Why I dreaded clubs with initiation rites

THE first time I heard of the phrase “initiation rites” was in 1953. I was first year in high school, and my father who was treasurer of the Knights of Columbus chapter in our hometown submitted my name as a candidate for membership inthe then newly organized Junior Knights.

Immediately I went around the neighborhood asking boys of my age about the club. The consensus was discouraging. They said, “You have to undergo some initiation rites.”

Through some older guys, I was told the phrase “initiation rites” was another word for “hazing.” Immediately it sent “bugs crawling down my spine,” as a saying goes.

Innocent as I was, I asked, what were those?

“Here are what you should be ready for,” some neighborhood kids warned.

“Do not parry the feeling of a ‘dos por dos’ piece of wood coming your way at the initiation rites. You have no chance anyway because the room is pitch dark. Another ritual is you will be asked to cuddle a skull while you are all alone with it for at least 30 minutes. In a darkened room.”

The following day was briefing day, but I did not show up.

Six months later, I volunteered to join the Boy Scouts. Again initiation rites were part and parcel. “Hazing” was to be expected. But the consolation was all the rituals were done at daytime.

First hurdle test – swim free-style 25 feet and back at the breakwater area in front of the city. No sweat. I passed it.

The next day, map-reading in a miniature forest in the outskirts of town. I got lost and failed. Knot-tying seemed easy but for one who could only tie with ease my shoe laces, the former was brow-beating. Failed again.

That was the end of my two attempts in high school to hurdle initiation rites.

A few years later, I found myself a freshman in the erstwhile Faculty of Philosophy and Letters at UST. The school-recognized fraternity looked attractive to me.

During the orientation day for neophytes, the masters – three of them who held us in awe – looked menacing. They were in their senior year at the faculty.

There was Max Buan. Regular height with thick glasses appeared terrifying for he kept on flexing his arms with something that looked like a minipaddle. Lito Imperio was unsmiling but asked the would-be recruits if we had read at least three of Shakespeare plays. He said he would be impressed if any of us could deliver the first five opening paragraphs in Spanish.

Tony Siddayao was often half-grinning. He asked me if I had ever tried going up and down the stairways of the four-story Education Building four times in 15 minutes. I answered, “Sir, I grew up in a seacoast town, and mountain climbing was not a popular pastime there.” Again he half-smiled.

Two days after was supposed the start of the initiation rites. Of the eight prospects, I was the only one who did not show up.

A year after, I found myself joining the Holy Name Society.