When I was in International School, Makati - in the 1970s - I never could talk to boys. The only thing I remember being able to say was "May I have the pencil you borrowed from me back?" I never talked to teachers either. Someone wrote in my yearbook at graduation, "You are quiet and sweet. Too bad I didn't know you better." He didn't get it, I was never sweet. It summarized the futility of my high school social life.

The 1970s had an in-our-face war and a near impeachment but I don't remember discussions of these at our private ivory tower. Mrs. Butler's US history class didn't discuss Kent State, Sisterhood is Powerful, nor Martin Luther King. At that time, I had thought she was an excellent teacher. There was plenty of San Miguel beer, drugs, and hormones - but certainly not for squares like me. Like the others in this small private high school, I did fall into some bad decisions about mini skirts and polyester.

But this was a generation ago at a school now over five thousand miles away.

So why would I want to go to an AS/IS Reunion? It was to be a mini rumba of those from the Classes of 1970 to about 1979. Why would I want to mingle with bratty, spoiled, pimpled-faced rich cool kids thirty-odd years later? When I checked their website, I couldn't even remember faces to the list of about fifty preregistered names. And, I reasoned, "they" were going to have this ridiculous beer-guzzling orgy in a city I detest: Las Vegas.

Of course, I reminded myself, I had managed to finally grow up and have political opinions about everything. I even moved on to a likeable career, found someone who actually wanted to marry me, and have my own bratty kids. I pay a respectable mortgage now.

I did go to the AS/IS Reunion.

One can argue it is because my one friend from high school twisted my arm. You can probably make another half dozen hypotheses. I'd like to believe I went for the same reason those other fifty in the motley crew went. This middle-age woman went "home" to look for her youth.

And I found it! For one glorious weekend, we were young again. Except this chance was better than the original round. This time I - and the others - truly enjoyed our being together. We were all glued to each other - talking and finally listening. Our meals were only further opportunity to talk; I have little recollection of our glitzy surroundings. Sleep breaks were a nuisance. Can you believe that the other spoiled pimple-faced kids all grew fatter and balder in the last thirty years too! They've adopted sensible shoes, reading glasses, and respectable mortgages. There wasn't that much drinking but there was quite a bit of joking about San Miguel. With this group of oldsters, I was free to think young.

It is true we retold the stories we lived thirty years ago but now the taller tales are funnier. We shared the same lame jokes but laughed harder and longer. These are the jokes that our colleagues and new families could never appreciate. These are the stories that have been incubating and waiting for an appreciative audience for thirty years. We even sang the jingles to TV commercials of our era. Oh what fun to be reunited with people from our youth who do not have the insecurities of our youth.

Who came? An ex-basketball player came. He now lives in Oregon with his family and new baby. This gentleman came so curious about others. A State of Florida manager was our ring leader - telling story after story that got more and more fantastic with a richer and heavier Pilipino accent. His wife said in her Southern accent, "He's having the time of his life". 

An ex-cheerleader came from Maryland with her brother from Texas, now a flight instructor wearing a plaid shirt. Long gone are his long hair and attitude. One guy came with his male partner. 

Another talked non-stop to me about his four generations of family in the Philippines; his great grandfather was the first US postmaster in 1898, his grandfather was a Thomasite, eighteen relatives were in Santo Tomas prison in 1945...One man had only spent fourth to sixth grade with us, but came in search of something. One guy whom I never knew of in high school summarized it well, "I came to the Philippines when I was fourteen and had the time of my life."

 We were not all "cool", we were not all achievers - although some of us were. But even those of us who were quiet and awkward, we were listening and impressionable youth.

Even I, the wallpaper of high school, finally talked to those boys - and at what length! They laugh at my stories now; I feel their tribulations now. This weekend was not about reverting back to old fantasies. There is no unfinished business here. This was a weekend about feeding a home-sickness so we can continue to move forward. This was about appreciating our shared roots as we approach our fifties and sixties.

While physical realities can be but memories, who says you can't go home again? Hurrah for reunions.