Seeing the “mountain” on the old sprawling campus of Jose Abad Santos Memorial School (JASMS, pronounced Ja-sams) as the car sped down Edsa South elicited a sigh from me. My old school has become a derelict property overrun by weeds, making me wonder how the new campus is faring in its new location on Congressional Avenue.
Curious, I made an appointment to visit the new school, now a five-story building. And while the principal, Diane Cynthia Gutierrez, a JASMS alumna, took me on a tour, a line from Madonna’s song, “This used to be my playground,” rang in my head. My playground has changed.
Its unique structures, a “mountain” and a “farm,” have disappeared. I was astounded to learn that it’s now de rigueur for high school students to wear a uniform every day. The “uniforms” we wore in our time were sportswear for PE and fatigues for CAT (Citizenship Advancement Training). Our outfit du jour was as we pleased, i.e., regular jeans and sneakers, preppy tops and mini-skirts, ripped jeans and jackets matched with a Mohawk hairstyle.
Noticeably, students rise now when a teacher enters and leaves the classroom. We stayed seated in our time. How teachers are addressed has changed, too, with the usual “Mr.,” “Mrs.” and “Miss” replaced by “Teacher.” The first name has replaced the surname. I couldn’t imagine my classmates and myself casually addressing our economics teacher, Remedios Cruz, as “Teacher Remy.”
JASMS and the child
Nostalgia for my JASMS days rushed in like a gentle swash, leaving a trail of good memories. The mountain was the usual spot for the annual elementary class photo and a veritable jungle that we kids explored at snack time. It was where grudges were settled; a kid shouted “Mountain tayo?!?” with ferocity and a fist, but grievances were quickly forgotten as the day wore on. It was the site for scouting activities like track signs in high school. My teacher had different groups of students arranging rocks on a pathway each week for the class to follow like a map to reach the “secret” destination.
On the old campus, JASMS had a farm with a rice paddy (the soil cool and squishy under one’s toes), a vegetable patch (my pechay was stolen), and a fish pond. The proximity of farm and classroom was surreal. Several steps from the classrooms was the rustic classroom of Modesto Manglicmot, horticulturist and bonsai artist extraordinaire outside of JASMS but affable teacher in black rubber boots inside it. I was awed by how Mr. Manglicmot gently handled bonsai with his pudgy fingers—one finger of his was the equivalent of two of mine—and coaxed the closet bonsai enthusiasts out of my classmates.
Students were regular habitués of the farm. We fished, planted rice and vegetables, and raised chickens and ducks. Mr. Manglicmot once organized a fishing day and we fished for an afternoon using a bamboo fishing pole rented for a small fee. I caught and brought home a wee tilapia.
Murals are part of JASMS.
Nostalgia traps one in the thought that one’s era is better. Physically, the old JASMS was way more marvelous, with the farm, the mountain, and a large playground fitted with basketball and volleyball courts, a soccer field, and jungle gyms. Philosophically, JASMS was already in a different class back then, with its founder Doreen Barber Gamboa’s principle of “learning to be free” (aka “the JASMS way”). It apparently still is, despite the new school building’s small space.
The principal, Ms. Gutierrez, said the tradition of the farm is alive, that students look after ducks and rabbits on the rooftop. I was occupied with gawking at the animals that I forgot to ask what vegetables are being grown. And the students are still expressing themselves through murals. On the old Edsa campus, the wall separating JASMS from the adjacent townhouses was made into a mural. Under Ms. Gutierrez’s administration, each floor of the five-story building has a mural done by students under the supervision of art teacher Norman Ramirez, a JASMS alumnus. (It was Norman, my friend since we were in kindergarten, who was one of those who painted the mural on the Edsa campus.) The murals pay tribute to JASMS founder Doreen Gamboa and to Jose Abad Santos, the former chief justice and justice secretary who was executed by wartime Japanese forces. It is after him that the school is named.
Founder Doreen Barber Gamboa’s vision of a child
I learned that the personal adviser program has been abolished, but that Ms. Gutierrez is mulling over whether she’ll reinstate it. The initiative, which tore down hierarchical barriers, had students choosing a teacher to be their guardian-confidant-therapist. The adults and children talked freely, both mindful of boundaries.
The JASMS way is often misunderstood. Those disconcerted by the first part—teaching students to not imprison their minds—ignore the other part that trains students to, one, face consequences, academic or otherwise; two, not to bully or cower before bullies; three, not to be obsequious toward anyone; and, four, to resolve disagreements in a calm, rational way.
Mural on the old Edsa campus, painted by students including now art teacher Norman Ramirez (Photo from the JASMS yearbook ‘Essence ’87’)
Woven, too, into the JASMS way is an adherence to academic discipline, without the coercion. The students are held accountable for their actions. Ms. Gutierrez, who teaches research, is a stickler for academic discipline and reading, like my former teachers. In our time, no one missed the deadline of our English research paper because everyone wanted to graduate on time. To enter our economics class on submission day, we had to walk past Mrs. Cruz standing by the door and put our paper on Walden Bello’s Development Debacle on her desk. No explanation moved her to accept a late paper, not even from the top student.
An anecdote involving my classmate, “DB,” is one of accountability. DB drew the math teacher’s ire because of his tardiness. That he was calm, cool, and collected despite lacking the class essentials, I suspected, aggravated the teacher’s annoyance with him. His punishment: Solve the problem written on the board. DB did so without fuss, leaving the teacher dumbfounded by his speed and accuracy. Even the teacher’s favorite star pupil couldn’t crack it.
Ruefully, JASMS has changed, and not only because of the wonders of a mountain and a farm on campus. You had to be there to experience it. But its founding principle apparently lingers despite the now-small space and the daily uniform. The students are still learning by doing—and I find that I, long an adult, continue to deal with the vicissitudes of life and time the JASMS way.
