chonagorgeous

"The definitives of youth…" my professor scrawled in my journal. His
handwriting was delicate and distinctive, and he underlined the parts
where he felt he should react. At the time I felt a little slighted,
what does he mean exactly? It felt patronizing, and I thought, was my
entry too shallow?

It has been 10 years. I was looking for old college stuff and I came
across this journal, a class requirement. I had other journals with
more "insights" and perhaps more candor. But instead I kept this one.
I read the entry again. It was August of 1997.

"I went to my friend's room downstairs and we smoked a few Marlboro
lights, leftover from last Friday's gimmick. Considering we lived in
an all-girls' dorm named after our national flower, it was a violation
of the house rules and thus was exciting to do.

We didn't know we'd end up with one of those meaningful, empowering
talks. We talked about going to some unfamiliar place alone for
several days. The experience would be liberating. It would define who
we would become.

The atmosphere in her room was just perfect. All three roommates were
out. There was good music playing on the radio and we can see each
other from the light of one study lamp. It was all so cosy and it felt
warm and familiar.

We reminisced the time when we had a similar moment two years ago. We
were just sophomores then, and it was one of those rainy UP days when
you can smell the damp grass all over the campus and it felt like
home.

We bought two Super Drys and Blue Ice beers from one of those
convenience stores near campus, then headed straight to Sunken Garden.

The soil was soft under our feet, and the grass was moist from the
rain, but we were determined to drink. We don't want to miss the
experience of drinking in Sunken Garden under the moonlight, made more
special with the chilly embrace of the cold night. As it was damp and
muddy, no other barkadas or lovers were in sight. Who else but us
would risk soiling our Levis and three-inch black leather boots? We
went to the middle of the vast space and proceeded to do what we
intended to do.

Seeing ourselves as two attractive, smart girls with the stars as our
glorious audience, we squatted on the damp grass in one swift, sure
movement. Like a movie scene, we each reached out for our Super Drys,
only to find out we didn't have a bottle opener. Okay so we got back
to reality. It was a signal that perhaps we should call it a night,
but we were never one to accept no and it can't happen. We will drink
that alcohol no matter what.

But the both of us do not have the talent for opening a beer bottle
with our teeth, nor the suave moves of those who can flick open the
crown using another beer bottle, so we looked at each other. She only
has her organizer with her, while I with the bag have powder,
lip gloss, and mascara with some pen and paper. For a moment we did
contemplate prying open that bottle with my mascara wand. But then
something shiny caught our eye.

Her organizer was one of those curious things that have a metal
buckle, and that was how we were able to drink our beer. Taking notes
in class definitely pays off.

I will never forget the look of the other passengers when I boarded
the Ikot jeep after our "session" (we lived in separate dorms then,
and I was headed to the one named after a tree right beside the
Kalayaan Residence Hall). My hair was slightly damp and my jeans were
all muddy and strewn with grass all over. Perhaps the other passengers
were too old for such whimsical activities, and we were too young to
really care if what we're doing were proper or not. The bottom line
was we enjoyed our night. Just like today."

"Your insights make me stop and reflect," again that delicate and
distinctive handwriting, with 1.25 right below his last remark. Now I
understand what my teacher meant by "The definitives of youth…"

And mine definitely includes Sunken Garden.

I remember now why I kept this journal. So I will not forget the
person I was and still am – someone who cannot accept the lack of a
bottle opener as a setback to enjoying her beer.

(For the UP Centennial)

Remember your freshmen wonder years and the subject that marred it for you? As in Comm II? It’s the subject that you have to pass so you can enroll in upper class subjects like Comm III, Hum I and Hum II back in the days before GE was updated. Guess my student number hehe.

 

The semester-long subject is dedicated to writing a term paper the way it should be written: properly organized, titled, worded, cited… the works. I am not mentioning the name of my teacher, because I still remember her with awe. And that is so not positive.

 

I remember actually spending time at the Main Lib just so I can write in them index cards. Oh, the drudgery. And this was when you actually look in those cards at the lib lobby so you’ll know where to find your sources. Kids these days are just so lucky.

 

You cannot imagine my sigh of relief along with my shattered self-esteem when I finally got my class card with 2.25 neatly encircled in red. And I call myself an English major.

 

Now I’m back to writing term papers again. Fortunately I was able to pick up the smithereens of my self worth between Comm II and my 30^th birthday.

 

Surprisingly, my pristine copy of Kate Turabian’s opus is still there among my favorite books. It’s right there at the back of my book collection, wrapped in plastic as a reminder that I survived. It looks yellowed and old now, and it’s been only 10 years! (or so)

 

So wish me luck.