"It was the worst of times, it was the best of times..."

We were under a dictatorship but for Marcos the jig was up. Benigno Aquino was shot. Political turmoil. People were angry and discontented. The killings, the violation of human rights was at a boiling point. People were outraged. EDSA 1. Then the dictator left. But maybe I was so wrapped up in my adolescent world I can only remember flashes of political instability.

In our world, it was not the politics that made it worst but all the insecurities that came with adolescence that would hit you right when hormones were jumping, facial imperfections such as pimples, oily face and body hairs were appearing, and discomfort of the regular monthly blood release signaling your capacity to procreate at a time when the love of your high school life decided to smile at you, noticed you and your pimples, or your new haircut and suddenly took an interest in teasing or talking to you.

It was the time of chocnut and tootsie roll, the smell of banana cues, mango shake, waffles, and Ka- Liwanag’s lugaw, pancit, the teachers’ yema, sampaloc and our very own teenage sweat. These were motivations enough to go to school. We’ve had enough inspiration and motivation from parents pushing us to do good, how much education cost and how they are working like dogs just so we can go to school, (now it’s our turn to deliver those dialogues to our kids or nieces). Then we have teachers telling us, we have what it takes, or we don’t, just to challenge us to prove them wrong.

Twenty years after high school, some of us now having our own high school kids to worry about, I drift back and think. How did I feel that time? What motivated me? What did I learn that is actually of use to me now? What were the valuable learnings outside the classrooms but internal in nature - relationships, emotions and knowing one’s self? Were my experiences enough to put me to the limits of teenage suicide? Today we call it manic depression which is said to be rooted from childhood where we acquire wounds we never really recover from with only bandaid (now it’s mediplast) over it, without a deep level of healing, self love and self worth. The hurting ran deep.

In time memories blur as more are accumulated and stacked away until we want to remember. I remember the humid afternoons when I space out for forty-five minutes if I’m lucky not to get caught, day-dreaming. And that is only because I was beginning to get a reputation of talking while the teacher was discussing. I was either talking with my seatmates around arguments and theories or was pretty much getting them to day dream with me…

Did we or did we not, anticipate mass, gawarasal, pananagutan not because each event erases the sins we committed or gets us closer to heaven, but because of the chance of seeing our crush again. Then we kneel down and thank the lord for such a chance.

Add economics in the insecurities. Just when one is so tense about an exam in a subject we knew we did not pay attention to, we get a reminder for our parents to pay for the tuition fee. Though nobody really knew, we felt embarrassed, worried and tense. Then we sincerely kneel during the next scheduled mass and thank the Lord for helping mama and papa beat the payment deadline.

I especially love looking at our church. Back then, to me it was huge. And ancient. It has that old untouched by modern design look. Shaped like a cross, it is large and some parts are closed for small masses like a class’ pananagutan. I remember the stone color, untainted by paint. And classic to me. It has sculptural pieces and large statues with features like those of the people residing in Cainta, mestizo. Some of them were so high it frustrated me because I couldn’t see the details no matter how much I stretch my neck. The walk from the entrance to the altar seemed like forever, especially during graduation. The whole church could host an entire batch plus relatives of each of the graduating students. And the whole high school during holy days of service.

I also remember the green acacia leaves contrasting against the clear blue skies and the sun in its late-afternoon angle. During scalding noon time, the acacia trees offer refuge from the sun’s heat. The massive trunks offer solace if you feel like not talking to anyone and literally will support your back as you lean on it when you feel sad. And the way the acacia branches sway to the beat of the leaves rustling as the wind sweeps the heat up away from you. At times the wind will go down lifting the skirts of the girls, giving heated thighs fresh air. Sometimes it would sweep the scattered leaves on the ground like forlorn souls getting a boost and a chance to run before they get piled up in one corner by the school sweeper. Be careful of the seasonal higad though.

And the music. That was the best part, something that we can be proud of. Most of today’s music reeks of piracy and remakes of old songs. An era has its own particular beat, rhythm and mood. Music defines a generation. I learned to actually listen to what the songs and sounds were trying to say. State of the Nation, Absolute Reality, Shout, Birds Fly (or Whisper to a Scream if you will), Russians, Suffer the Children, REM in a time of turmoil, chaos and confusion especially for teenagers groping their way towards life and their world while the world outside and around them spins. Dear God, Losing my religion questioning the existence of God when all around your everyday life Catholic religion tells you to fear even doubting. Boys don’t cry on what I think is about wrong decisions made, the escapist and one of my personal favorites Kitchensink drama, Head over heels, More to Lose, these were the songs speaking the current realities and feelings of that generation. Yet there were also love songs, songs that talked about peace, and hope: The promise, Gorgeous, Billy Joel’s And so it goes, I go crazy, In a Big Country, Don’t dream it’s over, B52s, Blondie, Talking Heads, Melt with You, Just to see her and You to me are everything, to name a few.

And the sounds of those times. You hear running, fast, slow, the wheeled bags of elementary kids being dragged as they run excitedly out the gate. Sharon Cuneta’s “High School Life” on the speakers, laughter, the volleyball and basketball cheers, the droning lectures, chalk writing on the blackboard, exciting chatter when a teacher is absent, giggles, pages of notebooks turning, chalk-filled erasers being pounded, cleaners sweeping and scrubbing the floor, chairs moved and put back in place, suppressed sighs as you see your crush, groans when a teacher gives seatwork, a classmate falling off a chair, feet over wooden stairs or marching during CAT, the incessant whirr of the ceiling fans.

Everything moved in one big sequence and rhythm as the orchestra that is high school life, played our symphony. -#-

Thursaday, April 27, 2006