In my childhood, our school was called "Holy Ghost College", and boys were admitted to Kindergarten, First Grade and Second Grade. After that stage, I guess, boys were deemed dangerous to little girls and to themselves, and banished to such all-male reformatories as the Ateneo, De La Salle, San Beda, Letran, etc.
How did I get to be a "Paracletian"? I was Kindergarten flunker. I first took Kindergarten in the St. Joseph’s Academy (same as Ninoy) and I flunked. In dismay, my father and mother enrolled me in the Philippine Women’s University (PWU), and again I flunked out of Kindergarten.
At the Holy Ghost College I finally came into my own. I topped the Kindergarten class there. This is no reflection, I trust, on the standards of the old College of the Holy Spirit. It was a vindication, I’d rather think, of the adage: If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.
The Holy Ghost nuns, man of the German, were wonderful. They taught you discipline. They didn’t spare the rod and thus didn’t spoil the child. (We kids, grateful for being rapped on the palm with a ruler, didn’t have any Human Rights lawyers then. My dad was a lawyer, but he believed in the don’t-spoil-the-child policy. As for mama, whom we adored, she loved us but also believed that when kids erred, a-slap-in-time saves nine. And you know, up to now, I think they were right.
When I got to the Ateneo de Manila, our Grade School Principal was Father Luis Pacquing, S.J. A fellow Saluyot from Santiago and San Esteban, Ilocos Sur, Father Pacquing was one of those earnest educators who felt that a firm but friendly whack on the buttom for naughty Grade School boys was part of the Jesuit ratio studiorum. Father Pacquing was a great guy, and we all appreciated him – and his whacky walking stick. We knew that when he commanded us to bend over, we had it coming.
Forgive me for making Holy Ghost College and the Ateneo sound like plebe-bashing night at the Philippine Military Academy. We had in HGC "Sistahs" rather than Mistahs, but they had a stern Teutonic hand, accompanying each smack on the palm with an Ave Maria.
At the Ateneo we had tough guys like Father John P. Delaney, S.J., who, even when he became, years later, the beloved and fighting head of UPSCA at the University of the Philippines, thought all the Soliven boys were troublemakers.
I last saw Father Pacquing during the closing months of the war in the guerrilla movement. We had come by sailboat from Sto. Domingo, past the Japanese Kempetai barracks in Vigan (the Japanese were very visible from our becalmed boat), and finally edged into Santiago Cove.
There, to my astonishment and delight, was my Headmaster, Father Pacquing! He had lost most of his teeth by then, but was still the same, never-say-die, wisecracking priest, undaunted by the vicissitudes of war.
He was "supervising" the activities in the Cove, where American submarines and PT Boats were sneaking in large quantities of weapons (US Carbines, bazookas, Grease Guns, and Thompson submachineguns at last) and ammunition for the USAFIP Northern Luzon guerrillas. We hugged each other, he grinned through his toothless gums, gallant as ever. We never saw each other again.
Oh well. Nostalgia, they say, is the kingdom of the old. But it is a magic kingdom and the glow lingers long after those who warmed our hearts are gone – to heaven. And that’s where I know Father Pacquing went.
In this light (blackmail, I submit) Toni demanded my assistance in announcing that the Alumnae of the school were going to run a fund-raising drive, by sponsoring a musical by Repertory, Man of La Mancha.
Talk about advance notice! The Musical will hold its Opening Night next November 11 at Onstage Theater Greenbelt (Makati) and tickets will be from P1,000, P1,500, to P3,000. Ms. Gregory forgot to mention the most important thing of all: Whom to call, or visit, to buy tickets for this great musical. I suppose this is a teaser, and the details will come out later.
Here’s what Toni said in her note: " Being guided by the spirit, we are using this opportunity to honor the ‘Man of La Mancha’ in the community. We believe that in every man there is still that passion to pursue ‘the impossible dream.’ "
"During these times we should spark among our men the courage to fight the dragon and again all odds, live up to their ideals and dreams."
"We, therefore, recommend that family members and friends bring their ‘Men of la Mancha’ to the opening night on November 11 . . . where they may be inspired by the song The Impossible Dream to be sung by Michael Williams who will play Don Quixote, Cocoy Laurel as the priest, Menchu Lauchengco Yulo as Aldonza (Dulcinea), Robbie Guevarra as Sancho Panza and Cathy Azanza as the niece. Direction is by Ms. Baby Barredo and choreographer is Douglas Nierras It will be quite a stirring experience."
Well said, Toni.
In prison, I will have to recall once more, one of the songs which kept our spirits high (no pun related to the above intended) was The Impossible Dream, along with Bayan Ko. You may think that you’re, by now, sick and tired of the lyrics of that song, but wherever you are, when once more you listen to the strains of that matchless song, and hear the words, you find it resonates just as powerfully as the first time you encountered it. To fight the unbeatable foe. To right the unrightable wrong. To reach the unreachable star.
Go for it!
Amidst the clutter on my shelf are figures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza – not to forget the Knight of the Woeful Countenance’s horse, Rosinante. I picked them up in Spain many years ago, just as I had read Cervantes as a boy. And forever we’ll remember and revere that sad, mad knight after whom the term "quixotic" was derived, forever tilting with windmills and fighting armies of sheep. Ridiculous but glorious. That’s who Don Quixote was.
Even in Cyrano de Bergerac, we come upon an echo of Don Quixote’s greatness. Cyrano is taunted with the challenge: "If you tilt with windmills, those giant arms will catch you and cast you into the mud!"
To which Cyrano replies: "Or up among the stars!"
That’s what we must continue to strive for, the impossible dream – and someday, God willing, our striving will make it possible. And, cast heavenwards by the windmill’s gigantic arms – finally reach the unreachable star.