Mataas na Paaralang Pang-Agham ng Maynila

I graduated from MSHS. It’s a school located along Taft Avenue and it is home to some strangely normal people. Not that it’s anything noteworthy but the people there aren’t exactly what people assume them to be.

When we were in high school, we were also subjected to the usual drama. Every once in a while, gossip would spread about people we haven’t even exchanged looks yet. Surprisingly, we got to know each other through that exchange of stories. The small community we have became something like a familiar necessity; something bordering on family.

We were children when we entered the walls of that school. We were sticky and drooling. Some of us grew up fast (or thought they did) while some of us refused to acknowledge maturity. Some of us were pretty much shielded from the world and its awfulness. Some tended to have other influences outside the walls and perhaps it was good for them. For these matters, we only had to hope and wait.

The four years spent inside was something like an opened cage to me; the door was there for you to exercise restraint. During the first year, we were drilled to be awesome. We were taught to think that we are awesome and at the same time, to think that we could be so much more. As much as we seemed like doomed individuals back then, we were happy that we were somehow better than somebody else (that somebody else need not really exist). The downside was wearing a nametag when you’re trying so hard to shed off the elementary side of you.

When 2nd year rolled in, our batch was the meanest. All sophomores are mean. They are the prime cut tormentors of all the freshmen. The reason for this was not always clear but it was frequently attributed to no longer being the youngest in the school; hence, the petty power tripping and a prouder sidestepping. Aside from these favorite activities, sophomore year usually rolls in with the first taste of serious heartache. In our generation, this came through text messages. If you’re lucky, you’ll end the year with another hand secretly holding your own. Otherwise, you’re thinking that the world hates you and you’re belting it out in Friendster.

The juniors weren’t quite as quirky as their younger counterparts. They are actually the serious bunch. For us, junior year was the no-nonsense year. This was the time to be important because you are almost a senior – you had to earn points. But of course, this was the first prom. This was the year that culminated in February and not March. Sometimes, it ends happily. To the general public, they just go home stuffed and thinking how much it sucks to spend the night in the school quadrangle.

The greatest year was probably the senior year. This was the final step to freedom. For me, this was the best year of my HS life. A tip to the younger generations: when you get here, no matter how bruised you are or how perfect you think you are, things will always be so much better. Senior year was like a dream and like all dreams it tends to stay that way. It had to end. Life had to go on. Just when you thought you had it all, you still have so much more to do.

You had to begin again.

We had four years to our names. We had Paco Park, McDO-UN and KFC-Taft. We had WPD and Rob-Ermita. We were the ankle-biters of an aging city. We had known wars between sections and we had known how it is to cry over unspoken words and ungiven gifts. We had skinned knees and broken bones. We knew everything and yet we still knew so little. In our little world, we are the world.

We were required to be something when we were behind the walls of MSHS. We were expected to be better than what we are. Sometimes, these things worked but I remember things differently. We were golden but we had to be panned out of the rocky streams of the world. Eventually, we found out that we were wrong. We were not golden. We were not better than somebody else. At the end of the day, we were just sticky children hurrying to grow up.

Batchmates, did we?


About kyogakura
Bored 95% of the time.

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