Wednesday, February 23, 2005

My whole life, I only went to one school. For sixteen years, I was enrolled to a university that my parents have brainwashed me into thinking that it should be the only option for me.

I could remember the reason why I believed them—in the eyes of a five-year-old, UST playground had the most spectacular swing there is. They came in different colors and shapes too. I could still feel the rush of excitement that ran through me when I saw a group of girls in their black culottes and white shirts laughing as they moved a swing house as fast as it could.

I wanted to get in and join them, but I couldn’t because the fence that separates them from me was padlocked. I didn’t know then that only the P.E. teacher had the key.

I was brimming with excitement and I knew my mom was too because she beaming when she took my hand and told me, “this is going to be your school. That is going to be your uniform.” She said pointing to the yellow and white checkered dress of a girl.

My eyes were filled with awe as I took in everything around me for the first time. Everything looked so big and so green. I thought I could never ever tour the campus in one afternoon.

The summer of March ’88 was unbearably hot because it was a period when aircon was a luxury that only few could afford. But the grounds of UST remained invincible to the scorching heat. Inside the walled campus, mighty trees that stood for decades mellowed the rays of the sun. When I close my eyes, I could still feel how the sweet wind caressed my face that day.

The spell was broken because as soon as we got out of the gate, pollution from jeepneys and buses in A.H. Lacson (It was called Gov. Forbes then) greeted us. I was immediately warned by my mom never to buy or eat anything from the vendors outside the gate.

Of course, a few months after that, I broke my promise as I feasted on 25 cents worth of chocolates, small colorful round candies that I hated but ate anyway because the plastic tube where it’s contained has a toy attached at the end, and kulangot (named thus because you have to use a small bamboo stick to reach for the sweet caramel inside the bamboo tube, just like picking your nose) imported all the way from Baguio.

I was never an exceptional student in elementary. I could never stay quiet for over 15 minutes (much to my teachers' dismay) and I was never good in art. I was never pretty enough nor had the finesse and sophistication to belong to the popular group. Woe to me too that I was never dirty, wild nor rowdy enough to be considered a tomboy.

I’m the type who receives the ribbon “most cheerful” because teachers realize that they ran out of adjectives to give out and they know they have to give everyone something.

But I am proud of the fact that I was chosen Reader of the Month by the librarians. They never knew the reason why I stayed inside the library in the first place was because I wanted to be near my crush, Patrick.

He always had a hardbound copy of “The Adventures of Tintin” in his hands. He was a geeky boy whose eyes were magnified by the inch-thick eyeglasses that he had to wear. He’s at the top of our class and at the age of nine, could spell and pronounce “exhausted” properly. I was in-love with him for more than five years.

To relate to him, I read the comics that he read. I finished the whole series long before he did, so to have an excuse to sit right next to him on the table I moved on to Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley Twins.

Pretty soon, he no longer became the sole reason for living. My love affair with books had begun. I read about Sherlock Holmes, got frightened by the works of Edgar Allan Poe and cried over the condensed version of “A Tale of Two Cities.”

As Reader of the Month, my photo was displayed in the hallway for more than a month. My photo was right next to Patrick’s.

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Wednesday, February 23, 2005

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