It was not my wedding but that day I was wearing something new, something borrowed and something blue. Though I was dressed in white, I was also not a bride. Not at all.
But I was over the moon with excitement.
It was my JS Prom in February 1987, my Junior year at Cabuyao Institute, a private high school 30 minutes away from Gulod. At 15, I was about to experience something out of the ordinary — my first time to wear something formal, my first time to dance the cotillion.
My good friend from Gulod named Estee Encarnacion lent me his white blazer and white cotton pants. The baggy pants fit me well but the blazer was a bit oversized. Estee also lent me his mahogany brown long-sleeved shirt and navy blue tie. The brown belt and the brown Haruta shoes were borrowed from my Kuya Gadie. And for something new, my mother bought me a new pair of white socks.
I cared very little if I was fashionable or not. I only wanted to be presentable and I was very grateful there were people willing to dress me up for my prom.
The weekend before the prom, I remember walking to the house of Estee to borrow his clothes. The heat of the noontime sun was no match to the blowing breeze. It helped that his house was a few meters away from the shore of Laguna Lake.
The Meestee 5. (From left) Rowena Monteverde-Torres, Elizabeth Osis-Tampor, Almaira Cantalejo- Cariaga, Raquel Sebastian-Dedel and Rozeña Alcauzen-Vergara.
When I arrived at Estee’s house, I was welcomed by his pants and blazer dancing to the wind as they were still hanging in the sampayan (clothesline) — freshly washed and con todo almirol (starched all over). One end of the clothesline wire was attached to a pillar in their terrace. The other end of the sampayan was tightly looped around a robust camachile tree whose trunk still bore the sign “Sobra na! Tama na! Palitan na!” It was the campaign slogan of Cory Aquino, a Philippine icon of democracy who defeated the dictator in the February 1986 snap election.
When prom day came, I was ecstatic. I was imagining the steps of the cotillion in my head. My classmates and I had been practicing our dance for more than a month. By lunchtime, I had packed everything in my big green Khumbmela backpack, which my mother bought installment style from Deep Singh, a tall and stout Indian with a turban. Deep roamed around Gulod with batya (basin), kulambo (mosquito net) and desk fans all carried in his long, raucous motorcycle.
After a jeepney ride from Gulod and a tricycle ride from the town of Cabuyao, I made it to the house of my high school dear friend Almaira Sac Cantalejo in a barrio called Bigaa. I dusted myself off before I entered her house. In those days, a long and winding rough road connected Gulod and neighboring coastal barangays to the town proper.
Maira was my classmate from first year high school. She was my partner in the cotillion. Well, if the prom happened today, it would be best to call Maira my date. But it would be to the consternation of some of our schoolmates who had an eye on her.
I dressed up in her house. Well, many times, I also ate my lunch in her house because Nanay Belen, Maira’s mother, would always be kind enough to feed me after our morning session in school.
Maira was beautiful in her baby pink organza cocktail dress. A neighborhood kusturera (seamstress) made her dress because her father, Daddy Tony, an OFW in Riyadh, made sure his daughter would wear something nice on her JS Prom. Maira was accompanied by her mother to the parlor of Rosie Mariñas, the go-to makeup artist in those days in Cabuyao. My friend was dolled up well; her bangs teased to perfection.
So there we were, Maira in her pink dress and I in my immaculate white ensemble, by the roadside of Bigaa, flagging down a tricycle at 5 p.m. for our 6-o’clock JS Prom.
A little before 5:10 p.m., we were already in school. Maira was ecstatic, too. Especially when she saw our classmates, including her four girl friends who also made up the Meestee 5: Rozeña Alcauzen, Rowena Monteverde, Raquel Sebastian and Elizabeth Osis.
I vividly remember my own group, the Reflex Battalion, looking spiffy in coats and tuxedos — and literally a battalion of them rode a jeepney to attend our prom. Most of them borrowed or rented their attire for the night. And we all sported a burnt complexion because in third year high school, we trained as cadets for the Citizens Army Training.
There was no dinner served. But we found our way to the canteen of Aling Ising for some sopas and pancit. We were careful not to stain our suits and dresses with the orange sauce of the spaghetti. There was revelry in the air as we partook of our dinner. The girls barely ate, afraid perhaps that their lipstick would be erased.
When it was time for our dance, we readied ourselves at the school quadrangle. Then, squeaky amplifiers resounded with Johann Strauss II’s The Blue Danube and we waltzed the night away. There was spring in our steps, nervousness and excitement on our faces, joy in our souls. That night, a quadrangle the size of a basketball court was filled with third year students dressed to the nines. The Seniors watched us perform. Our teachers smiled from ear to ear. And when the 15-minute waltz was over, there was applause that thundered inside the quadrangle.
The night would not end without the awarding of Miss Dream Girl and Miss Junior, which were won by our classmates Raquel Sebastian and Mila Cynthia Leopoldo, respectively.
Right after the coronation, we had our first “sweet dance” to the tune of Janet Jackson’s Let’s Wait Awhile. Right after, we partied wildly to the songs of Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet and Eurythmics.
By 9 p.m., our principal, Ms. Teodora Monteverde, took to the microphone to announce the party was over. There were silent hushes of protest. But in a JS Prom that required a permit signed by our parents and guardians, we were compelled to honor the hour of party dismissal.
Nanay Belen was outside the school, ready to pick up Maira. Other parents were there, too, waiting for their children. I went home with my cousin Norman Hatuina, catching the last jeepney that would ply the route to Gulod.
That night, I slept with a big smile crossing my face.
(For your new beginnings, e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com.I’m also on Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed Sunday!)