It’s the season for diplomas, medals and togas. Even the little ones in nursery school are moving up. The other day I was caught in a traffic jam inside Dasmariñas Village. I guess Colegio de San Agustin was marking the end of its school year.

And just to keep in step, my classmates (1949) and I got together for lunch. It was more a day for updates, for sharing good and not-so-good news, a gathering of old friends who, after all these years, have managed to remain close.

Only a few days before that, I got a call from the alumnae office of College of the Holy Spirit. They were in a quandary, wondering who will take over the “business” of our class since the passing of Pacita Icasiano Habana, who did all that and patiently kept us all together. She was our rock, a hard act to follow.

Warm German bread

That phone call brought back memories of the good old alma mater. It was an invitation to a meeting at Mother Angela Hall. Where? I had to ask for directions. That made me sad.

Time was when I knew every nook and corner of the school; where each water fountain was located. I knew the little back door to the kitchen where my favorite manang sneaked chocolate fudge squares for me, and where I could get a slice of German bread, which was served all warm and buttery straight from the oven exclusively to the internas.

In grade school, I “did time” in the directress’ office. Quite often. I knew my way there like the palm of my hand. Sister Edelwina was the big boss then. Later it was Sister Josephine. Both were large German women, stately, elegant. Edelwina had kind hazel eyes. Josephine was stern, strict. I spent many hours of atonement there, polishing furniture and shredding paper.

In high school after the war, I knew which window of the building I had to duck under so I wouldn’t get caught on my way to the grotto. Why was that forbidden? I forget now.

First teachers

These German missionary sisters were my first teachers. I remember Sister Carentia in the first grade. She always had a ruler ready to gently chastise an unruly child. She frowned at me a lot.

Sister Wiltraud prepared us for First Communion. I was almost 7. She warned us not to bite the host, or else. I was scared.

I have wonderful memories of some of my teachers.

In high school, there was Sister Rosella, an American nun among all the Germans. In today’s language, she was “cool.” She was an extremely important light in my life; she encouraged me to keep writing. I remember her telling me, “When you fall down, look up.” I didn’t know then how well it would serve me through it all.

William Arthur Ward, American inspirational writer and author of “Fountains of Faith,” said, “The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.”

Rosella was great. She didn’t do the “holy walk” like the other nuns, but sort of waltzed down those quiet sterile halls. She soared. And we followed her lead.

Single lady

I remember Miss Consuelo Malacaman, a single lady with a heavy Visayan accent. Her subject was history, but it was she who taught us to stand up straight, to sit like ladies, both feet planted on the floor, knees together, no crossing of legs, no raising of voices. She was strict and demanded work done well and on time, accepting no alibis.

In my senior year, we had a declamation contest and my coach was Jess Paredes. He was wise. He listened. He taught me to put my heart into whatever I did.

In college, at the PCCBA, which later became University of the East, I remember the lovely Belen Anson, Boots Anson’s mother, every inch a
lady.

And then there was Vicente (Vinchy) Torres who made me love Shakespeare. I looked forward to his class, especially when we studied “Romeo and Juliet.” He made the scenes come alive. It was like watching a play and the hour of class always seemed way too short.

‘Wicked’

I was happy to catch it on its final week at The Theatre at Solaire. I had missed it in New York.

What a fabulous show.

I was a willing spectator, happy to be transported for a couple of hours, out of this complicated world, defying gravity with the rest of them, into the realm of Oz. I was moved as I listened to the untold story of the witches, set to gorgeous and exciting music. What a delightful twist—
to learn about good and evil from the perspective of the witches.

I met the Wizard, the embodiment of corruption and deception, and it brought me back to the real world. He reminded me of our own typical big shots who, by virtue of their wealth and power, lord it over the small fry who in turn fall all over themselves to suck up to the rich and famous.

As whimsical as it may seem on the surface, “Wicked” is about life and living. I like plays that do that. They serve to shine perhaps the only light that can pierce our present darkness.

And the other night, in the company of two of my daughters, I saw Disney’s latest masterpiece. Delightful! I was young again. I came home dancing, singing.

I fell in love with the Beast.