ONE does not go home to a house always; one goes home to a person, as well.
That homecoming happened to us one night, as the reunion of the high-school batch 1966 of Ateneo de Naga came to a close. I do not belong to the batch because, as I emphasized in the meetings, I am way younger to the mock amusement of the said group.
Earlier on the first day of the reunion, after the batch had turned over the fund for a special library that will be devoted to Bikol books, I already met her. As I stepped down from the podium, a lovely lady turned to me and said: “I think I know this boy.” I looked at her politely and intently. Those were a few seconds, but in that odd, small silence, she saw that I did not know her at first. But then, I blurted, “Miss Salceda.” She smiled and remarked: “Ah no, you did not recognize me fast. You owe me one.” We talked some more, but there were distractions. There were many guests and I had to attend to them. Soon
she was gone.
On the last day of the reunion, I got an SMS from Greg Castilla of that batch. “Please be our guest. Your Miss Salceda will be around.”
Our Miss Salceda—that ownership is of memory and not of the person. It was charming to know that people think she belongs to us.
We were 14 or 15 when Miss Salceda came to our life. We were in second year.
It was the tradition in that Jesuit high school that, on the first day of classes, all the high-school faculty members were to be formally introduced to the entire community. They were all seated on stage, in the vast gymnasium. We were all lined up below them, each column marked by the name of the section we would belong to. All of us were curious who would be our moderator that
year. All of us—from the first year to the fourth—were also interested who was that young, lovely lady up there smiling.
No way the senior classes would get her. Anxious as we were, we remembered an unwritten policy that no young, pretty, female teacher was ever assigned to the seniors. We held on to that dark juvenile rule.
I believe some of us in the 2A prayed and promised to the heavens that we would be good boys (we were not ready to call ourselves gentlemen) so long as she was assigned to us. The teachers for the first year were called. “Now, we go to the second year, was it Fr. Andres Bolinas, SJ, announcing? Her name was called. Miss Salceda was ours!
Miss Salceda became our moderator and taught English composition and literature.
On one of those chilly mornings in November, she asked us to go out and write a poem. I do not know whether she asked us to be under the trees and gray sky, because it was drizzling or did it start to shower—one of those gentle droplets that looked like errant tears from a heartbroken angel—when we started writing. We stayed outside to write. We wrote tiny lines, small verses. I felt they were good because she had crisp, beautiful comments about them.
We did not see her in third year. Soon, we graduated. We forgot about her.
“Is Louie still coming?” Miss Salceda asked. Louie came indeed and upon seeing her, shouted “Ma’am.” We were boys again that night.
We had our photos taken. Soon, Louie was pulling me to their direction. Miss Salceda was asking us if we knew why she left the school after one year. We listened to her. Above the loud music, we listened to her.
That night, we were men, not boys listening to her. Miss Salceda, lovely as ever. We told her everybody was in love with her. Louie was telling her this, even as Louie remained shy that night. I kissed Miss Salceda good-bye. Upon seeing that, Louie hugged and kissed her, too.
We were home a thousand times that night. We were with our Miss Salceda, the sense of ownership a sense of gratitude for one who taught us the beauty and honesty of words, for she was as beautiful and as sincere as those words we wrote a hundred years ago.
1 comment
So why did she leave and broke our hearts?