Me against the world

I have been a student of the School That Must Not Be Named for the past 14 years of my life. It is my sworn, solemn duty as a rebellious Catholic schoolgirl to say that, yes, I wish I could leave. I have wanted to leave since the fifth grade, I think; when I finally found out that having 160 (or so) prepubescent girls as peers was a terrible thing. We’re all friends now, of course. (Most of the time.) Since then, I have complained about everything, from the schoolwork to the administration to the dress code, even to the lack of toilet paper in the bathrooms.

I never thought it would happen, but I’m getting my wish. Finally.

By the time this is published, I will have graduated (I hope) from high school. It’s hard to imagine that I’ll be closing such a big chapter of my life. I will no longer don our highly unfashionable school uniform. I will never have to sing our never-ending dirge of a National Artist-composed alma mater song ever again. (Apparently, having to stand at attention for a good five minutes in order to sing a veeery slooow song that is too high-pitched for you is forgivable if it has been composed by Lucio San Pedro.)

My batchmates and I have always had quite a lot to complain about. (Not that we don’t love our school, of course. We all secretly do, it just isn’t socially acceptable to admit it.) At some point last month, we were all pretty happy to be leaving the place we lovingly call Inferno (blame it on English class). Over the past few days, however, as graduation rehearsals were drawing to a close, we began to realize that we wouldn’t just be leaving the school. We would be leaving each other and leaving the places where we had grown up.

We have, as our graduation song so aptly put it, been walking together. And now, we’ll be walking apart.

This terrifies me.

I have known most of these people for over a decade now. Some of us have never exchanged anything more than a casual wave or random small talk, but that doesn’t matter. They were there to remind me that continuity exists in this chaotic world. They were there to tell me not to panic – that everything, from the stress to the deadlines to the exams to the choreographed Backstreet Boys medleys, would still be there tomorrow. (Or three months from the beginning of summer vacation.) They were a constant, and they made me feel safe.

But from this point onwards, everything will change. It scares me, sometimes, to think about tomorrow. What happens next? Where will I go? Where will I be?

I have always been afraid of big changes. I understand that change is as inevitable as death; that it is the only constant. I have just never been comfortable with not knowing.

As much as I hate to admit it, though, my school really has taught me enough for my academic survival. I’ll do what I can to get through college mathematics, harder Filipino classes, and Katipunan traffic.

More importantly, the people I met there have taught me everything I need to know to survive the rest of my life. They taught me how to move on after losing someone (or something). They taught me how to listen. They taught me understanding and respect. They taught me empathy. They taught me how to be a friend. They taught me how to lead and how to follow. They taught me when to fight and when to gracefully surrender. They taught me to endure.

Armed with this limited supply of knowledge and experience, I’m off to do battle with the rest of the universe. I don’t know what’s out there, but I owe it to everyone who has helped me become who I am today to face my fear of the unknown. They think I can do it, and I think I can, too.

I don’t care if it makes me a dork or if they revoke my membership to the exclusive rebellious Catholic schoolgirl club. Despite what I’ve said about it over the past few years, I guess I do love my school; if only for the people in it, who taught me almost everything I know. Oh. And I’m going to miss being called Goldilocks.

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As always, bewaretheashtraygirl@yahoo.com. Congratulations to the graduates of 2004-2005!