Weddings and unrelated nostalgia

My best friend from high school got married yesterday. Aside from the obvious stress of being a bridesmaid, what kept nagging me were, one, the expected awkwardness when I ran into old friends, teachers, neighbors, acquaintances and whatnot, and two, and the palpable excitement at the prospect of catching up with them.

When I left Lipa in 1999 and started my first year of college at the Ateneo, I was sixteen; in hindsight, no more than a child, albeit with a bit more baggage than most. It was the happiest day of my life in six years. Finally, I was free. Finally, I was out from under my father's roof, and though I was a minor and under his protection and control, I had what, to my sixteen-year-old self, seemed like the culmination of six years' worth of tear-filled heartfelt pleas to a higher form of life, to an unseen deity, to get me out of there.

My mom had died under suspicious circumstances six years earlier, and my brother and I had been left with our least favorite parent by default. Even without the egging proof of my father's relatives' involvement in my mom's death, we hated them. In fact, to this day, I still refer to them as just that: my father's relatives. They were mean, in fact downright hateful, and at some point, to my mom, utterly criminal. We begged and begged to be sent to live in Baguio with my mom's family, but to no avail. We got a few weeks in the summer, and if we we pestered my dad enough, we got a few days around the semestral break. The rest of the year, we counted days to our next escape. Those days were occupied primarily by school, to which I devoted my entire childhood. It was key to breaking myself out of jail, and I worked and slaved at it day and night until I finished high school.

Aside from the rigors of matriculation and extracurricular activities, there were the daily doses of stress that living in a rather large clan who lived in adjacent houses in the province brought about. People walked in and out of the house at random intervals, borrowing a plate here, a glass there, raiding the fridge of what little it contained. We ran out of glasses, china and silver at multiple points because those who "borrowed" never bothered to return them. Not even when we were served at their houses with the same objects we knew were ours.

Oh, and we got dragged to endless "family" events. The 100th birthday of a distant uncle who, to this day, I have no idea how we were related to. The much-anticipated fiestas. Random birthdays. People passing licensure exams. There, we would have to plaster fake smiles on our faces at random strangers who were introduced as Tia this or Tio that. We had to raise the back of their hands to our foreheads in the mano, which my mom's family, who'd we'd grown up with prior to her death, did not practice. I always found the gesture odd. I was more comfortable with the single hug and peck on the cheek I'd been accustomed to. But then again, I had no intention of hugging and kissing random strangers, related or not, so I stuck to tradition and did the whole mano thing a hundred times over. I reluctantly picked out a few dishes to stuff my plate with and sat down in the farthest corner, away from prying eyes and the neighborhood chismosas, who would scan everyone for something worth gossiping about. I'd wait until it was time to leave. I'd trace cracks in the floor, in the ceiling, or focus my attention on a random detail in the room, working out the details. I'd play with numbers or letters in my head. Anything to pass the time.

That was the easy part.

The hardest part was always having to talk to them. We had nothing in common. And I had not developed my knack for making smalltalk with random strangers. My dad's nuclear family and their respective nuclear families, are a notch above the rest. In fact, I believe I may be generalizing based on the model of their existence. I remember the day of my dad's wedding to my stepmom, she sat me down at my paternal grandmother's house, and asked me to give my paternal side a chance, to get to know them. I looked at her and said blankly, “No. I didn't like them when I was a child. And I do not like them now. I see no need to change that.”

But I digress.

The idea of college as an escape had been planted my brain by my maternal family, as a beacon of hope in those days when I really did hate my life. My relationship with my dad has mended itself over the years, but we do not share the warm close relationship that my friends do with their dads. When I was younger, I used to loathe him silly, call him the evil engineer (because he's a civil engineer). My mom was a very warm, caring, and eloquently affectionate person. That's what we were used to. When she died suddenly one Thursday morning, we were thrust into this alien world where we got no hugs. We got no kisses. We got a verbal beating when our grades dropped a point. We were on an assembly line headed for insanity. All day everyday we were compared to his friends' children, who, he said, at our age, could run a household by themselves. At that point, I couldn't even sweep a floor properly. I had just turned nine, and using the rice cooker was a great achievement for me.

And thus I learned to despise the accent, the manner of speaking, the way they dressed, how the looked, and how they smelled. Life there was a long battle with chronic stress and those random incidents that manage to drop in along the way. I think I only got through it because I chose my friends well. And I had adults who probably saw through what was going on and took me under their wing. Aside from my maternal family, which had not yet thoroughly degenerated at that point, from gradeschool, I had Dianne, and at some point, Lira. My childhood mentors, Sands' aunt, Teacher Susan, Teacher Aileen, Teacher Myrna, to name a few. It was a small town. Word got around. They knew my life inside and out, and didn't judge me for it. Come high school, I met Sands, Kiel, Ate Karen, and the rest of my high school barkada (including Dianne). On an intellectual level, Sir Torrecampo was the best, but Ma'am Latay has always been a cut above the rest. Maybe it was because she was my English teacher, and I took my essays and short stories to heart. I took every assignment seriously, and every piece was a part of me. These people made an unbearable childhood enjoyable. They got me through the worst part, and made me smile through it.

The day I graduated, I remember my high school world history teacher, Sir Torrecampo, tell us to look around the room at the people seated next to us, as that would probably be the last time we would see each other. At that time, I shook my head and smiled, thinking to myself that incredulous to think so. Well, here I am eleven years later, to attest to the hyperbolic truth.

Over the years, I've fallen out of touch with most of the people I owe my relative sanity to. I see Sands every two months or so. I see Kiel about twice a year. Before last night, I hadn't seen Ma'am Latay, Dianne, and my high school barkada since, well, high school. Teacher Susan I hadn't seen or talked to for so long I can't even recall the last time.

While it pains me to realize that when I sought the escape hatch to Ateneo, I left so many people behind. Looking back though, I see why I had to do it. And I would do it again. I had to leave Lipa to pursue a higher education, to learn to forget as a precursor to eventual forgiveness, and to mend my relationship with my dad. College and succeeding years bore a myriad of other different dilemmas of another nature, but those years also brought about another set of friends I am very blessed to have.

I still do not feel comfortable spending extended periods of time in Lipa because of the innumerable bad memories that plague my association with the city. But there may well be hope for us yet. As for the manangs with their apple-cut hair though, nah, probably not.

Back online.

So after 10 million years, I'm finally back online. I just got a netbook earlier tonight. I'm actually saving up for a Mac, but since my life is in dire need of a technological boost, I decided to get a netbook to tide me over. So I took Punch's advice. At least when I get a Macbook, I'll have this netbook for travel or whatever, and the Macbook can be my desktop replacement at home. Better than having two notebooks, right? And I love my little Acer. Reminds me of my old little Acer, the one that I used all throughout law school. That little guy was pretty sturdy. It's still alive actually, but I don't use it anymore because the resolution's so bad, and it runs on Windows 98. So anyway, I hope this one lives a long and fruitful life.