COMING HOME TO LEGAZPI

the old city looks the same.

it has always been even if it slowly changes its face. but it has always been rustic even in its struggle to modernize. embarcadero may triumph over victory village but even this would not hide the truth that the city seeks redemption from the storms that visit the city every year.

maybe old haunts have gone. but i know that there will still be the pinangat stall over there in-front of st. gregory the great cathedral. or the soft biniribid near the old police station.

mornings here are beautiful but the afternoon drizzles puts one in a pensive mood. better to be at the mall to while away the dragging hours.

there are exotic evening in legazpi. maybe, the city has a penchant experimenting menus and delicacies. i remember the nights we've spent in drinking sprees when we were young then.

old friends are gone and i feel like a stranger here. maybe, i've changed. so are my dreams that go beyond the city's boundaries. maybe, i left this city because it cannot contain the visions and illusions i long for in life. perhaps, to be here is to be consigned in a time warp that affects the mind.

perhaps, i have really changed.

that is why, i would only come to visit.

but, never to be permanently be at home.

THE TROUBLE WITH REUNIONS

observe why a few of us attend reunions.

it is always and has been a showcase of success. those who come have success stories to spin. better still if it is a rag to riches story. it is always difficult to be in-front of former batchmates who are now businessmen, doctors, nurses or professionals. it is easy to say despite all these we are all equals. tell that to the marines.

more humiliation comes when those who have doles out to lesser mortals in these gatherings.

unless one finds a healthy mechanism for reunions, it only becomes a celebration of the few.

isn't it?

REGAN GANG WARS

we're not the gangs of new york nor the west side story.

but we did have gang wars, though not a bloody one. they were slingshot wars with bullets fashioned out from the stems of the leavers of the malobago trees or better still from "balagons". "ra-lastikuhan" we called these wars. young boys from other blocks would invade us on a pre-arranged date and we would be waiting. at other times, it would be our turn to do so. it hurted when your are hit by these stems or stalks but nothing more than that afterwards.

sometimes, tired of slingshots we resorted to being roman soldiers or greek soldiers besieging the next block. armed with wooden swords and lances some of us dreamt of being the 300 spartans defending against the persians. it would always be this block versus another.

or else, since we lived in a military reservation we aped our fathers. we had mock wars and sham battles.

life then was based on bravado and grit, never on drugs. our wars were a rite of passage not fought in protest or teenage rebellion. after the wars, we held no grudge against another.

we always end in peace, to meet again another day.

THE MOVIES OF LOLA THEATER

to belong to the "a" crowd means to watch movies at lola theater.

all the literati of legazpi, the pretty girls, the well-heeled and those they say of fine breeding all troop to lola to watch the latest flicks. there they congregate to be seen.

fully air-conditioned, the fees are higher than those of rex and madrid. the newest released movies from mgm, warner brothers, and james bond films are only shown at the theater. no tagalog films nor second-rate movie.

there, i would always see her, not on a date but as one who knows she would be there. of course, the feeling was mutual. the movies sometimes bind us or at other times explain love's intricacies and moods.

the only thing one must first avoid is to be seen with another, though only by coincidence and chance. a jealous woman knows no explanation.

lola is a love story forever unfolded in my memories.

now, i only watch dvd's.

"GRANDSTANDING"

near old ahs was our famous grandstand.

ours were experiences of grandstanding. some settle their differences behind it where blackeyes and torn shirts were memories. others hone their peeping tom skills. many others share test questions and answers in clandestine "radio" broadcasts.

seldom have we used it for its real purpose. of course, we never needed exercise, diets, aerobics nor calisthenics. poverty has made us trim and fit.

over there, i have lost dreams of being a basketball player or a long distance runner. but up there on the bleachers i can see beyond ahs and the hills of quimantong. there is freedom in dreams and goes beyond what we are. even if they are impossible.

now, i have gone beyond ahs and traversed those hills.

but the grandstand is gone.

and with it are memories.

THE CLASSROOMS OF AHS

tell me.

how can one learn from rickety and worn out chairs, chalk-smeared blackboards, broken jalousie windows, and creaking floors of old ahs? they defied the principles of education and educational psychology taught in normal schools. like all government schools, they decried of old age and neglect, yet proud of the many who passed by its portals.

but this is much better than the pre-fabricated marcos-type classrooms we had when were first year. when it rained, they drowned our lessons and attention.

at least ours was cooler, and if ever we sweated, it was not because of the heat but due to the difficult physics and pilipino exams. but here, the chairs and the walls boasted of hieroglypics written by ancients unknown. the wiser of us, called those on the chairs, "codigos" and those on the walls, "love notes".

we were summoned to and from classes by a defused world war II vintage american bomb now being used as the bell. for whom the bell tolled i exactly never knew.

but this enclave had shaped us. here, rizal inspired us, experienced love like shakespeare, suffered despair like edgar allan poe. here, minds were formed, talents were honed, and ambitions were cloned. here, we longed to be free.

i was consoled by a slogan written on the walls of the trade school near our home. it said, "the roots of education are bitter, but the fruits are sweet". surely, they did not mean camotes or cassava.

fittingly, i look back, great men are made of these.

even from rickety and worn-out chairs.

A TERRA COTA OF DREAMS

i never wanted to be a soldier.

that's why in high school, i chose to be a sergeant only in the cadet corps. after checking the attendance, i stayed in the shade while they drilled. better that way. i never wanted strategies and tactics to be confined to formations and phalanxes but to blossom in spontaneous combustions.

it too, had its advantages. during fiestas, where the school cadet corps joined the parades, we (eugene and i) after checking the attendance, were now scot-free to roam around in civilian clothes while our classmates toiled and sweated it out in the afternoon sun marching.

but there were those of us who liked soldiering: roberto catubig, the roderos twins, nelson ludovice and other in the lower sections. i know rogelio would not like such a career but he was our corps commander.

but deep in my heart i knew that military training instilled discipline in us. leadership craves for it while success presupposes it. what with the top echelon of the cadet corps being composed of the intelligentia of the fourth year.

true to form, some of us became generals; others were tested in the battlefields of mindanao and the hinterlands. others now sit in swivel chairs in some airconditioned offices.

now, they have become the leaders of our batch.

in a situation where there are others who need us, we need little sparks of initiatives and direction from them to see us through.

or, are they just terra cota warriors recently unearthed?