"I now
realize that many of you came from 'dysfunctional families'. Some of you
were also probably suffering from ADHD. We just did not have the names
for these conditions back then." Ms. Tuviera, our petite high school
history teacher, shared this insight, partly in jest, in an informal reunion
a few years ago.
We were fortunate to have many of her kind
who through pure grit remained committed to our Benedictine education despite
our deficiencies. She was one of our strict but brilliant mentors who did
not mince words with those who misbehave or slacken in class. Mataray
siya!!! But she hammered into our thick skulls the value of learning from history.
And, it has been 40 years since our high
school graduation night when our principal, Fr. Tarci, in a last-ditch effort
at redemption, suddenly herded us into the St. Anselm's Conference Hall for his
memorable farewell homily just as we were about to head out to join our respective families in celebration. He ordered the doors of the hall closed and we wondered what this was about. We were his most difficult batch in all his four years of
being principal, he said. We made a living hell out of his life, he said. He had a major catharsis of long-held repressed emotions!!! Well, he had long apologized for that during our silver reunion in 2001. Personally, I was grateful for that good
riddance speech. It was a humbling experience for everyone. For
him, too, he said.
But has our batch grown wiser? With
the beginning signs of failing health and faltering mental faculties which are further aggravated by lifestyles that are far from ideal, it's hard to say. But our 40th reunion has become a must-attend
event as many realize that they will probably not be around ten years from now.
We grew up during tumultuous times. We had a good view of Mendiola
Bridge from our classrooms. And we learned in elementary that you don't
drink molotov cocktails and you don't find aspirin in pillboxes. Some of
us even learned how to make these bombs. We also frequently saw thousands of jeepney drivers and student activists march up to Malacañan from Mendiola in
impressive phallanxes chanting "Makibaka! Huwag matakot!
Marcos, ibagsak!" And we were taught to dive to the floor upon
hearing any explosion; we knew how the shrapnel of
exploding pillboxes and grenades behave when they hit ground and how Metrocom
shoot with their armalites.
And, we were called "martial law
babies" as we welcomed an abbreviated freshman high school year when martial law was declared in 1972.
However, we were like restless lion cubs with the zoo keeper and lion
tamer, Fr. Tarci, having a terrible time addressing our frat wars, our bloody
skirmishes with students from Baste, the occasional exploding toilets and the occasional
whiff of burning hemp in the classrooms. (I have to point out here that
many of these practices were instigated by an older batch.) We were constantly reminded that martial law had been declared -- the barbed wire barricades at the historic bridge, Metrocom officers in full battle gear, and the massive tanks --
but we were teen-agers with dysfunctional proclivities! And we had to
live up to how we were called in the government-controlled press: the Bedan
boors!
And so our school attempted to innovate.
Individualized Instruction came in and a pilot class was started.
This eventually gave birth to San Beda Alabang which was then called the
Benedictine Abbey School. Growth in Personhood became a new subject in
the hope of putting some dint of civility to the boors. And, we were the
first school to hold elections to a student council in the so-called "New
Society". It was called the Student Coordinating Board. And we
were taught a new battlecry: "Leadership is Service! Service
is leadership!" And we were allowed to sit in a board of discipline
right across the dreaded Mr. Blanco, Prefect of Students, and dear Fr. Tarci as they discuss the fate of erring schoolmates. We were also one
of the first schools to revive a school paper; we had free rein on
content so long as they remained domestic in scope. San Beda had to make
do given the repression and pervasive fear with Malacanan Palace as a next-door
neighbor.
The lions are again going home to their
lair. We hope to rekindle friendships and to reminisce good and bad times
in the usual abandon and mirth. We bring stories of our struggles and our
victories, big and small. But like lions that have left its lair for far too
long, we ache to go home. And we have grown wiser as we now value, more than ever, our friendships, and recall the people who mattered most in
our lives.
