The Things They Didn’t Tell You About Being a Former Catholic High School Girl

Here’s my original version in my long, awkward run-on sentences before it was edited and trimmed for well, just betterness. It was based on a survey that was shared with all our batchmates, long conversations with the rest of the writers of MC Times (which in itself was a lovely reunion,) and my own discussions with my friends from high school — for whom I’m grateful have been in my life for the past three decades.

You can read the published version on the online program for the reunion.

No one tells you that once you turn 40, you will work with people who were born just as you graduated high school, and they’re pulling off that late 90’s fashion better than you did.

No one tells you that 25 years will pass, and you still don’t understand why your high school uniform was a khaki blouse and a green skirt. But now when you look at your old photos in them, you’ll wonder “Why didn’t I know that I was so cute?”

And of all things archaic, you’re actually grateful that you learned to type on old mechanical typewriters because who has the time to look at the keys when you’re working while parenting? (And these adults aren’t even your kids!)

And of all things archaic, you’re actually grateful that you learned to type on old mechanical typewriters because who has the time to look at the keys when you’re working while parenting? (And these adults aren’t even your kids!)

You may have fretted and complained through after school practices for the speechfest or sabayang pagbigkas, or just one more group project, but that feeling of being part of a movement, of joining one voice took root and was stronger than fear. So you could take to the streets.

No one tells you that a single teacher’s unconditional belief in your talent or intelligence could make up for all the other voices that said “girls can’t do math,” or “why be so smart when you are already so pretty?” (like you were greedy for wanting to know about the world.)

In the 90’s it seemed so much more intuitive to learn English, to go global—but being able to speak, read, write Filipino made everything richer. You knew that a bartolina was a prison, and sometimes they were things you put yourself in.

And Isang Dipang Langit could mean hope, or what you held on to, or it could mean if you defended the poor, you would end up with an outstretched arm’s length of sky.

No one tells you that you will remember Asian History because a teacher taught with his hands; or once religion is a conscious choice to continue practicing, you’ll wish you believed the same way you did when your religion teacher said, “God is love, “ his bony arms outstretched as on a cross.

Or that the strict, conservative teacher who chided, “Your clothes do not fit a modest girl,” or “Your manner doesn’t speak of someone well-bred,” actually showed you something crucial: the life you didn’t want. How else will you recognize what you must say no to?

As you laugh with your mouth wide open, as you sit on the floor with your knees in view. As you kiss your lover with abandon, your hand in their hair. And you speak your mind in that too tight top that showed that your breasts finally came in with loud red lips that you learned to perfect over the years.

No one tells you that perhaps the best thing about HIgh School is that it ended, the most important thing about it was that it was to be outgrown. That no matter how much your worst bullies insisted you were your insecurities, there was always so much more than anyone (including, you) thought.

The best gift our teachers gave us was to be the rocks that we broke ourselves against. How else would we begin finding who we truly were?

You see, no matter what your high school story was—be it the best days you’ve ever lived or that place you couldn’t escape fast enough—it makes up part of the complicated mess that is yourself.

And when you are told, “Oh but that’s part of your life,” it’s not meant to make your story small. But to say, you were, you are never alone.

And any gift you offer back to Miriam High School, to your teachers, isn’t about repaying a debt.

It’s living something we’ve all been taught: everything and everyone is connected. And to give back, to ease anyone’s burden (even just a little) is the only way we survive. Together is the only way we stay free.