Oh memories, oh happiness!

Why did you go to a coed school in high school yet study at an all-girls school in college? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?" Because my mother believed that her daughter should stay close to her sibling brothers, choice of schools included, to make sure that she was well-guarded from boys. Aw, shucks!

Looking back, however, this odd arrangement of shifting schools gave me a wider range of exposure, which expanded my world and circle of friends. I am in fact reaping the rewards today.

For example, the last time I attended a high school reunion, I was surprised to discover that "one or two members from the afternoon session" (translation: boys!) were in fact mindful of my existence. One classmate, serving as the "bridge emeritus" whispered to me, "You have a secret admirer! He used to describe you as the cute as a button girl from Section C. (translation: You’re tiny and petite as a pea! Woe is me) The teasing, the banter and repartee reached an amusing peak when the boys pushed and plucked out the now-portly, blushing co-alumnus who kept his child-like crush hidden all this time.

Of course, like to many of us, the years brought many changes. Physically, his once multi-faceted profile is now "pigeonholed" into two basic sides: the plus (+) and the minus (-). He added a pot belly, a triple chin, a few age spots and wrinkles on his brow and he lost his Elvis/Bobby Darin-styled sideburns, his permanent teeth (can the Tooth Fairy open a calcium bank with them?), his 20/20 vision and, heaven forbid, his marbles? Joke only! My "secret" admirer was really very likeable. He was neat, courteous plus kinda cute with his salt-and-pepper hair and, tadah, he’s a successful, practicing gentleman of law.

The whole table roared with laughter when he turned towards me and said, "Our classmate here was so ‘cute’ (sic) that I used to come to school early each day on the oft chance that I would catch her at the exit doors around dismissal time. She never knew I existed! Through the many zigzags in my life, it’s nice to finally sigh with relief because at last, my heart’s an open door!" The whole assembly broke into a hearty and spontaneous applause! Isn’t that one of the nicest complements that’s not only music to the ears but straight out of a nursery rhyme? (Sugar and spice and everything nice).

Our homecoming was more than a generous spread of bonhomie. It was an affirmation that in this gathering of former classmates, practically strangers really, there stirred a genuine feel for each other. What happened? Our alma mater became the symbol of unity. We have become family. The school took on a magical dimension. Beyond the classrooms and blackboards, it became a keeper of all those unforgettable moments when we were young and foolish; when hopes and dreams were identical, sometimes discouraged or weighed down by the same insecurities and fears. The years past have also removed any trace of competitiveness or envy. Gone were all the strangers, only friends have remained. We were the High School Batch of 1963.

You can always tell an old student from a new one – while the former exhibits an air of "this is my turf" kind of confidence, the latter has that "I am lost, won’t you help me" kind of timidity. There were more of the latter during my first hour at my new school. Another newcomer smiled at me as she stood by the main door. Cautiously, I approached her. "Hi! My name is Rosette, what’s yours?" She became a friend for life.

The first week, we were herd like docile sheep from one classroom to another. Mother E, the "hands-on" Dean, was concerned about our spiritual wellbeing so she arranged to have a father confessor at the chapel to listen to our indiscretions. Barely warming my seat, she appeared from nowhere and pointed at the whole class with a sweeping stroke of her compass-like finger. She hollered, "Get the hell out of here!" – my first lesson and example of the French’s double entendre!

Despite our hectic schedule, we easily made friends especially with the girls seated immediately to our left or right (seating was alphabetical). We exchanged notes and doodles and on particularly hot and steamy afternoons, one could witness row upon row of bobbing heads all struggling to stay awake! The ceiling fan with its noisy motor made it blissful to snore.

We had the best professors but even the best had unconventional traits. Take Professor E who taught logic – the science of reasoning and deduction. Without saying a single word, he would climb up the platform (the teacher sits at an elevated desk so that it was easier to catch loafers!) and perform his daily ritual like the famous French pantomime artist, Marcel Marceau. First, he’d take the eraser and clean the board from top to bottom using even strokes, equally-spaced. Next, he’d pull out his reference books making sure that the edges of the books were on equal angles with the edge of the desk. No word spoken still. Finally, with all his props in their designated spots, he’d pull out a fresh stick of chalk, hold it up high and break into a wry grin. By then, you would have freaked out at his bizarre behavior or you would have dismissed it as just another quirky, typical day in school!

Communication gadgets were primitive and if you missed the school bus or your car pool, you languished in the waiting room while you waited for an alternative ride home. That could take from one hour to half a day! But this dark-cloud-of-a-day could actually turn sunshiny when generous nuns in charge of the kitchen would take notice of us poor, hungry and stranded souls. "Abandoned again?" they’d say as they brought out trays of freshly-baked tarts. "Here, help yourself." It was an acquired taste, but one colleague loved the tarts so much that she deliberately missed the bus or crossed her fingers for her car to get stuck in traffic. Depending on how long she’d be waiting, she could actually finish two or four wedges – even the whole, yummy pie with an extra serving of guava jelly! (The nuns have kept the formula secret but they continue to bake the tarts to the delight of new students and "old girls" alike).

We had jam sessions to break the monotony of a grueling week. We had this spy-of-a-classmate who would jot down the names of those among us who dared defy the "marylike" dress code – anything backless, sleeveless, mini or with a low-neckline was forbidden. The rat! How did we exact revenge? By sticking day-old bubble gums on her seat and automatically looking the other way.

Have you ever experienced being a wallflower? It is the worst, most energy-zapping and depressing moment of one’s vulnerable life! I hated the party setup. While young ladies were made to sit on one side of the dance floor, the men stood huddled on the opposite side. This was sweet power in the hands of these young men as they took their own time to pick out the girl to ask for a dance. If you did something bad in your past life, you get karmic justice by being left alone in an empty row of seats, in full view of everybody! But since the earth won’t open up to swallow you whole, you try to hide your embarrassment by fanning and feigning exhaustion. A fan therefore becomes an essential piece of survival. It can save your face and your reputation!

There were good days and bad days, ranging from getting a flat A in an oral exam to running out of ink during a written exam. Some more daring and spirited, would light a cigarette or climb up the brick fence to go awol. Loyalties were tested as one switched from one group to the other until one has finally found a clique that shared a common need and value. There was music, joy, fun, love, also hurt, betrayal and pain but all seemed bearable because we had youth, enthusiasm and each other. We were the College Batch of 1967.

Parading finally in our cap and gown, Mother E had one parting word, "Your school provided the necessary tools to prepare you for the bigger challenges in the world outside. Take off your rose-colored glasses because it’s cruel out there." And she was right!

A brilliant friend, Fe Reyes-Wanner, summed up our collective sentiment when she wrote, "While I knew then that we were happy, I never knew how much until this season in our lives. Often, we don’t realize how precious something is until we lose it, or are on the verge of losing it. I guess this is why someone very wise once wrote that ‘happiness is more often remembered than experienced.’ It’s now that I appreciate the brightness and innocence of those days."

Bring out those guava jelly tarts, the nostalgia bug has bitten again.

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