“The best teacher in the world is a mistake.”
Nanay said it one ordinary morning, over breakfast, as if she were commenting on the weather. It was a Monday. I remember because my white polo—once proudly white—had become a soft experiment in pink. Random stains bloomed across the fabric, the unintended artwork of a red bandana I had foolishly trusted inside a crowded laundry basin.
I was in high school then—a proud freshman, officially promoted to “manhood” on account of being old enough to do my own laundry. Or so I believed.
In our house, household chores were not chores. They were academics. Nanay ran a curriculum stricter than most schools. By twelve I could earn a Latin honor in dishwashing. I had double majors in stain removal for stainless and cast-iron pans, as well as grease elimination from pots abused by beef bulalo and kare-kare. I carried minors in LPG stove cleaning.
Sweeping floors was preschool territory. Mopping floors and stairs belonged to elementary school. Middle school was where things got serious: disassembling electric fans for cleaning, hauling water-filled containers from public water terminals under the heat of late mornings and unforgiving afternoons. The wet market was an advanced class—requiring mental arithmetic, sharp judgment, and an eye trained not just for cheap prices, but for honesty and freshness.
Laundry, however, was graduate school.
It was where life lessons were laundered alongside clothes. The main objective of this course was simple: whatever you wear should make you look presentable. Ironing was an advanced subject. Folding clothes was a specialization.
That Monday morning, I failed the course.
I was still an amateur. I remember Nanay’s voice—“Ihiwalay ang mga puti sa mga de-kolor.” Separate the whites from the colored clothes. I heard her, yes—but I did not listen. My attention was busy elsewhere, scattered in that careless mental space reserved for twelve-year-old boys and their belief that nothing truly irreversible exists.
Besides, it was a lovely Sunday. A boy should be allowed to enjoy his Sunday nonsense.
The consequences arrived before sunrise.
I had finished bathing. My school bag sat ready. A plastic bag waited faithfully for my freshly laundered polo—the uniform I would wear after my morning carpentry work. I reached in.
What emerged was no longer white.
Five innocent polos had been baptized in red dye, casualties of my inattention. Evidence, hanging limp and undeniable, that choice—however small—insists on being noticed. Everything in life is a choice, though that discussion belongs to another chapter.
Nanay looked at the damage and said calmly, “Sa susunod, huwag mo nang pagsasamahin.”
Next time, don’t mix them.
“Sapat na ang minsang pagkakamali. Dapat matuto ka sa nangyari.”
One mistake is enough. Learn from this.
Much later, I understood how universal her words were.
Choices arrive quietly, but consequences announce themselves. We bought new uniforms. We sewed new patches onto the lone pocket on the left. The stained polos were beyond saving. The damage was permanent. Everything had to be replaced.
Thankfully, they were only school uniforms.
Mistakes are the best teachers—but they are harsh ones. They teach without mercy, without apology, and without repetition. Some stains do not wash out.
And I learned this early:
There are mistakes you recover from.
And mistakes should be taken seriously.
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters