Something Written

We all have stories to tell. We never tire repeating them nor tire hearing them.
For days on end--and then years on end--we have added anecdotes to our collection of stories that have grown part of the living “mythologies” in IHMS. We remember why “patok” or “kingkong” got his name, or how “maru” or “igit” replaced an otherwise beautiful nickname. We remember how Baston Bobitch Gang became Baboga, although we may have forgotten why we called our class that name. For in fact, it did not mean a thing. It was simply a wild thought devoid of meaning.
How we loved those stories. We always found time for them. After meals when we congregated under the avocado tree near the canteen, in what is now part of the mini zoo. We spontaneously assembled under the mango tree or the talisay tree near the pathway leading to the auditorium. And towards the end of our college days, in 1984, we even sought refuge under the shade of pines and mahogany that lined the sea wall in front of Baclayon church. If only trees could talk, then we would have found the best chronicler of our stories.
The longing to leave something behind, even if they be just simple stories, runs deep within. Thus, we left a photo album of our “exploits” in college. We even passed on our stories to those who came after us. But, as in any oral traditions, we know now that stories will live only as long the storytellers. It has been more than 30 years since high school entrance, when we started telling stories. It has been more than 27 years since our high school graduation in 1980. And it has been 23 years since our college graduation. Those who knew of, and retold, our stories have all moved on too. Those in the seminary today belong to an entirely new generation. They haven’t heard of us, nor do they know our stories.
This is the reason we sometimes feel alienated at the IHMS today. We always say that things have changed at the IHMS. We have become a stranger to the place; yet deep within still strangely at home. The stories we hear are no longer recognizable. The jokes and jargons are different. Yet somehow we feel at peace, for we have tucked within each of us stories of this place that we weaved with our friends.
As we grow old, we can leave those stories as they are--hidden in the fading memories of each participant. Or, we can put them on paper--or online, like this blog--and retell them one more time . . . for posterity. Once written, they stand a better chance of persisting in time.
This blog--unofficial and unauthorized this may be for this is started by a couple of balding alumni who have other things to do in between--provides that venue. We do not have the luxury to meet and talk, as we used to do. But we can continue telling our stories through this blog.
Here, thus, we share with you our memories of our days in IHMS. Journey with us as we turn our memories into “something written” -- a Scriptum. (nox arcamo)