When people ask me why I keep a blog, I tell them that my #1 reason for doing so is to preserve my memories. See, the memory can be a tricky thing in that it can be selective in what it retains in its archives. But if I write it down while the moment is still fresh, I can always rely on that piece of my life being in my blog’s archives forever even if it will no longer be in my head. My blog = my brain’s back up disk.
Last week, an elementary classmate of mine recently uploaded our class photos in Facebook and tagged us all, ensuing in 75 comments (as of posting).
It was great to hear from people that I hadn’t heard from in fifteen years or more, to hear that a bunch of kids who once converged in a tiny school in a tiny city are now scattered all over the globe. But the thing that I enjoyed the most was getting flashbacks and fragments of the life I had forgotten.
Marie Ann said she remembered how Benedict and I were partners in storytelling, how we invented stories with classmates as the characters which we shared over packed lunches eaten while seated in our armchairs that we had formed into a circle.
Benedict then brought up his memory of the newsletter that Imee, Danica, Darrel and I made up which we called HIDD. I had written an article called “Manito-Manita Fiasco” which caused our moderator Sir Santillan to put a stop to it.
Though the titles sounded familiar now that he had brought it up, I still couldn’t remember the details like what was that article all about and why did our teacher pull the plug on our amateur paper over that?
Luckily for me, Benedict had an elephant’s memory and was able to give me the entire story.
Apparently, the controversy was about the minimum contribution for our manito-manita or Christmas exchange gifts. Some of us wanted Php100 while others wanted Php50. Benedict is not sure which amount Sir Santillan preferred but the article insinuated that he was manipulating the price caps, which obviously irked him.
“Kaya ayun, censored at its finest ang naging kinalabasan… reminiscent of martial law era diba?” were Benedict’s last words about it.
I was so amused when I heard these stories because this is proof that I had always been into spinning and sharing stories via verbal or written means. As I was, I still am. Some things never really change, do they?
