I am flooded with memories every time I attend mass at the
Fernando Air Base Chapel, where I was, a long time ago, an altar boy. It must have been some kind a covenant made
by our parents with God that everyone of us six Enginco boys would serve because
I somehow found myself reluctantly following the footsteps of my Kuyas who have
distinguished themselves as dutiful servants. If I had my way, I’d be happier looking for
spiders in far away fields and playing basketball at the plaza, instead. I had the shortest tenure among all of us
because I entered rather late and retired rather early.
But I learned a lot of life lessons as an altar boy.
If you don’t know yet, the most important part of the mass is
the ringing of the bell, which happens four times during the celebration;
first, when the priest blesses the hosts by placing both his hands, palms down,
over the chalice, second and third, when he offers the host by raising it so
that the congregation will see, then the wine by doing the same, and lastly,
when he drinks the wine which signals that everyone must now fall in line to
partake of the feast.
For some reason, I found myself the only altar boy in the
chapel one Saturday afternoon that a wedding was to be officiated. It was not unusual for only one acolyte to
serve in a mass, but it was for me because it was my first time. The thing with being on a solo mission atop
the altar is that you have no one to exchange furtive glances or elbows to the
side with when you spot something, or someone interesting in the crowd. So I did what I would normally do when left alone
-- use my imagination to go some place.
That was when the revelation of the most important part of the mass
dawned on me.
The wedding was going along fine, the bride and groom
already delivered their respective agreement to hook up with one another for the
rest of their lives with no one from the audience making a dramatic last
minute plea, “Itigil ang kasal!” As far as
everyone was concerned, they were already married save for the honeymoon and the first official married kiss, which the priest will later on permit.
It was when I was kneeling on the merciless marble floor
that the revelation happened. At first, I thought
it was God himself talking to me in my trance.
But when I came to, it was Father Oarga, his face so close to mine I
could clearly make out the pockmarks on his cheeks. I was tempted to name each one of them after the
moon’s craters but he was saying something so urgent, his voice so deep and
serious, like an extended sigh married to a grovel. I was convinced a sacred secret was being passed on by a master to a disciple – Yuuuunnngggg belllllll….
Oh. I missed it, didn’t
I? Twice, in fact.
But not the third one, when I rang it so loud I must have
made up for the lost two. And certainly
not the last, which signaled that my most favorite part of the mass would
follow when I will have the chance to place a plate under a massgoer’s head, which would trigger
the devout to stick out his/her tongue, which would then prompt the priest to
place a host on it as a reward for falling in line.
Father Oarga rarely talked to me. And his silence became complete after that incident. I interpreted it as an unspoken command never
to reveal the most important part of the mass to anyone. But as great secrets go, I just had to let it
out to free me from the burden of keeping it.
I didn’t know if I did not put out the proper solemn face
when serving, or if I was not trusted enough to do the right thing at the right
time because I have never been assigned to carry out the most regale and
dramatic roles that an altar boy could ever play, such as carrying the burning
incense which swung from a bronze chain, or lugging the large crosses, or
ringing the wooden bell called matraca, which made a distinct takatakatakataka
sound. For a change, I would have loved
to tak-tak-takatakatakatak-tak-tak it to provide some fresh rhythm to special ceremonies.
But there was one role particularly reserved for me though. And this
came during Holy Week when Christ’s body, loaded on a carosa, would go around
the military base in a long and winding procession. This time I would be handed a very long pole
and my duty was to go ahead of the caravan to look for low lying electric lines
or protruding branches, which I would then raise with my instrument until the
carosa passes by without a hitch. It was
not pretty, but I got the job done.
One of the reasons why many adolescent boys want to become a member of the Knights of the Altar is that it is one, if not the best way to meet girls. And in summer, we had our counterparts – the catechists,
whom we’d like to be around with most of the time. With
no sisters in the family, my only knowledge about interacting with the
long-haired ones consisted mostly of my exposure to girl classmates in school. But the only thing I knew about them is that
they don’t like games for every time I tug on their hair or put thrash over it,
they cry. Same thing happens when I’d
like to hear the sound that straps of trainer bras make on their back, or when
I pull the chair under a girl who was about to take a seat. Girls cry when you play games on them. That much, I knew.
Now, there was one particular catechist who took interest in
me: Charity. I was in Grade Six, she was
in first year. She was pretty. So pretty, that I didn't know what she saw in
me, because at that time, I rarely looked at the mirror so that I could find
out for myself. But there she was,
inside the church every time I was at the altar, whether it's on a Saturday, Sunday or
Wednesday. Apparently, she knew my
schedule better than I did because she regularly checked on our assigned masses,
which was posted on a bulletin board at the back of the church.
I would know where she was seated because just when everyone
was quiet, Charity would make a sound with her throat – Eherm, eherm. She would smile when my eyes located her
presence.
During my favorite part of the mass, she would fall in line
where ever I was assigned to handle the plate.
When it would be her turn to receive communion, I would jab the plate at her neck just hard and sharp enough
to make her gag as she takes in the host.
That’s the best I could do. I
mean, as much as I’d like to pull her pretty bangs with my free hand, I just couldn't
because the priest, or the lay minister, might slap my hand with his free hand.
Charity would wait for me at the end of the mass. Sometimes she would hand me a letter. I always responded with a smile for two
reasons: One, I didn't know what the hell
to say to her; Two, because she was so darn pretty that grinning silly made perfect sense for clueless me.
Well, apparently, we were a couple in waiting. My fellow knights thought so, and so did the
other catechists, including Lea, who was also very pretty. And as a pair, I guess it was mandated under
the dating law that I should walk her home after the mass, which sounded
strange to me because if she found her way to the church, then she could very well do the same going home.
Those were long, silent, awkward walks. I didn't know what to talk to her about. I don’t want to reveal to her that girls have the tendency to cry when they are exposed to me. And I certainly
did not want to boast about what I learned in school because even my
teachers were not sure if I was getting anything. And the more I couldn't tell her what was really
on my mind every hour that I was awake – spiders, the ones with long reddish
legs and hairy torsos.
I loved fighting spiders.
And I spent a great deal of my free time making long hikes under the
scorching sun, alone or with my cousin Adrian, to far away fields where
somewhere underneath the leaves and twigs of dried brushes and shrubs hid these
fiercely majestic creatures.
I did not have the courage to ask Charity if she liked spiders. But I was always optimistic that she would
pop the question herself. That never
came though.
Charity liked to see me much more often than our once a week
date at the church. One afternoon, as I was
inspecting my haul of spiders from a long, hot hunt, I spotted from a distance
Charity with Gay, her cousin and best friend, and another cousin who was the
prettiest of the three but who was already in fourth year high school, walking towards our
home. I didn’t know what to do
then. So I did what any self-respecting
spider-loving-adolescent would do – run as fast as I could, so fast that I
would be a blur and they wouldn’t notice me escaping, and so light on my feet
that I wouldn’t stir even a speckle of dust that will give them a hint that I was even there.
That incident convinced me one thing: If a girl wanted to see
you, she will. And I think that it was mighty selfish of her to show up unannounced because I could have just as easily hurt myself running away from her.
I was already 5’7” when I was in first year high school. And I began noticing that I was fast outgrowing
the Sotana which garbed my altar service. While I have grown adept at ringing the bell at the right time, I was also growing conscious of how I
stuck out like a sore thumb when I was at the altar. By then, my passion for spiders had waned, which was
replaced with my love for playing basketball where I was in my place, considered
a budding superstar. Though Charity
still attended the masses I served, her letters and my budding romance with her
were put on hold.
The highlight of my summers became organized basketball where,
with my quickness and jumping ability, I was fast gaining the reputation as a
must-see player. During one intense game, I
heard a familiar voice sweetly call out my name; it was Gay, smiling. She was with Charity, and she was very
pretty, especially when she was giving me that look. I did not say hi, I was playing
a game.
I still hang around with my sacristant friends when I was in
second year high school, but my service at the altar became less frequent. By then, the sotana which once reached up to
my heels was now hanging at my knees.
Donald, a friend who was a head shorter than me, took interest in
Charity. He had sisters and he looked at
the mirror more often. He would walk
Charity home, and they had things to talk about. He eventually became Charity’s first boyfriend.
I still did not understand girls then. They were just not interested in games.
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