcards, or the fact that I finally got her name right.

“I’m sorry, sir, I was just putting my cellphone on silent mode—”

“It’s alright, keep it on noisy mode. Nothing being discussed in any law class could be more important than a possible life-or-death emergency which is the only reason anyone would call you at this time,” I said.

Even I don’t understand why they require phones to be put on silent mode during ‘important’ meetings. It’s like saying, “we’re going to disable the fire alarm system for a while so that if a fire breaks out on the second floor we don’t have to be disturbed about it here on the 5th floor until smoke has filled the hallway and we can’t get out anymore!”

Of course a phone call will disrupt a meeting, that’s what a phone call is supposed to do. If it wasn’t urgent, the other fellow would have sent flowers by Grab instead.

“Miss Adaawan, are you married?”

“I have a daughter, sir!” she answered so excitedly I could tell the daughter must be some clingy spoiled mama’s girl.

“How old is she?”

“She’s in her late teens, sir!”

“Ooooh…THAT age,” I said, “I went through that with my own daughter, Pebbles. At age 16 or 17, I think it was, she woke up one morning and made a wonderful discovery. I mean just an awesome discovery, people. It came on her like a flood!”

“What was it, sir?” the eager young mother wanted to know, as did the rest of the class.

“Well, like all teenagers I suppose, mine woke up one morning and discovered she KNEW EVERYTHING!”

The whole class broke out laughing. Sometimes I forget that it is a law class, all of these law students are post-graduates, not a few of them are actually parents.

“And what does your daughter do,” I probed deeper, “l mean aside from pricking her pimples with a safety pin, does she sing, play the tuba, dance the ballet, or what?”

“Oh, no, sir, my daughter is into cooking, pursuant to Article 320 of the Revised Penal Code!”

It’s a classic law student’s joke.

“Oh, I see. She commits arson every time she cooks. She burns everything, huh?”

“Oh, no, sir. Her cooking is perfect! But it’s us who burn our mouths and tongues, when we have to eat my daughter’s cooking. She puts curry powder on scrambled eggs at breakfast. Chili powder on oat meal, cayenne pepper on rice that she fries with garlic oil—my daughter’s cooking is more Indian than Mahatma Gandhi himself!” More laughs, and Miss Deema is starting to tap her feet lightly.

“Ah, teenagers!” I said, “you can’t wait till they move out, but after they do you wanna kill them cause they never even come home to visit.”

“Hehehe, yes, sir. But if my daughter stayed with me the rest of her life, I won’t complain. I’ll keep my baby…it’s such a wild world out there—”

2“And it’s hard to get by just upon a smile. Cat Stevens, 1971,” Miss Julyrain Arpeggio interrupted.

“I know THAT one!” I was proud to finally be able to keep up with little Miss iTunes.

“So, Miss Adaawan, as attached as you are to your daughter, what would you do if one day she got a call saying she has to be at Loakan Airport first thing in the morning to board a C-130 troop transport plane to be airdropped by parachute into a hot combat zone in Tawi-Tawi, with her M-16 Armalite slung over her shoulder, fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher?”

It wasn’t only Miss Carla who was dumbfound, everyone was. I continued. “How would she know how to use those weapons? Well, let’s say for the last five years she has gone through bootcamp, learned how to disassemble a Colt AR-15 assault rifle, put it back together and take a sniper shot at a rebel cadre from 1,000 yards out in high wind—which would be pretty darn impressive for an Indian cuisine culinary chef. Does that sound exciting to you?”

“No, sir!! Not my baby! She couldn’t hurt a fly. I mean literally she would fling open a window and shoo the fly out. So no! nobody is going to make a killer out my baby!” Miss Carla said emphatically.

“You do realize it’s being proposed by Bongbong Marcos’ runningmate—this mandatory military training for all youths of ‘military age’ regardless of gender, don’t you?”

“I don’t care how tough Sara Duterte wants to sound or look like sir! She can beat up all the court sheriffs she wants, cut her hair all the way down to her scalp, I don’t give a damn but she better leave my daughter alone!”

“Well, in fairness,” I said, “what she may have in mind is not exactly the scenario I gave you. She just wants all youths to develop military discipline and instill in them a sense of patriotism. Plus they‘ll receive the finest martial arts and weaponry training, learning how to obey orders, never questioning authority, civic things like that you know. Wouldn’t you want that out of your teenage daughter? Who knows when that might be useful in that wild world out there that you were just talking about, huh?”

“Yeeeaaah…” Miss Deema eased into the discussion, “great weaponry skills and being brainwashed to have the instinct to obey orders. A lot of good those things did for the SAF-44 in Mamasapano, sir!”

Just the mention of “Mamasapano” sent the young mother, Miss Carla Adaawan, flying off the handle.

“NO WAY!! ABSOLUTELY NOT HAPPENING! NOT EVER! OVER MY DEAD BODY! OR EVEN BETTER, OVER HERS!!!” Miss Carla exploded.

“Calm down, Miss Adaawan,” I said, “it’s a hypothetical question.”

“Yes, and now all we have to do is get Miss Carla on Tiktok and Sara would have her own legitimate assassination threat to brag about too!” Deema said.

“It’s not a threat, sir, it’s a promise!” Miss Carla was still fuming, “if Sara tries that mandatory military training thingamajig on my baby, I swear to God I’m going to introduce her to Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates way ahead of her schedule!”

“Wow,” I said, “it wouldn’t take a whole lot to turn you into a killing machine, would it, Miss Adaawan? I wonder if Sara Duterte has any idea of the military killing potential of a mother scorned! Maybe she should look into mandatory military service for mothers, instead, for a change,” I said and no sooner had I uttered the last word than Miss Deema jumped on her feet.

“THAT’S IT, SIR!!! MOTHERS FOR CHANGE!!!” Deema shrieked, “Sara should lead the charge and bring Mocha Uson and Michele Gumabao with her to the hottest warzone in Tawi-Tawi! They can wage war by fellatio just like Mocha Uson likes to demonstrate with her ‘how to pepe’ series on YouTube!” the whole class exploded in guffaws.

“Language, Miss Deema!!” I cautioned, “it’s not even really that funny, especially considering that those three women are not even mothers!” I said.

Deema stopped laughing and stomping her feet long enough to say, between gasps, “Oh, what I’d give to see those three women get dropped by parachute into a warzone. THEY WILL BECOME MOTHERS, sir, I guarantee it!”

“Yes, just upon a smile!!!” Miss Julyrain added.

“I can’t believe.. you perv—ah, just get the hell out of here, all of you. Class dismissed!”

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