I’ve been unwittingly green since I set foot in La Salle Green Hills, a khaki-shorts wearing brat with my hair pomaded to one side, kamiseta tucked snugly into my Voltes V underwear, and a tear-drenched face smeared with uhog because I didn’t want my Yaya Cora to leave me alone at school.

I became comfortably green during high school, a black pants-wearing lad with my hair drenched with spray net, undershirt tucked snugly into my Rick Astley underwear, and an acne-ridden face smeared with pimple cream. I demanded that Yaya Cora drop me off fifty feet before the school gate so my classmates would know that I was now independent.

And I stayed irrevocably green when I made my way to the Taft campus, a maong-wearing young man with his collared shirt un-tucked (I could no longer tuck my shirt into my Backstreet Boys underwear because Mang Jack, the discipline officer, said that this was a disciplinary offense). I tried to stop myself from crying when I found out that Yaya Cora could not enter the campus because she lacked a school ID.

I was in the same institution for seventeen years of my life because, much like our receding hairlines, studying in La Salle was a family legacy. Green had been hard-wired into my DNA. I am a La Sallian three generations deep and damn proud of it. But my greene-mindedness not only runs deep but it also spreads wide as well: my wife, also a La Sallian, comes from a family of La Sallian men (which probably explains why, when she was still my girlfriend, her dad had me fitted with a chastity belt). When we got married, one of my ninongs was Bro. Kenneth Martinez, FSC, a Christian Brother and my high school spiritual adviser. And, right after college graduation, the University was foolhardy enough to let me teach several classes for all of one semester (my students have since finished with therapy, thank you very much). If I were any more green, I’d be arrested for public indecency.

If you were to ask me what part of my education cemented my love for a school founded by an French priest three hundred years ago, I would say that it was the time in my life that hair began to sprout in unfamiliar places: high school.

As La Salle Green Hills celebrates its Golden Anniversary and a Grand Alumni homecoming, I can’t help but wax nostalgic over my high school days. Unfortunately, I can only recall snippets of the academic portion of my high school education. I still remember what circle of hell I belong to in Dante’s Inferno. I barely remember the theorems from my geometry class. And I can only remember the relevant parts of the male and female anatomy. But I don’t think you can blame my teachers – God bless them all -for lack of trying (This is probably the reason why they wanted to re-introduce corporal punishment into the curriculum). Outside of World War II, my generation probably had the shortest high school career in recent history.

There is an ancient Chinese proverb that goes, “May you live interesting times.” That being the case, my high school life was probably as interesting as a car accident on EDSA. Our freshman year exploded with a bloodless revolution – that was only a few hundred meters from our school, I might add (A great excuse to skip classes). Our sophomore and junior years were riddled with failed kudetas and punctuated by power shortages. And what did we have to cap off our senior year? An earthquake.

(As an aside, do you know what fate is even worse than political brinkmanship or a natural calamity to a sixteen-year-old male? Not having a high school prom. Two times. The Christian Brothers called off our proms because they deemed it inappropriate during a time that called for austerity. Being the obedient students that we were, we attempted to stage underground proms. But our efforts were as successful as two impeachment complaints. As if puppy love, peer pressure and pubic hair weren’t already enough to contend with.)

Although my batch mates and I did have a rather idiosyncratic high school career, it was probably none less idiosyncratic than the other generations who grew armpit hair while studying at La Salle Green Hills. The other generations have had their own share of interesting times – from the First Quarter Storm to Martial Law to the Aquino Assassination to the Estrada dog and pony show to the second and third (and so on and so forth) iterations of People Power to the Arroyo shadow play to the Jun Lozada telenovela to 2010 national elections (that’s just wishful thinking). But despite the spectrum of political melodramas that framed our high school years, there are sanctioned and non-sanctioned extra-curricular activities that have been shared across many generations of La Sallians who called the Mandaluyong campus a home away from home. Even as curriculums change, fashions change, and waistlines change, there are still some things remain incorrigibly constant.

We had our Search-Ins and Discoveries and Circulos and Covenants. We learned how to smoke hit hit buga style during lunch break by Gate 8. We had our Kundirana (and for those who heartbreakingly never made the cut even if we practiced on our minus-ones for a year, we had our Kundisanas). We formed our own profane-sounding fraternities with their own set of puke-inducing rituals. We had our visits to Golden Acres Retirement home. We were engrossed in a brisk trade of pornographic material. We had our Kabihasnan fairs. We skipped class and took a jeepney ride to Virra Mall to enjoy a meal at Le Ching Tea House. We had our school dances. We accepted violation reports (VRs) like they were badges of honor. We had our RIFA and PRADA and NCAA tournaments. We enjoyed the fringe benefits of an unsupervised soiree. We had our Namfrel Quick Counts. We blew up our toilet bowls with firecrackers. We had our high school mass. We were embroiled in hamunans and sapakans at the field after class. We thanked God for our adolescent reward that was the cheerleading exhibition of the Girls Athletic League (GALs). And we always tried to sneak a peek of our teacher’s underwear (Sorry about that, Mr. Espino). All these stories are retold in a perpetual loop among our barkadas, and just seemed to grow bigger and more unwieldy in each re-telling (I wasn’t that well-endowed when I was in high school. Sige nga, I was).

On top of these experiences, the one thing we will definitely never forget is our stratification in the high school totem pole: You were the cono boy or the kanto boy. You were the teacher’s pet or the teacher’s enemy. You were the sosyal or you were the sociopath. You were the nerd or you were the repeater. You were religious or you were sacrilegious. You were the pala-biro or the pala-away. You were the chick boy or the boy who wanted to be a chick. (As for me and my barkada? We were the ‘first among nerds’, a title whose privilege included having our heads dunked in urinals by the ‘first among sigas’). Ah, the saccharine sweet memories of high school life. Some of us want to relive it while some of us will never live it down.

And because of (or some might say, in spite of) our La Sallian upbringing, our Green Hills campus has sprung forth alumni who contributed to the grand production number that is Philippine society – whether or not these alumni were the ones whose heads were being dunked or these were the ones who were doing the dunking in high school. Until now, I still find it hard to believe that I have shared the same set of teachers, smelly lockers, and expired canteen food with these esteemed gentlemen who have inspired me by their example (or by their shenanigans, as the case may be).

If only the campus walls could make tsismis, we could uncover what exactly were the turning points in the secondary school lives that made them the upright Christian gentleman of today – Did Joey Concepcion make his first million by buying and selling hotdogs, softdrinks and airconditioners with his classmates? Did Paeng Nepumuceno score his first perfect rack (no pun intended) at Coronado Lanes after playing hooky from school? What type of gayuma did Ralph Recto and Kiko Pangilinan concoct during chemistry class to make them irresistible to heavenly bodies? Which teacher pressed the fast forward button on Mike Enriquez’s mouth and neglected to press stop? Where was the elusive electrical socket that Gary Valenciano stuck his finger into before his song and dance audition with the Kundirana? What school plays did Ogie Alcasid appear in to prepare for his slew of cross-dressing roles in Bubble Gang? For the sake of our nation, some of these questions must remain unanswered.

As much as I am inspired by these older La Sallian alumni (well, older than me at least), I am just as inspired by the younger alumni who have taken their Catholic education a hop, skip and a jump further. I am in awe of my kapwang green bloods who have chosen to take care of their recalcitrant own, like Bro. Richie Yap, FSC (HS ’96), Bro. Mandy Dujunco, FSC (HS ’97) and Bro. Sockie de la Rosa, FSC (HS ’01). And, I equally awed by green bloods who have jumped the bakod to care for our cerulean neighbors. After being ruined thoroughly by his Katipunan education, my cousin Bro. Mark Lopez, SJ (HS ’92) is now a Jesuit scholastic, and my whole La Sallian family clan couldn’t be prouder. Mark is truly a harmonious blend of green and blue until a La Salle-Ateneo basketball game comes along.

However, what inspires me the most about La Salle are the Christian Brothers themselves, particularly during these interesting times. Because, as the Brothers are wont to remind me when this column gets a bit too green-minded, my La Sallian education did not end when they handed me the diploma.

Over a series of public statements that the Christian Brothers have shared with the country, they have called on our nation’s leaders, (ehem, leader) to be accountable for the truth – not because it is the popular thing to do, not because it is the unpopular thing to do, but simply because it is the right thing to do. After all, as Catholic educators charged with shaping the moral fortitude of the next generations of Christian gentlemen – the Brothers were not only holding our elected (?) officials accountable for the Christian values that were expected of them, but the Brothers were also holding themselves accountable for the values they taught to their students.

The sentiments that the Brothers have shared through their public statements is no different from the sentiments they have shared with their students in the classrooms – the responsibility of putting our faith into action. And, with the actions that the Brothers have taken to be a stand for the truth amidst an atmosphere of fearful silence, my school continues to teach me about my faith. My school continues to teach me about courage. My school continues to teach me about responsibility. My school continues to teach me about compassion. My school continues to teach me generosity. Because that is what my La Sallian education is all about. That, and some geometry, too.

In a recent open letter to the public, the Brothers challenged La Sallian alumni to ‘take cognizance of the education that you have received from La Salle all these years. As dark clouds hover in the horizon, we challenge to you make a difference.’ In so doing, the Brothers have made us hamon to be the spark of hope to all those who have grown jaded by these morally bankrupt times.

And to help ignite this spark, the Brothers crafted a prayer that was written in preparation for 2011, the one hundredth year of the La Sallian ministry of education in the Philippines.

The One La Salle Prayer

Let me be the change I want to see
to do with strength and wisdom all that needs to be done
and become the hope I can be

Set me free from my tears and hesitations
Grant me courage and humility
Fill me with Spirit to face the challenge
and start the change I long to see

Even if I am not the light
I can be the spark
In faith, service and communion
let us start the change we want to see
The change that begins in me

Man, I didn’t know what Yaya Cora was getting me into when she first dragged me to school.

There are a few more things that I share with my fellow alumni (aside from failing to make the cut for Kundirana or sneaking a peek at our teacher’s underwear), things that I share even with those alumni who have been re-painted blue, or splashed by maroon, or who have simply let the green fade away.

Nowadays, maybe not all of us alumni cheer as insanely as a contestant for Wowowee during a La Salle-Ateneo basketball. Maybe not all alumni can recall the school cheers from stock memory. Maybe not alumni fancy attending the homecomings. And maybe not all alumni have fond memories of having their heads dunked into toilets at good ol’ De La Salle.

But if there’s anything that the Brothers want all alumni to remember about their La Sallian education, it is this: To keep a rosary stashed in your pocket and to treasure four lines of prayer that should be skewered like an arrow into their hearts.

Let us remember that we are in the Holy Presence of the Lord.
I will continue, O my God, to do all my actions for the love of you.
St. John Baptist de La Salle, Pray for Us.

And, most importantly:

Live Jesus in our Hearts, forever.

This is what Animo La Salle is all about.

I still can’t bear to watch an Ateneo-La Salle game.

My pulse races to an anxious roar, uneasy sweat lances my eyes and my bones liquefy to the consistency of taho. 

And that’s even before the game starts. 

Despite that, there are still alumni from both alma maters who will risk their health over forty excruciatingly long minutes.  They don’t mind the adrenal rush that leads to increased stress levels.  They don’t mind the sudden bursts of testosterone that lead to hair loss.   And they don’t mind testing the warranties on their pacemakers.  

But I am not one of those people. 

I have unusually high cholesterol levels, I have several unpaid credit card bills, and I am working seven jobs to pay for my wedding.  I can use the additional stress like I could use an additional appendix.

Ah, forget about it.

I admit it, ok?  I just don’t have the balls to watch the game.   

And as confirmed by our proctologist, my fiancée has a bigger set of balls than me when it comes to watching any Ateneo-La Salle game.  She actually enjoys the prospect of potential hair loss.  Whenever there’s an Ateneo-La Salle game on tv, she pulls out her moth-eaten cheerleader’s outfit from the closet, does a couple of cartwheels, and screams until she pops an artery. 

Me, I like the testosterone-free way of enjoying the game.  I will read the sports section the following day.  And, depending on the outcome of the game, I will treat everyone to a cappuccino or I will pour piping hot coffee onto my genitals.

However, there are those who conspire to induce my hair loss and thus make me lose any endorsements for hair care products that I have so far.  Friends from both Loyola and Taft will find ways to give me a blow-by-blow account of the game via text or e-mail or cloud signals.  Thus, I make it point to be unreachable during any game, like in a country where the latest technological innovation is a rotary phone. It is either that I make myself scarce or I will have to rent out a generator for a short-wave electromagnetic pulse.   

Whenever there is an Ateneo-La Salle game, statistics gain GMA-like credibility when both our players start dribbling the ball.   During the heat of the game, we both clutch onto our rosaries and invoke the names of our respective patron saints and pray to the good Lord to lead our teams to victory.  And somewhere up there, St. Ignatius and St. La Salle are probably taking pokes at each but unfortunately the good Lord fails to notice because he’s breaking up a round of fisticuffs between St. Benedictine and St. John Lateran. Finally, when the announcer yodels the last two minutes, quantum physics kicks in and two minutes can stretch out into an eternity.   And in those two minutes, a seven-point lead can vanish as mysteriously as a dubious Comelec executive.

Whatever yogic inclinations I’ve had of detaching from my ego gets flushed down the karmic toilet when my good ol’ alma mater is at stake.  These are the games that divide families, that anger slash elate bookies and that postpone Senate investigations.  And this is a rivalry that is as mythic as that of the Boston Red Sox versus the New York Yankees.  The Spartans versus the Persians.  The administration versus the truth.  It is the Blue versus the Green.  The Eagle versus the Archer.  The discretionary budget of PLDT-Smart versus the discretionary budget of ICTSI.

And for those of us who belong to either side of the fence, getting yourself swept up into the electrically-charged atmosphere of the game is probably the purest and the most cardiac-arresting expression of school spirit that we can muster.  The games are actually integral to building school spirit, along with cutting class for barkada gimmicks, cramming for exams and scrambling to pay for horrendously spiraling tuition fees.  And the great thing about the game is that you don’t even have to know a thing about basketball.  All you need is to do is wear a blue or green shirt, know if you are supposed to cheer “One Big Fight” or “Rektikano” and willing to risk laryngitis. 

The only thing you are required to do during THE game, whether you are at home or in a bar or in an emergency room, is to cheer with your heart on your sleeve.  Is there any other way to cheer for your team?  And when team your wins, you feel your heart swell like an overpriced government contract.  But when your team loses, you feel like somebody’s taken your heart, stomped on it a couple of times, ran it through a meat grinder, stir-fried it in pork fat and MSG, devoured it, regurgitated it and then threw it up all over the floor.

As if this heart-wrenching procedure wasn’t good enough, rabid blue babblers and gang greenies are forced to repeat this process year in and year out.  And because God would have both Ateneans and La Sallians experience life-threatening experiences as it brings us closer to Him, we repeated this heart-stopping process FIVE freaking times over this season.  At this rate, I’d rather ask my cardiologist to induce a heart attack instead of waiting for one to happen. 

This year was particularly swell-worthy season for the De La Salle Green Archers Men’s Senior Basketball Team who went from suspension to vindication.  But the road to the championship was a mad scramble with the Ateneo Blue Eagles.  All of those games could have gone either way.  I’d be careful not to gloat over this because Ateneo still has sweet-shooting “Iglesia ni Chris Tiu” (or Chris “The Master” Tiu, a familiar nickname for all those men with oil-rich producing faces) in their armory.  But more than that, both our institutions have waged a fierce seesaw battle in the UAAP’s final four since 2001, and I feel like an unlubricated fulcrum. 

Sometimes winning and losing against “the other school” becomes the end all and be all for those of us who bleed blue or green. We couldn’t care less about coup rumblings or bribery scandals or who gets nominated for eviction from Pinoy Big Brother Celebrity Edition. But what we do care passionately about is the chance to relish sweet victory.  And the pissing points that go with it.   

It seems that every time our players step into the courts during an Ateneo-La Salle game, they become more than human.  They transform into archetypes of our pride in our respective institutions. 

I remember many an Archer who have responsible for my pride and for my progressive hair loss since 1991 – From Dickie Bachman to Jun Limpot to Noli Locsin to Tony Boy Espinosa to Jason Webb to Dwight and Elmer Lago to Dino Aldeguer to Don Carlos Allado to Mark Telan to Renren Ritualo to Mike Cortez to BJ Manalo to Mark Cardona to Joseph Yeo to TY Tang to Rico Maierhofer.  But just as much as I remember these Archers, I fondly remember the Eagles who gave me many a heartache – From Olsen Racela to Richie Ticzon to Vince Hizon to Gabby Cui to Sandy Arespacochaga to John Verayo to Rainier Sison to Rich Alvarez to Enrico Villanueva to Wesley Gonzales to Larry Fonacier to Macky Escalona to LA Tenorio to JC Intal to Doug Kramer to Japeth Aguilar to Chris Tiu.

And it is when our players are shooting it out for mythic glory on the hardcourt that our reactions turn so visceral that we often lose sense of ourselves.  I mean, did those invectives really spew forth from my mouth?   Did my fingers really involuntarily curl up into that gesture? Did I really expose my tattooed derriere with the logo of “the other school” on national television? 

But hey, it happens to all of us.  Except for maybe the exposed derriere.  But that’s because we’re only human.  And being human means that sometimes the pride that fuels our rivalry gets the better of us.

Today, they are our siblings, our spouses, our friends, our officemates, our badminton partners and our three female readers.  But come game time they are moving targets that deserve our contempt when “their side” wins and who deserve our insults when “their side” loses. The gloating and the name-calling.  The grandstanding and the mudslinging.  The one-upmanship and the grumbling.  These are great attributes for one to display in congress. But these behaviors are a disservice for those of us who have been “ruined” by our Jesuit or Christian Brother education. 

We can’t assume that just because some of us are thick-skinned enough to take some “good-natured” ribbing that it grants us the wherewithal to dish it out as well.  There are some who can take a couple of nasty put-downs, there are some who can stomach the occasional derogatory remark. And there are some who will want to rip apart your intestines to see if you really do bleed blue or green.  I’m sure that there are those of us who do bleed blue or green, but if we stab each other enough we’ll both end up slumped in a pool of red.

But what’s even more stab-worthy is when we reduce “the other school” to negative stereotypes just so that we can keep our ranking in the pedestal of pissing points.  In truth, neither school can claim a monopoly for being home to the smartest, the most academically gifted, the most successful, the most generous, and the most humble.  But neither school can also claim a monopoly for being home to the most mayabang, the most snooty, the most boleros, the most number of poor spelers (oops, I mean spellers) and the most pro-administration congressmen (although we can do a head count for this one). Instead of ‘vilifying’ each other, let us vilify those who deserve it:  the cowardly perpetrators of the explosions at Glorietta, Makati, or the shameless masterminds behind the suhulan in Malacanang, or the DOMs who expose too much man-cleavage.

Our misplaced sense of school pride often gets in the way of appreciating how much we are alike than we expect.  Br. Mark Lopez, SJ from the Loyola House of Studies spent his formative years at La Salle Greenhills but then jumped over the bakod to pursue Management Engineering at Ateneo de Manila University (ADMU).  He ended up as the Executive Director of the Jesuit Volunteers Program before being spirited away by the Jesuits.  “I would like to think that most Jesuits see or appreciate the Ateneo-La Salle rivalry in the context of healthy competition, and school spirit. At the very least it makes for amusing banter at mealtime or recreation conversations (with La Sallian-Jesuits getting the flack from the Ateneans, or vice-versa after the championships).  Interestingly, among the La Sallian-Jesuits, none are ashamed of their greener roots. In fact, many of us are proud (in a good way) and will be in their greenest outfits before (or especially after a La Salle-Ateneo game).” Br. Mark shared with much amusement, but declined to share if the color of the blood shed after those recreation conversations were blue or green. 

”More than the games, though, the interesting and more edifying areas of intersection between these schools are less known to the general public.” Br. Mark added.  “And I think these are the areas of spirituality and mission.  The Chaplain and Spiritual Director of the La Salle Brothers in the Philippines is actually a Jesuit. He directs them in their retreats and presides over special masses and is happy to help with other forms of spiritual guidance.   There was also a time when the novitiate stage of formation for the La Salle brothers was also in the Sacred Heart Jesuit Novitiate in Novaliches (so Jesuit novices and La Salle Brother-novices were actually housed in the same compound for some time.)”

Br. Ricky Laguda, FSC is the President of De La Salle Araneta University in Malabon. After spending his grade and high school years in the University of St. La Salle Bacolod, Br. Ricky switched sides to pursue philosophy at ADMU.  “Looking deeply at the lives of both our founders, they are essentially the same.” Br. Ricky shared.  “Both were good at doing what they felt was God’s call.  Both were students and advocates of the Counter Reformation. And both were excellent “patron saints”.  St. Ignatius was a Patron Saint of Retreats and Retreatants.  St La Salle was Patron Saint of Teachers.  Both had a great love for God, the Church, and the world.  In fact, if you visit St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, you will find them “next to each other”.  The statue of St. La Salle’s is actually looking down at the statue of St. Ignatius.”  (But let us save this discussion for next season’s championships. – RJ)    

“In the end, we may not readily admit it, but the Jesuits and De La Salle Brothers, La Salle and Ateneo, aren’t really too different from each other.” chimed in Br. Ariane Lopez, FSC, an alumnus of De La Salle Zobel who pursued Social Studies in ADMU. He is currently involved in Vocation development while pursuing his Master’s Degree in Theological Studies at ADMU.   “We say with different words the same thing we do… We strive to follow Christ to make Him more present in this world.  We both strive to form men and women for others in whose hearts Jesus lives forever.”

In each game that we play arrow and claw to win, let us not only celebrate the pride that comes with school spirit, but the achievement that comes with it as well. The next time we see our players on the court, let us not only see them merely as the archetypes of our pride but as the archetypes of our achievement: As a basketball team, as a school, as an institution, as a community.  Our achievements, both in and off the court, help us define each other.  And at the core of this definition, is the admiration and respect that we hold for one another.  After all, aren’t we each other’s opposite number?  What would Ateneo be without La Salle and La Salle be without Ateneo?  When our mythic rivalry remains steadfast to these principles, then we remain humble in victory as we are magnanimous in defeat.  But when neither of us are able to exercise humility or magnanimity, then neither of us are truly worthy to be called victors.  

It is this admiration and respect for both the Jesuits and Christian Brothers that has so artfully melded in the person of Tyrone Tang, a product of the Jesuit-run Xavier School, who found the fortitude and determination to propel a disheartened senior’s basketball team to the championships.  It was this admiration and respect that  prompted University of the East coach Dindo Pumaren to comment after DLSU won over UE in this season’s finals, “Ateneo brought out the best in La Salle”.  And it was this admiration and respect that made the La Salle bleachers go ballistic with cheers of “Go Ateneo!” when Chris Tiu was presented as part the Mythical Five for this UAAP basketball season.   It is when we celebrate the achievement of the human spirit – be blue or green – when we discover that we are all Ateneans.  And that we are all La Sallians.   

There has been some recent debate among the diehard La Salle fans that the Animo cheer belongs to our school.  Actually, I think that the “Animo” cheer is one that is shared by both schools.  Animo in Latin means “courageous, ardent, passionate and furious”.  And Animo in Latin also means “spirit”.  Is there any other way you can describe an Ateneo-La Salle game?  Our Animo fills the seats of Araneta Coliseum like no Sharon Cuneta concert can. 

Next season, I finally hope to watch an Ateneo-La Salle game.  Live even.  In the meantime, I’ll have the chance to grow a big enough set of balls.