Today, I got a glimpse of what I might have appeared to be that Saturday in 1989 I took the entrance exams at my old high school.

I was contacted by my former earth science teacher (memories of setting the awfully heavy wind-up alarm clock to 2 am to memorize the names of various rocks and minerals are flooding my head) to help out in administering the entrance exams for prospective freshmen on a specified Saturday. As always, I said yes before even bothering to check if I had a previous appointment that day (the chances of which are nil anyway).

I was to work as proctor with an old classmate who now teaches fourth year home ec. I told her that my best memory of her was that she was the only one in the scouting patrol who could actually cook. The rest of us could only manage to churn out underdone rice and burnt hotdogs.

Quarter to seven and the sight I came across was the sea of kids and parents. Speaking of parents, the only thing I could remember that morning in 1989 was my bad combover and my pajama-like attire. The reason: I was in the middle of recovering from my chicken pox and I was covered in crusts and boils. And because a number of them were located on my forehead, my mother had the bright idea of creating this mop, lest the examiner prohibit me from taking the exam.

From day one, my mother never said no to any impediment I faced.

I can only smile as I saw this territorial, protective, I-won't-take-no-for-an-answer stance multiplied in the throng of mothers (oh alright, and fathers as well) who saw off their kids, gave them their baon and kissed them good luck.

As I was scanning the faces of the examinees already located in their designated seats, I started to wonder which boy would be the class mascot, which girl will most likely wear printed bras. Which of them would get suspended for setting a homemade explosive device under the Chemistry teacher's table and which of them would get suspended for cheating in a major exam.

Apparently, such infamies have seen better days. The gravest offense my old classmate can recall in her four years of teaching are students cheating on an assignment, equivalent to three days' worth of suspension.

God, these students have no imagination.

My eyes continued to scan the room and my mind tried to match them with - the nerd, the jock, the wallflower, the bitch, four-eyes, the grade-conscious asshole, the library maven, crush ng bayan, the lemmings, the misunderstood artist, the Edith-Hamilton-reading type, the gender-benders, and those who just got by.

I think the suspensions of my time happened in the first place because in a time when cable was a dream and MTV was something to look forward to at TOPS restaurant, we needed to amuse ourselves. We were that bored. Improv was our weapon of choice.

I scan their scared-as-shit faces once again. I can only go hee hee. To those who are fortunate, welcome to four years of good memories with the shelf life of forever, or for some of us, four years of hell.