Remembering... Those were the days... By Leo A. Deocadiz The school year began in 1969. It was when Ferdinand Marcos became the country's
first reelected president, who would rule for another two decades. It was the year that
our adviser, Miss Madridejos, returned from two years in an Australian university,
where she obtained her Master's degree.
I cannot recall their names now, as my memory had been dulled by the 30 years that
passed, except for the two who went to UP as scholars -- Sammy Olivar and myself. Olivar was easily the best among us (he turned out to be our class valedictorian) by
topping most quizes and tests, except for those in history (and everything about the
dead and famous), which was the specialty of Manuel Tabunda, who was the pet of our
history teacher, Mrs. Ramos. Emy Manuel, the girl with the sweet, coy smile, was
formidable in all subjects (she became our salutatorian and AFS scholar).
Some of these awards were brought home by the few who were chosen to be staff
members of the Capitol, the school newspaper, and Parola, its Tagalog edition. The
staff was made up of famous names (at least in the school that year): Sammy Olivar,
Rogelio Adriatico, Angelito Burgos, Hermin Calderon, and Amador de la Cruz, among
others. Hilario Juaneza was the artist, creating impressionist masterpieces with his
mean Chinese brush and India ink. Their awards came from the National Secondary
Schools Press Conference, which was held that year in Baguio City.
But I had a ball with the money I did extract from my aunts and uncles: I went to Quiapo, bought myself a pair of Macomber pants, treated myself to mami and siopao at Ma Mon Luk, and bought BTS (bed time stories) booklets beside the old Cinerama, which I then dumped on the boys in my class, such as the ever-curious Fortunato Patio. (If you are wondering what BTS was, it read like Xerex Xaviera, except that its language was more graphic). So while the QCHS press delegation talked about their experiences (and Sammy
Olivar claimed that it was there that he found the girl of his dreams, although his
feeling would change a few months later), we who were left behind spent long torrid
afternoons talking about what we read in the BTS booklets.
Our involvement in this quest began the year before, when we were in third year. Most of the seniors had just been made cadet officers to give way to us juniors, who would then have two years to practice their marching and rifle-carrying abilities. Each afternoon of our class days, we marched at the main campus in Kamuning, kicking up dust well into the night, enduring thirst and hunger in the name of discipline. On Saturdays and Sundays, we spent the whole day under the sun and rain in the oval of Roces Stadium, practicing how to keep ourselves and our rifles in line while marching. There were high moments, especially during breaks at the Stadium when the more daring among us would sidle up to the woman manning the Vendo machine, touch her hands or try to kiss her -- and then report what they did to their fellow adolescents. But there were low moments, too, especially one day when our feared rivals, the Model
Platoon of Cubao High School, marched into the stadium. Our jaws sagged in awe as
the cuffs of their bell-bottomed pants snapped with each synchronized step, their
ranks and rifles remained straight as a ruler even during difficult maneuvers, and the
collective slap of the slings on their rifles sounded like the thunderclap of an
approaching storm. Our fears turned to reality when we were grouped with Cubao in the Type 1 (or local)
competition. We placed a far second to Cubao. But in the ensuing Type 2 (or regional)
competition, we placed first -- because Cubao was in a different group of schools. But
they returned in the Type 3, or national, competition and they beat us soundly. In fact,
two other schools beat us to a place in the championship. Although the trophies and
banners we brought home in this quest were more than enough for our beaming
principal, Mrs. Dela Cruz. For most of us, however, life went on. We strained our throats for our music teacher, Mrs. Lapid, whose ear was so sharp
she could isolate a single wayward voice from a chorus, and woe to that culprit caught
sintunado -- he or she will have to sing the note solo under her stern gaze and follow
the tune from her insistent fingers on the piano. With much effort, however, she
transformed our adolescent croaks into a melodius chorus.
While Mrs. Lapid honed our throats, Mr. Asprec taught us the discipline of fingers to
create music on the guitar, bandurria, ukelele and so on. Knowing most of us did not
know how to read notes, he made things easier for us and for himself by reducing the
songs into numbers - each number corresponding to a position in the instrument. A
rondalla took shape and, to this day, I still wonder how a group of people who mostly
did not read notes could play so well. Music to us who were 15 and 16 years old then, was important in another way. We
organized "parties" and danced the latest craze, Maski Pops (maski papaano),
although, like my classmate Johna Mandap, I preferred to watch from the sidelines
because I did not have the nerve to wriggle crazily, as my other classmates did. I did
get to dance near the end of these parties, when they played the slow music for the
Sweet -- the highlight of the night. I have not forgotten one of those dances, because
my heart was racing as I held a girl in my trembling arms for the first time in my life. I
also have not forgotten the girl: Eulalia Lopez, one of the Lopez twins (the other being
Isabel). In the succeeding years, each member of Class 1970 went their own way. Some have
soared to heights they never imagined when they were still teenagers. Some have
failed. Some got married and lived happily every after. Some did not. Some climbed
the social ladder. Some have stopped or even fell. Some continue to relive those high
school days. Some have completely forgotten. Some have remained proud of their
school. Some have preferred to forget it. And some are already dead.
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By Ma. Ana Sicam-Verdey What was it like then?It was a time |
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If there is something memorable
about the Class of 1970, it was
the honors it brought to the school
during the year. The principal's
office was awash with trophies
won by this batch (sadly, they
went up in flames when the main
building burned down years later).
For us in the class, the search for
excellence was a daily chore -- a
responsibility that we seniors had
to grow into when our
predecessors graduated, for the
benefit of the succeeding classes.
In fact, the honors continued to
flow even after graduation: At least
five of its members entered the
University of the Philippines (two
of them as national government
scholars) and two went to the
United States as AFS (American
Field Service) scholars. There
were more who took up advanced
courses. 
In sports, Quezon City
High acquitted itself.
Armando Fernandez
became our swimming
champion, dominant in
numerous inter-school
competitions. Our track
and field, baseball,
basketball and volleyball
teams placed themselves
in the top three of various competitions. 
Although I was a staff
member of Parola, I did
not make it to Baguio
because I failed to raise
enough money needed for
the bus fare and other
expenses. Besides, our
adviser was not very
encouraging: she told me
I still needed to eat lots of
rice before I could
compete with the nation's
best high school
journalists. 
But there was a set of
trophies and banners that
we who brought them
home were most proud,
mainly because of the
hard work they entailed.
They were won by the
Model Platoon of our PMT
(preparatory military
training) Corps. 
The result spoke for itself. Just
before graduation, in one of those
pre-graduation functions in the
auditorium of the main building
(during school days, it was cut up
into four classrooms with sliding
dividers), we sang "All the Things
You Are". The audience, made up
of junior classes, teachers and
parents, obviously liked it because
it asked for another song. We
gamely sang the theme from "The
Sound of Music". The audience applauded even wildly, obviously asking for more. But,
silently, we had to file down the stage because those were the only two songs we
learned for the whole year. 
Leo A. Deocadiz is the publisher of