Reunion (A Reply to a Reply)

Deja vu. It's like sitting in one of your criticial theory lectures once again. I could smell the familiar barako brew swirling and smoke-laden breadth of some amidst crowd of awe-struck (star-struck?) seminarians who could not seem to get enough of those bestselling lectures of yours. Memories, memories, here we are again.

 

You're right. I came to the reunion with mixed emotions. I was anxious I would bump into people whom I despised before, but equally glad to see friends whom I have shared bottles of ginebra and gilbeys and marlboro lights, and secrets told and untold about some plumber who does bad plumbing and of 'divinely romantic priestly liaisons' and mystery bites and reconnecting ties with them. But the latter was more compelling, so I drag my feet to The Hill.

 

True enough, I saw at least three or four despicable faces but I'll leave it to the Who's H/She? corner ala Victor Agustin's Cocktales. But before my blood pressure could raise a bar, good friends came pouring in. One of them, a priest in the Visayas, I had the forture of sharing my thoughts with. I asked him if we share the same idea/meaning of an alumnus. We did. An alumnus, going by the inclusivist deifinition, is one who has studied, or has been a pupil, of an institution, and not pertains exclusively to "graduates" of an institution as some uninformed, ignorant and arrogant holy cow tend to argue.

 

It sounds trivial, but the exclusivist meaning is what is exactly in the minds of the holy friars at The Hill, at least a good a number of them. But I was and I am comfortable with the thought/fact/reality that I can afford to dissociate myself with the vestiges of that infamous The Hill, including those, in the words of my favorite senator, Miriam Santiago, of lower life forms where else but in The Hill. But dissociation is not totally comforting and therefore unnecessary, the point of which I shall explain later.

 

In the evening, I had the chance to chat with a group of mostly juniors wherein I shared with them, without them asking, my not-so-humble seminary experience and how it taught me to disbelieve in what the holy friars were preaching but were not doing anyway. All told, they were awe-struck (natch!) by my  one-liners and scalpel tongue. Asked how I felt seeing those people/faces again, "I can tolerate their presence but I still hate their faces." I was being honest.

 

Like an elder, I never skimp on dispensing intriguing but not necessarily controversial, calculated and measured but not cunning, irreverent yet relevant advice on how to get the most of their seminary life. I could read satisfaction and disbelief written all over their innocent faces. I told them not to set their sights totally into really becoming cloaked ministers; there is so much life can offer outside, in the whole wide world of real humans. Trust me and I'll bet, not a half of them would get to wear that prized vestment.

 

Then I went melodramatic, waxing philosophical and told them that I liken myself to a car. Some of my parts were manufactured in The Hill. But please don't bother to ask if I got the defective or the best parts or if the manufacturing process was perfected or flawed. The answer to this will be contained in the forthcoming bestseller, The Tales of The Hills.

 

True enough, many came not with their Lexus from the missus but humbler ones that were earned with the proverbial blood and sweat, and mucus and phlegm probably, or so I believe. I hope they were not flaunting it, lest they offer themselves future benefactors of the ignoble creatures on The Hill. Nothing bad about giving back? I'll leave it open.

 

I love homecomings, who wouldn't? But I love homecomings minus the pretentious and pretensions. So it's time we stage our own reunion to retell tales of horror, of divinely romantic priestly liaisons, of mystery bytes, of everything and anything that made us what we have become--the sum of all parts, some of which were manufactured in The Hill.