Vamos a velada

This is it!  The reunion of High School Class 1963, not at UST (my beloved alma mater), not at Maryknoll/Miriam (my adoptive sistahs) but, tada, at Assumption Convent!  How did I connect with this last batch of goldies but goodies?  Someone suggested to combine the graduates of High School Class 1963 with College Class 1967 because the years spent in school reaped a goldmine of BFFs who shared the same goals and goofiness.
 

 Assumption celebrates an annual velada (or an evening party, soirée) when alumnae or old girls, like homing pigeons, return to the motherhouse garbed in their school uniform (sailor blouse, plaid skirt, and tie).  They pack the day with thanksgiving, feasting (think siomai and Assumption tarts slathered with guava jelly), singing, dancing, and taking stock of the years past.   

When I first caught sight of an old girl in uniform, I felt insecure.  “Gosh, how did she manage to preserve her old uniform but, more startlingly, fit into it?”  “We don’t!” replied Sonia Recto-Lopez.  “We are measured for a new set to camouflage all those years of compounded eating that wrecked the figure but made us perfect models for Fernando Botero.”  

      

“Velada is not only an event but an experience flushed with unbridled excitement.  Some of us have not seen each other since graduation so when nostalgia kicks in, the reunion becomes a trek down memory lane,” said Manel Katigbak. 

The enduring affection for batchmates and schoolmates is so powerful that neither the passage of time nor distance has diminished it.  I’ve seen classmates misting up at seeing each other, shrieking unashamedly with delight.

Velada is traditionally hosted by the silver jubilarians (25 years), “because they’re the youngest of the lot,” said a Blue Sapphire alumna (45 years).  Indeed, the older one grows, the more precious one becomes whether as a diamond (60 years out of high school), as gold (50 years), ruby (40 years), jade (35 years) or pearl (30 years).  Each category is a glistening gem of great worth.

And so, on that fine October Sunday, I rushed to school to watch the extravaganza.  “Are the Goldies on yet?” I asked, gasping for breath.  Tessie Pepin, sister of Isabel Fernandez-Guevara, chuckled, “In a few minutes.” 

The theater was packed to the rafters and there was something different that night:  Men.  “I value my sanity too much to mess this up,” confessed a devoted hubby. If at home, his ladylove answered to distressed calls like an invincible super heroine or as a Jill of all trades, tonight, she was unmistakably the crème de la crème.  

 

“Break a leg, Goldies,” I cried. The audience did break, into a thunderous rumble. But wait.  Three nuns — Sister Amcie, Sister Stella, and Sister Bernie — locked hands with other old girls.  Were they just going to wave to us?

The jaunty tune of Welcome to the ’60s came alive while a video screen flashed close-up shots of the dancers.  Sisters Amcie, Stella, and Bernie led the girls to move in time with the beat.  The crowd laughed, some screamed while others clapped and wolf-whistled.  Now, who’d dare say that sisters couldn’t groove to funky music?

(Note:  Class 1963 holds the distinction of having among their midst three classmates who answered a religious calling.  And where can you find the only habit in deep, rich mauve or ube?)


The sisters faded from view and were replaced by another line of girls holding transparent umbrellas.  One by one, they snapped them open, twirling them to the tune of Gene Kelly’s Singing in the Rain; a rap version blended with Gene Kelly’s and these brolly-snapping gals looked as cool as refreshing rain.

When the music changed to Abba’s Dancing Queen, the mood switched together with the stage lights now in translucent amber.  The audience held its breath when another line of statuesque girls appeared in phantom black outfits. They walked fluidly, holding gold pleated wings on their shoulders that spread out like eagles in flight.  Liz Taylor as the Nile queen would have kicked a fuss.          


Next came Captain and Tennille singing “Love, love will keep us together.”  Another line of girls moved on stage holding sandalwood fans moving smoothly with a shuffle and a half that could send the head spinning.   They also danced to Motown’s Stop (in the name of love) before switching to Buttercup, the top hit of the ’60s.