High school days, oh my high school days
February 15, 2003 | 12:00am
Just what is the color of ruby?" my friend Maurita asked. "It’s neither blood nor ‘raise-the-flag’ red," I replied. "It’s more like burgundy wine, in rich, deep maroon." Wondering why she asked me that, Maurita explained, "My high school class (College of the Holy Spirit) is having a reunion and I was told to come in a ruby-hued dress since we are the ruby jubilarians." That’s 40 years out of high school!
I was jolted in my seat because – ouch! – I am a ruby too! That was the decade of bobbie sox, mary janes, ponytails, multi-layered petticoats and twin set cardigans. Cute-as-a-button Sandra Dee was romancing Troy Donahue in A Summer Place, although secretly I was hoping she would be paired with my teen idol, Ricky Nelson. When she eloped with Bobby Darin who sang and popularized Somewhere Beyond the Sea (La Mer) and Mack the Knife, I dropped down in despair.
It was also that magical time when my grandmother used to "collect" all her young granddaughters to treat to weekends of marathon, home-made dulces (sweets) followed by Tagalog movies in downtown Avenida Rizal. Porcelain beauty Gloria Romero was her favorite; she seemed to grace every billboard and had a new movie every month. Ever the heroine with her virgin looks and virtue, she always surmounted all kinds of domestic storms especially with a villain-of-a-mother-in-law in Etang Dicher, a veteran character actress. In the movie entitled Ang Biyenan Kong Hindi Tumatawa (My Mother-in-Law Who Never Laughed), I clapped with delight when Etang plunged herself into the deep ocean cackling "happily" to her demented, maddening end. I even had a kilo of freshly roasted chestnuts costing a hefty P2.50 as my movie snack! A cinema ticket cost P1.20 (orchestra), P2.20 (balcony) and P3.20 (lodge).
Every Filipino family adopted US President John F. Kennedy and his gorgeous wife Jacqueline. Their every move was captured on film and print. Although America was still a country that very few could visit since it took forever to get there – what with propeller-powered aircraft – we liked anything American including that sweet smell of success that one could inhale and taste in their chocolates (Hershey’s, Tootsie Roll), candies (Lifesavers) and processed meat (Spam and Vienna sausage).
I was not particularly attuned to local politics although I heard names like Amang Rodriguez and the two political parties, the Liberal and the Nacionalista. Blood, gore and violence, whether triggered by ideology or economics, were only seen in movies.
One thing I remembered was that public servants were looked up to because they served as the role models for service without compromise or ransom. They took pride in their work and espoused their family-held virtues and integrity. The quest for honor and service to humanity was not clouded by money, power or worse, by greed.
It was the time I also discovered boys. However, I took the coy and squeamish route with my cousin Remy every time we played the counting game: We counted every handsome boy that we would spot on the road – in a car, bus, jeepney, tricycle or on foot but always at a safe distance. Of course, painting romantic scenarios like holding hands along the sandy shore with the fading sunset in the horizon never became real because I didn’t like the beach and was terrified of the sea!
For some reason, I was always elected as the class treasurer despite the common knowledge that I didn’t like numbers. My mother solved that by hiring a tutor in algebra who was a look-alike of that kid Dexter on Cartoon Network. Crew cut and horn-rimmed, Mr. Wilson taught me how to get to the formula faster and simpler than the teacher! Having discovered the secret and joy of problem solving, my phobia disappeared. In no time, I was breezing through all quizzes and tests earning a blue stamp marked "exempt from taking the final exams."
A jeepney ride cost 10 centavos. I would have a chicken sandwich from Little Quiapo across from España Street smothered in pickle relish and a big heap of rich mayonnaise with a tall glass of iced soda that gave me brain freeze every time – all for P0.75!
On the school grounds, we kept a look out for those English campaign enforcers. They were the whistle blowers who would hand us white slips that carried a fine between 20 and 50 centavos for every Tagalog word spoken! If one habitually broke this strictly enforced rule, one was called to the principal’s office for a dress down. We never reached that notoriety lest suffer the stern, stoic and intense gaze from Mrs. Llanderal!
The English campaign was not unreasonable really; the idea was to make the students speak in straight Tagalog or English, never half and half, not mixed, and heaven forbid, never Taglish!
In one home economics class, the project was to make a set of cotton flannel pajamas. Not for Fe and me. We would rather compare the latest 45-rpm or 78 LP (long playing) album we got on Raon Street in Evangelista, Quiapo, than learn about pattern making, much less sew one!
One day, the teacher asked, "Where are your pajamas?" Gazing up, I gulped, "Ah, Ma’m, is that what we’re making?" She didn’t give me time to silk-cocoon my way out of this latest waywardness. With a voice that could out-thunder King Thor, she blurted, "You submit your pajamas, sewn and ready to wear by tomorrow or you don’t graduate!"
With panic in my heart, I hurried home, grabbed our trusted housekeeper, Rosita, and asked her to bring me to Central Market or Kamuning Market to buy the flannel material. Like in any panic-button situation, the whole market had none! In desperation, I combed every stall until I found the flannel in a thick, dark maroon shade. It was so unappealing, guaranteed to turn your stomach slimy green that I suspected it was exclusively designed to camouflage shell-shocked and malaria-infested soldiers in combat!
Deep in the night, I measured, drew and cut the pattern and finished the pajamas in four hours with barely two hours left for sleep. (Aw, all right, it was Rosita who sewed it!) With the pajamas in hand came a sense of relief and a firm resolve that I will never, never go "wayward" again.
Raising the pajamas to show to the rest of my classmates, my teacher got the shock of her life; they had no pockets, no sleeves, no buttonholes and er, they were not pajama "longs" but pajama "shorts." Catching that wicked glint in my teacher’s eyes, I quickly argued, "Eh, Ma’am, it has no pockets because I don’t need pockets at night; no sleeves because it’s hot, I used snaps for easy buttoning and they’re pajama shorts because I sleep in shorts!"
It worked! She gave me passing marks and Fe, my accomplice and partner-in-crime, had an equally plausible excuse that got her one of the highest marks. I cried foul!
Two of my classmates, Cora and Grace, had mothers who were in the jewelry trade. They made it possible for us to own girlie trinkets to address our frou-frou streaks and keep within our budget.
We had a lot of fun together. There was trust and affection. Even if classmates got on each other’s nerves, each of us would claim we were without sin.
Through the years, we appreciated the beautiful and poignant memories that kept the demon pomposity in control. Every now and then, I would get an odd greeting of "Mommy" from complete strangers, confirming my fear that some people have actually started to treat me like a relic. No sweat. There are about 350 more "oldies but goodies" where I came from who are facing all sorts of stark realities to restore balance and defy hubris. There is indeed safety in numbers and contrary to what others may say, getting old can be a barrel of laughs.
I read somewhere that when closing the book on high school, we should not make the mistake of "living in the past." Now that it’s out of our system, we intend to live in the present, looking forward to the future.
It’s a most fitting, radiant way to remember those rare and ruby years.
BrandSpace Articles
<
>
