YOU ARE WHAT YOU WERE ... IN HIGH SCHOOL

Jul 13, '08 4:28 PM for everyone

You are what you were … in high school -  I have a little theory which I would invite the reader to confirm, dispute or challenge.  Be careful where you send your kids/grandkids/ nephews/nieces for high school.  I believe that what one learns, what he was taught, what one did, what one was like in high school will in a large measure determine what he will turn out to be.  You are what you were in high school.

     I was a crazy little kid who grew up in Baguio in the 1950s.  It was the best and worst of times.  Baguio City was just beginning to rise from the ruins wrought by WWII.  Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the families who lived and survived through those war years had virtually been through hell and back.  Whatever little fortune these families had managed to earn during those years was wiped out in a flash by the outbreak of the war, then by the so-called Japanese Occupation, and then again by the so-called “Liberation” by the American forces, a triple whammy if there ever was one.  When the great Gen. Douglas MacArthur returned to the Philippines (as he had grandly promised), after losing miserably in Bataan, he did so with a vengeance – at the expense of the people of the Philippines. American warplanes peppered most of our towns and cities in the country with what was graphically termed “carpet-bombing” operations, i.e., dropping big bombs on every square meter of every populated area and any known or imagined Japanese hideouts all over the country, no matter who got hurt. In the process, the Philippines was literally and truly razed to the ground.

     Interestingly enough, that did not seem to stop our parents from producing one kid after another so that by the mid-1950s they had eleven (11) children ranging in age from 1 to 15.  Obviously, family-planning was unheard of in those days.  There were hardly any houses left standing immediately after the war in Baguio, most having been blown to smithereens or burned to the ground by those massive bombing operations.  If you needed a house, you had to build one from scratch using mostly scrap materials since there were as yet hardly any construction materials available at the time. 

     It is not hard to imagine then that as children we were practically left to fend for ourselves, our parents having had to attend to a little grocery store business they had started, and looking after our baby siblings then aged 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.  It’s no wonder then that our sainted mother died at the ripe old age of 48.

     My brother John and I were your typical street children.  We were professional shoe-shine boys at 10 or 11 years old.  We sold newspapers, collected bottles, all kinds of scrap metals and junk materials which we sold to the chinaman.  What I did not realize at the time was why we were making quite a bit of money digging cast-iron soil pipes and chiselling out bathroom tiles from bombed houses and buildings.  As it turns out, since there were as yet hardly any construction materials available at the time, most people had to resort to re-using or re-cycling these tiles as well as any other usable materials.  In one of those forays through bombed buildings, I inadvertently stepped on one end of a burned and twisted GI-sheet.  The other end snapped back and nearly sliced off my left leg.  To this day, I still bear a deep four-inch scar on my left knee from that accident.

     Since we were earning quite a tidy sum of money in those days, John and I inevitably found ourselves in the company of adults easily twice our age, many of them jeep drivers and “comboys” (grown men with two-wheeled homemade wooden pushcarts for ferrying the goods of market-goers), engaging them in heavy gambling, mostly, “cara-y-cruz,” “lucky 9,” dice or blackjack.  Every so often we found ourselves running from and being chased by raiding policemen in no-nonsense anti-gambling operations.

     Even today I shudder at the thought of such a childhood, neglected street-children, roaming around in a city in ruins and already deep into a gambling streak.  There I was a thin, ill-fed and asthmatic 11-year old walking everyday along steep city streets to a makeshift school, coughing and gasping for breath along the way, in cold, dank, humid, foggy and rainy weather, lugging a “surplus” US Army bag of books on my back.  My parents had absolutely no idea then as I do now how to medicate or manage an asthmatic condition.  All the while though, Mommy who hails from Sta. Rita, Pampanga, seat of traditionally very religious families (she had a sister who was a Carmelite contemplative nun, “Imang Openg,” in Gilmore, QC), would be going to Mass every single day, praying for what neither I nor my father had any idea at all.

     One fine summer day, after John and I had just graduated from elementary school (I was maybe 13, and John 12), we were visited by two priests in clean, heavily starched white cassocks, a broad white band around their waist.  They were talking to Mommy – about us. They were a Mutt and Jeff tandem.  One was a Filipino, Fr. Constante Floresca, SVD, all of 5’2” while the other a movie-star of an American from Texas, USA, Fr. Rockledge, SVD, all of 6’2”.  They were vacationing in their SVD Baguio summer home they called “Sunnyside.”  Evidently, they had been walking and asking around town who were some of the “bright boys” who had just graduated from elementary school that year.  I am not sure now exactly how they heard about yours truly (who had graduated valedictorian of his class).  Now, mind you, Baguio as well as the entire Mountain Provinces were supposed to be CICM territory run by the Belgians.  Up to that day, we never even heard of the SVDs.  To make a long story short, one June evening of that year, I found myself at Christ the King Seminary, QC, homesick as hell, singing “Veni, Sancte Spiritus” (as well as “Veni, Creator Spiritus”) in the chapel with 24 other young boys of my age (John was to follow me later the next year).

     I did and finished my high school in the seminary.  Our first prefect was a kindly soul, an American named Fr. Mayers.  From him I learned to speak good English and drop my heavy Ilocano accent in the nick of time.  Of course, we also had a good English lay teacher, an American mestizo, Robert Wilson, who insisted on teaching us typical American English.  After about a year, Fr. George Heinemann, a German priest, and all that that signifies, took over as our prefect.  If I had my way, I would re-name the place “Fr. Heinemann Seminary.”

     He took over and did he ever.  He must have liked doing so, he was there even decades after I had left.  He was an institution. If you never heard of German discipline, think Fr. Heinemann. Almost overnight, I had forgotten all about my profligate ways as a street child growing up in post-war Baguio.  I learned to take a bath regularly (we disliked that stupid habit in cold, perennially waterless Baguio), and to do my own bed.   I learned to swim, play basketball, pingpong, pool, shuffleboard, horseshoe, chess.  I read all the books in the library.  Aside from attending regular high school classes, we had no less than three (3) hours of compulsory and “strict” study period every single day.   “Strict” study period meant that you were required to open only your assigned textbook, that is, if you had to make a book report on some fiction you had to find some other time to do the reading.

     In-between we had to find time to do our laundry, gardening or yard work (“opus manuale”) give each other a haircut, serve at table, and pray. And did we ever pray.  Aside from daily mass in the early morning, we would often have to serve at mass for other visiting priests, say the rosary, visit the chapel about three times a day, and night prayer devotions lasting about 30-45 minutes.  As if all this were not enough, before going to bed, you had to kneel beside your bed and say your bedtime prayers.  By the way, during our study period, we had a grandfather clock which would toll every fifteen minutes which meant we had to recite the “Quarter-Hour Prayer.”  We recited the “Angelus” 3 times a day.  We ended our evening prayers with “Salve Regina.”   In case you were too lazy to do some individual reading on your own time, somebody was assigned to read a Heinemann-selected material during mealtime.

     In brief, whatever I had become in high school was a foretaste of what I am now.  If I tend to gravitate around the religious and the transcendental it could only be because of my seminary years.  My theory then is: don’t even think of becoming a good golfer, basketball, chess, guitar, tennis or badminton player of consequence unless you tried doing it in high school. Your English or Tagalog accent is irreversibly formed in high school.  If you emigrated to America after high school, your accent will still sound funny to the native American speaker.  Your lifetime friends are formed in high school. If you had a girl friend in high school, she would have been your first love, and first love, so they say, never dies.

     In high school I read “Ivanhoe” by Sir Walter Scott, “A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens, I memorized all the famous Shakespeare soliloquys, speeches, and sonnets, read all the “Hardy Boys” and “Lone Ranger” books;  as well as “De Bello Gallico” and other commentaries by Julius Caesar in Latin – “Omnis Gallia in tres partes divisa est…” memorized Cicero’s oration “Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra … quem ad finem sese effrenata iactabit audacia…”  A grouchy old priest, whose name escapes me now (Fr. Schlombs [?]), made us read and re-read Virgil’s “Aeneid” in Latin as well as Homer’s “Odyssey.”  Fr. Floresca taught us Latin grammar which still serves me in good stead up to now.  I can still recite by heart Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s  Sonnet # 29, “when, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes…” as well as “How do I love thee, let me count the ways …”

     I still fondly remember and cherish the memory of my high school teachers, Mr. Cruz and Mr. Sagmit, whereas I hardly recall the names of my professors in college.  Speaking of college, what did I learn in college?  I learned to chase after girls and to cheat in my Calculus exams.  I learned to smoke and drink, sing a few love songs, and drive a car, and that’s about it.  

     I have often wondered myself why some old XVDs or ex-seminarians from Christ the King still want to keep in touch and visit the old “Kastilyo” after all these years but never even bother to re-visit the university campus where they went for college.  Indeed, if you try to examine closely the photos of the “King’s Clarion” Staff of 1963, you will find a Vicente H. Agbayani still looking like himself today, of course before he lost his innocence. I believe Vic and Herman Viloria and his King Clarion staff, what’s left of them, must still be the best of friends.

     Lately, I heard that the SVD in the Philippines has decided to stop accepting young kids to enter the seminary for high school. They say it’s too early to separate these kids from their parents.   That’s just too bad.  I only hope it’s not because they somehow begrudge all the expense and effort of training these high school kids only for them eventually to leave the seminary to pursue a secular career in college.  I hope they have not overlooked that in the meantime these young men would irrevocably have become responsible adults and mature Christians thanks in a large measure to their high school training in the seminary.   Indeed, they should have realized that you are what you were … in high school. JAMES L. 

reply

reply viloriah wrote on Jul 13, '08 Hi Jey, I definitely concur with your belief that one's high school (teenage years) training and experiences exert a very strong and lasting influence on what one turns out to be in later life. In my current role as a high school principal I find myself telling my students how crucial are their high school years ... how beliefs, values, habits, attitude, friends, discipline formed during these years will shape and infuse character and person. (Here in Canada high school is from Grade 9 -12. We used to have a Grade 13 which was eliminated a few years ago. Elementary is from Junior Kindergarten to Grade 8. After high school, most students go to College or University while the rest to trade appreticeships or the world of work.) I'm impressed with your lucid memories ... but then that should not be a surprise since they are about your most formative years.

reply viagba wrote on Jul 13, '08, edited on Jul 13, '08 "...I all alone beweep my outcast state..." having to point out that auld Alzheimer must be kicking in; and jolly old Wm. must be turning in his Shakesperean grave seeing his Sonnet XIV - in disgrace - miscounting the ways of Ms. Barrett-Browning's innocent loving...

reply jeemsdee wrote on Jul 13, '08 Hi, Kuya Herman, how nice to hear from someone who must be considered an authority on the subject - a high school principal in Canada, no less. You have a most enviable and rewarding job, being a big part of the formative years of all those young men and ladies. tnx for your supportive and generous comments. how I wish I could manage to extract something remotely resembling a compliment from your good friend from San Nicolas, I.N. tnx agn. keep in touch. rgards

reply viagba wrote on Jul 13, '08 Don't tell me you don't recognize a back-handed compliment when you see one. Tell that to the Marinas!

reply jeemsdee wrote on Jul 13, '08 Hi, VHA, no need to beweep the withering state of your memory byte. One Google click will do the trick. Moreover, your flowing prose has a way of somehow sounding like poetry in motion. BTW, what's the name of your classmate seatd between you and Herman, in that foto taken at Herman's, I believe. The guy looks exactly as he did in the King's Clarion foto.

reply jeemsdee wrote on Jul 14, '08 It's also known as "fishing for more ..." But I'll let you have the last word. Or, are we on Friendster.

reply viagba wrote on Jul 14, '08, edited on Jul 14, '08 Touche! And I thought I had you there. Great tip: seek confirmation from Goggle first before you stomp your foot on your flagging brain! "Darling, you are growing older..." (to me) You must be referring to Rome Ibera who isn't my classmate; he is much younger - entering CKS (as special class) as I was leaving DWST post novitiate. We never met in the RoP but connected in the US of A (drum roll, Epi, and take a bow) via the XVD multiply site! To cut to the chase: I now occupy his vacation house by the Jersey Shore and we have licensed it to "homecare" the developmentally disabled - more for the "giving back" than for the lucre. One did fly into the Cuckoo's Nest! Our beef: being both special class, Rome and I feel left out of the purview of your brilliant-as-usual above essay (now, do I gain me pogi points with compliment-fishing you?). But, being special, we don't really mind being left out of the run-of-the-mill...

reply gpenilla wrote on Jul 14, '08 Our HS experiences had indeed molded us to become what we are. That is why I try to join the Pax SVD reunions everytime there is one, just to once again feel this high school experience. Although, I never met 95% of the reunion attendees in the seminary, our common bond, CKS, makes me feel I know everyone very well. I always look forward to these reunions. After attending these reunions, I feelso re charged. See you guys in Toronto. Greg CKMS 73

reply jeemsdee wrote on Jul 14, '08 Tnx for your vote of approval, Bro. Greg. I myself had a chance some years ago to attend a PAX meeting in San Diego, CA, with Fr. Mike Padua in attendance. Indeed, XVDs share a common bond that translates into instant rapport whenever we come together. tnx agn. rgards

reply stephendlr wrote on Jul 14, '08 Hi, James. This is Sonny de los Reyes. I do not know whether these comments will reach you. Some comments I was supposed to have sent you seem to have evaporated into thin air. It is my fault that I lack the IQ to manipulate around the Internet, especially in Multiply. Anyway, I would like to showcase a point in your article about how important to us is that high school experience in CKS. One of my classmates, from first year high school, who left the seminary in late 1960, died last week. His name is Emnmanuel Cruz. We called him "Mate" because he was from San Mateo, Rizal. Several months before he died, we saw each other in a shopping center. We have not seen each other since 1960. That was 47 years ago. He recognized me immediately and called me "Steve", the name they call me in the seminary. I blurted out his name "Mate". He wanted to talk. So we stood there talking for 30 minutes. I invited him to attend our First Friday Mass. He did attend that meeting, bringing his whole family with him. After the Mass, I asked him to attend our recollections. He said he really would like to but first wanted to know if it would be alright because he has not been that regular in his religious duties. I said of course it would be okay. I invited him to our first Metanoia recollection but he could not come because he had to go to the US on official business for the Tariff Commission. He promised to come for the second one. However, before the second Metanoia recollection, he was brought to the hospital, almost in a coma, for lung cancer. He died last week. During the wake, the son of "Mate" showed me a formal picture of our first year high school class. He found it in the office of his father, inside a drawer where he kept his personal things. The son also told me that his father wanted him to enter the seminary as first year high school student. (Unfortunately, CKS had closed down its high school by then). I did not know that "Mate" treasured his high school experience with us. When he was in the seminary, he seemed not to be interested at all in whatever we were doing, except for basketball. "Mate" wanted to go back to his spiritual roots by attending our recollections. He was prevented from doing so because of his early death. That desire, however, has been answered. What spirituality he experienced in his high school days will now be actual, as he is now face to face with our God. May he rest in peace.

reply viloriah wrote on Jul 14, '08 Hi Sonny, I'm sorry to hear about Mate's passing. I remember him. He hailed from the same town as Mr. Cruz, our Tagalog teacher. May he rest in peace!

reply jeemsdee wrote on Jul 15, '08 Hi, "Stevie," what a fantastic story! For a while I was beginning to wonder when I would ever merit a comment from you. At last, you finally did, with a vengeance. What a touching story and well-told, about the late "Mate" Cruz. It is confirmation of the value and merit not only of our unforgettable CKS days but our XVD as support group for guys like us with our shared dreams, cherished moments and old ideals. When you find the time, pls. chk out my previous blog entries, esp., on metanoia 2, "From Heaven and Back." tnx agn. rgards

reply stephendlr wrote on Jul 15, '08 Hi, Herman. Yes, Mate comes from the same town as our Tagalog teacher. I think he was even the one who gave him the name "Mate". Was he also the one who gave you the name "Badion"? I am really glad to hear from you. If you remember, I used to go to your house after I left the seminary. That was the time you were preparing to go to Canada. From what I hear, you have done well for yourself. How is your younger brother? I saw the video of your meeting at the Eastern Seaboard. I heard you say that one of the things we should be doing is not only socialization but return to our spirituality. You also mentioned that we should also help the SVD's in return for the good formation they have given us. These things made an impression on me. Carry on!

reply viagba wrote on Jul 15, '08 Hallelujah! Sonny's come alive! And it's all coming back: I could not, for the life of me, recall what I knew Herman as in the sem - "Badion" nga pala! There's a story there somewhere, Herman. Care to share it with us? And Mate. May he rest in the peace of the Lord. As Sonny very well remembers he was nonchalant about most things. In the bed-round-robbin, I happened one time to be assigned next to him in the dorm. Under his mattress was a blanket of comic books which he perused during siesta - a Heinemann no-no! But judging from the above recount he must have been more spiritually touched by his seminary experience than "Santo" was (quiz: who was it that was known by that name in high school?). I rest my case...

reply vj329 wrote on Jul 15, '08 Kuya James, Reading your piece makes me wish you had been my classmate in high school. Ahhhh. Maybe it wasn't meant to be. It could have sent the great Heinie earlier to make sumbong to the Creator.Yeah, the same one you sing Veni Creator Spiritus to. But truly James, your thoughts are simply profound. I could drown in them, albeit, gladly. More power to you, Manong Kuya.

reply viagba wrote on Jul 15, '08 Nabuhay din si VJ! Miracle-worker talaga 'tong si Lansang! Nagmana sa Manong nyang si Jesse!

reply xvdph wrote on Jul 15, '08 this may be a miracle in the making. it has to start here in angeland.

reply viloriah wrote on Jul 15, '08 Hi Sonny, Mr. Cruz did not baptize me "Badion" ... see my reply to Vic for the story behind the name. Of course, I remember us getting together frequently. We were at De La Salle together. I was teaching and I believe you were finishing your LiaCom. I also remember you being my PX conduit for Salem. I used to smoke heavily then. I gave up smoking a long time ago. My brother, Edwin, lives in Ocala, Florida and is now retired. It's great to hear from you. I'm planning to attend the SVD Centennial next year and we can catch up on the years that have gone by. Meanwhile, let's stay in touch.

reply viloriah wrote on Jul 15, '08 Hi Vic, Eventually the truth will out and my past has now caught up with me. Yes, I am a.k.a. "Badion". The genesis of the name was quite innocuous. One day we were playing in the rain on one of the bumpy clay basketball courts which are now buried under the concrete parking lot in front of the church. We were dripping from head to foot with sweat and liquid clay, slipping and sliding on the mud, and trying to play some semblance of basketball. Jun Atienza suddenly started assigning each one a name from famous basketball stars of the day ... Loyzaga, Badion, etc. He called me "Badion" and for some reason that's who I was thereafter. Nowadays, my students have given me a new name. Teachers and students have reported to me that I am referred to as "The Herminator". I know who lays claim to the name of "Santo" but will wait for him to step up and admit it. However, each class seemed to have a "santo". Our class "santo" was Hipolito Odtohan.

reply viagba wrote on Jul 15, '08, edited on Jul 15, '08 And "Jun" Atienza was "Tin," right? Of course, Aster was Asiong Aksaya... : )

reply xvdph wrote on Jul 15, '08 when my sister asked me how old i am really (on my birthday), i replied to her, i don't know. as to my age, i have alzheimer's. but she emailed back this story and poem, which involved a Filipina nurse daw. i am sharing this now with you young ones. (7.16.08): ENJOY BLOGGERS AND MUGGERS! *Crabby old man* When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem winging across the Internet. Crabby Old Man What do you see nurses? .What do you see? What are you thinking........when you're looking at me? A crabby old man, ..........not very wise, Uncertain of habit ............with faraway eyes? Who dribbles his food........and makes no reply. When you say in a loud voice....."I do wish you'd try!" Who seems not to notice ...the things that you do. And forever is losing ........ A sock or shoe? Who, resisting or not...........lets you do as you will, With bathing and feeding The long day to fill? Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see? Then open your eyes, nurse......you're not looking at me. I'll tell you who I am. As I sit here so still, As I do at your bidding, ......as I eat at your will. I'm a small child of Ten.......with a father and mother, Brothers and sisters who love one another A young boy of Sixteen ...with wings on his feet Dreaming that soon now. ..a lover he'll meet. A groom soon at Twenty ...my heart gives a leap. Remembering, the vows......that I promised to keep. At Twenty-Five, now ........ I have young of my own. Who need me to guide .... And a secure happy home. A man of Thirty ...............My young now grown fast, Bound to each other ...... With ties that should last. At Forty, my young sons ..have grown and are gone, But my woman's beside me.......to see I don't mourn. At Fifty, once more, . Babies play ' round my knee, Again, we know children .. My loved one and me. Dark days are upon me .... My wife is now dead. I look at the future ...........I shudder with dread. For my young are all rearing...young of their own. And I think of the years...... And the love that I've known. I'm now an old man......... and nature is cruel. Tis jest to make old age look like a fool. The body, it crumbles.......grace and vigor, depart. There is now a stone.........where I once ha d a heart. But inside this old carcass. A young guy still dwells, And now and again ...........my battered heart swells I remember the joys............I remember the pain. And I'm loving and living.......life over again.. I think of the years all too few...gone too fast. And accept the stark fact.....that nothing can last. So open your eyes, people open and see.... Not a crabby old man. Look closer....see........ME!! Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might Brush aside without looking at the young soul within.....we will all, One day, be there, too! PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched. They are felt by the heart.

reply vj329 wrote on Jul 16, '08 Viagba, Of course! I've been reading all your comments and actually suffering from them the past so many months. Sabi ko nga kay Lansang, idol ko talaga siya. Kaya lang talagang matanda na. Pinagbibigyan ko na lang kasi magaganda ang mga sinusulat niya ngayon. Very inspiring indeed. More power to you also, tocayo.

reply viagba wrote on Jul 16, '08 VJ, ang sakit mo namang magsalita! Kung hindi lang dahil sa napakaganda ang mga namumulaklak na yellow-bells-ba-yun (?) sa gate ng bahay ko na galing sa pinagpuputol kong sanga ng mga halaman mo nung pumunta tayo sa isa sa mga recollection sa Tagaytay, eh, ewan ko na...

reply jeemsdee wrote on Jul 16, '08 Ok, guys, you have had the last word. mas mahaba pa ang comments section nitong blog na ito kaysa sa blog entry ko. tigilan nyo na.

reply vj329 wrote on Jul 16, '08 This all means I miss the good old days with you guys. Hope we can get together again sometime. And soon. Regards to Baby and your kids and grandkids.

reply resumus wrote on Jul 17, '08 Tuwang-tuwa ako sa exchange ninyo. Definitely beats pornography. Tatlo na ang nabasa kong blogs ni James at mukhang mapapasama na ata ako sa listahan ng mga fans ng jeemsdee. I miss the sem days, too.

reply viagba wrote on Jul 18, '08 tigil na raw at nasasapawan na ang bida rito! pahabol: vj, regards din sa mga babies mo - both upper-case and "lower-aim" (n.b. - lansang terminology) "over and out" na talaga, bosing!!!

reply jeemsdee wrote on Jul 18, '08 whew, tnx

reply percilopez wrote on Aug 23, '08 hi koyang, come to think of it...the bonds i have made which truly matters to me, were those which were forged when i was in high school ( CKMS ) and what really "cook my noodles" is this feeling of connection i have with older XVDs, as if i was with them during their time in CKMS. is it just me?

reply jeemsdee wrote on Aug 24, '08 percilopez said hi koyang, come to think of it...the bonds i have made which truly matters to me, were those which were forged when i was in high school ( CKMS ) and what really "cook my noodles" is this feeling of connection i have with older XVDs, as if i was with them during their time in CKMS. is it just me?  It's a feeling most XVDs share in common, that's why we keep coming back to our regular getogethers for refill. Welcome to the XVD blogworld, Bro. Percy. Keep in touch.