My Filipino Story, Part Three

In every interesting plot of a tale of highschool woes, there is almost always at the center of it the one group of people that dominate and rule the social scene, the ubiquitous popular crowd. In my school, a Filipino catholic school run by Augustinian Recollect nuns at that time, that set was The Amoebas. The Amoebas did not sport the telltale high-low popular girl uniform like immaculate gel nails, polka dotted Mango mini skirts, Balenciaga sneakers, armed with their LV cross bodies, but you could still sort of sniff their ilk out of the crowd.

Much like the unofficial rules of who attended and populated ICC, The Amoebas hailed from an already almost pre-set destiny. They a) usually had well-off, prominent parents who ran well-known businesses in the town proper, b) inherited from ancestors who previously dipped into manipulating and benefitting from an emerging agrarian economy, or c) held office in perpetuum. Or if they were even more blessed, some combination of the above. I guess the more simple equation to that was: if your parents were something of a big deal in the town, then you most likely were, too. There were some exceptions to this big rule; sometimes by dint of being extremely attractive, or an effective hanger-on to the system or the well-heeled offspring, you too, could benefit from being at the top of the social food chain.

The Amoebas and their predecessors (usually siblings and family members, no surprise there), were the nexus of all things ostentatious and watch-worthy. If there were events and someone had to put on a show, they were the main attraction. If there was a beauty pageant or competition held within the walls of the school or for the town in general, they were always picked to participate. Awards and accolades? Usually theirs (unless it was academic; seriously, not even rich could effectively mask or pay for dumb). You‘re beginning to get a clearer picture right? The unspoken cherry on top of this enforced hierarchy at the high school level was, believe it or not, the school‘s ROTC (in the Philippines, C.A.T.- citizen army training) marching band.

I know, you have to wrap your head around that a little, with marching band and band camp in the U.S. calling forth different images and associations, not always flattering. You see, for lack of a football team and other organized sports who instead utilized the whole student body for cheering, the idea and the role of cheerleader was non-existent, and though Filipinos were really fanatic about at least basketball, that did not at all spawn any athlete heartthrobs. So it was ICC’s marching band where you could find a collection of the highschool’s who’s-who. My theory is that because the band was used for every event imaginable, not only for the school, but the town as well, it was yet another way to be in the spotlight. Plus, who could really afford all the gear, instruments, and uniforms for their kids to join, if not the parents with all the moolah?

This is where you find me wedged into the spectacle spectacular. I guess within my adolescent logic, securing a place on the band roster was the best possible plan of attack to implement at least two-thirds of my highschool “popularity plan“ (to recap: Be seen and known. Mingle with the enemy camp). In previous years, this likely would have been a no-go; the band coordinator—we’ll call him Mr. B.—was in charge of hand-picking candidates who would be part of the group, especially the majorettes, who were supposed to be a representation of the school’s foxiest bevy of young ladies (read: translucent-pale, rich, sometimes actually pleasant-looking. Don’t forget, this was beauty from the perception of a single, very likely biased man). Four years prior for my sister’s last year at ICC, I think my dad was actually able to convince Mr. B. to have her on his majorette team. I really don’t know how he managed that particular coup.

By the time my turn rolled around in my second year of high school, a new rule had been introduced: candidates would have to try out. Whee! That gave me some kind of chance, maybe? A .001:10 ratio of probability. I did tryout, I did have to be in the company constantly of the Amoebas (save for one of my friends trying out as well, thank the Goddess). I did get picked, what are the odds. An in, yes.

The Amoebas weren’t all terrible—some were actually quite tolerable, nice in that way that solitary girls can be nice when they are nowhere near the peer pressure of their friends. Two girls out of the group were the worst, one always throwing subtle shade, and the other too snotty for her polished Mary Jane shoes, existing off of the residual aura of her sister who was, pretty, popular and a majorette before her. What I’ll always remember about the first girl (we’ll nickname her Tinky) was how her smiling eyes hid her charcoal soul. The second girl (we can call her Maldita) perpetually had an expression on her face like she was sniffing garbage, and this was accompanied by her squeaky, affectation-laden, judge-y b*tch voice.

In case you were wondering, haha no, no one in their clique was quite clever enough to choose the moniker for their group; my intimate cadre of friends and I came up with that one—somewhere between first and second year high school we took biology as an elective and the word “amoeba” seemed to brilliantly describe how they were a single cell moving together and quite parasitic (a few of them asked me to tinker with, if not complete whole English papers for them. Don’t worry, this was the period where I learned that everyone from the kids to the teachers were razzle-dazzled by important sounding English words and didn’t bother to read the content of the report after that. How’s that for blowing another big raspberry at these gullible fools?).

Ah, but yes, I had to make nice with these harpies a few times a week, if not whole days when a school or town event was in full swing. During the time, as inwardly defiant as I was, I was still, above all an insecure teen, and wanting above anything, approval from my peers. So on the most part I would seethe on my own time, or in the company of only closest friends, but outwardly be complacent, sweet, and accommodating to their stinking balloon headed egos.

The following years, more non-Amoebas joined the band as well, and made it a fun, less toxic and stuck up environment. Before events we would hole up at one girl’s spacious home or the other to apply our magenta eye and lip, and tease our hair to the high heavens with Aquanet hairspray and a prayer. You’re probably shocked at this point that there was a time before caring for the environment and the ozone, and well...women having a beauty blender in their makeup bags.

These girls, mostly being from pretty wealthy families themselves outside of Balayan, while on the most nice, were still more “them” than “us,“ so they were able to easily and fluidly straddle both the popular crowd and hang with us lesser beings, generally being liked by everyone. I still held at least one undetectable shield of defense up with these girls, regardless—often imagining that they would talk behind our less privileged backs when they were together at socials or we weren’t in the vicinity.

All in all, in retrospect, my ”popularity plan“ probably didn’t end up putting me at the very tippety-top of this Pinoy teenybopper version of Game of Thrones, but it did save me from a good portion of languishing in adolescent Nowhereland. My oh-so-wise and unflappable friend offered a final comment about the whole experience when we were recently reminiscing about our various escapades, not once bringing up any bad memories or being scarred by any particular episodes, simply that she ”missed those days, and she missed us.”

And just like that, any lingering bitterness dissipates. The angst was definitely present, for certain, but a good part magnified in my own healthy young imagination as well. On the whole, mean girls and everything, it was still mostly good memories of wonderful friends and a less complicated, much more innocent time in my life.