SY 1984–1985
This chapter recounts my third year in high school, a period marked by academic growth, personal discipline, and unforgettable experiences.
I developed a deep appreciation for learning, excelled in subjects like Trigonometry, and discovered the value of trusting my intuition during a memorable classroom challenge.
Along the way, I admired the life of Vincent van Gogh, experienced awkward moments of teenage affection, endured an embarrassing encounter with a bold classmate, and gained discipline through Citizen's Army Training (CAT).
Outside school, my summers were spent working for relatives rather than enjoying vacations, teaching me hard work, sacrifice, and perseverance. Together, these experiences shaped my character and strengthened my determination to pursue education despite poverty and life's many challenges.
By the time I reached third year high school, our classroom had been moved to the second floor of the school building. It was the second room on the right side of the corridor. The change in location may have seemed insignificant to others, but to me it marked another step forward in my educational journey. During my second year, our classroom had been located in the very first room on the ground floor. Moving upstairs somehow made me feel that I was progressing not only in grade level but also in maturity and responsibility.
At this stage, I had become much more diligent in my studies. The struggles and challenges I had faced during my earlier years taught me the value of education and perseverance. As a result, I consistently performed well academically and was never out of the top ten of the class.
Our subjects were becoming more advanced and demanding. We studied Trigonometry, which quickly became one of my favorite subjects because of its logical and systematic nature. Our teacher was Miss Bordalba, a single woman who was widely known among students as a "terror teacher" because of her strictness and high standards. Yet despite her intimidating reputation, she was one of my favorite teachers.
One particular incident in her class remains vivid in my memory. During one lesson, she posed a very tricky question to the class. Even after thinking hard about it, I could not figure out the answer. Miss Bordalba had a unique teaching style. Whenever she called on a student who failed to answer correctly, that student had to remain standing until someone else in the class could provide the correct answer. Only then would those standing be allowed to sit down.
As one student after another failed to answer, more and more of my classmates were ordered to stand. Before long, around three fourth of the class was on their feet. I could feel the tension in the room growing. My heart began pounding harder and harder as I watched the number of standing students increase.
Knowing that I did not know the answer either, I quietly lowered my head and tried to make myself less noticeable, hoping she would not call my name. I avoided eye contact and silently prayed that she would choose someone else.
But the moment I dreaded finally arrived.
"You," she said, calling my name.
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Suddenly, all eyes were on me. I slowly stood up, feeling a mixture of nervousness and uncertainty. To be honest, I had no idea what the correct answer was. Yet for some reason, a single word surfaced in my mind.
Ever since I was young, I had always believed that I possessed a certain instinct or intuition that occasionally guided me when logic alone could not. That day, without much analysis or conscious thought, I simply trusted that feeling.
"Numerator," I answered.
For a brief moment, the room fell silent.
Then Miss Bordalba nodded.
"Correct."
I could hardly believe it.
The answer was surprisingly simple, but the way she had phrased the question made it difficult and confusing. Somehow, out of all the possible answers, I had guessed correctly. Instantly, the students who had been standing were allowed to sit down.
I remember feeling a wave of relief wash over me. More than that, I felt a sense of amazement. It was one of those rare moments in life that seem almost unreal when they happen. Out of an entire classroom full of students, I had been the one who provided the answer that saved everyone.
For days afterward, the memory stayed with me. It was a small classroom moment, perhaps insignificant to others, but for me it became a reminder that sometimes confidence, intuition, and the courage to speak up can lead to unexpected success.
I also enjoyed English and Literature subject which was handled by Mrs. Zanoria, where stories, poems, essays, and biographies opened new worlds of imagination and understanding. Through literature, I was introduced to many renowned writers, poets, philosophers, and artists whose works left lasting impressions on humanity. Their stories taught me not only about art and creativity but also about the struggles, dreams, and emotions that shape the human experience.
One literary figure who deeply fascinated me was the legendary Dutch painter, Vincent van Gogh. During one of our class assignments, I was tasked with reporting on his life and artistic legacy in a song. The song tells the tragic yet inspiring story of Van Gogh's life, his artistic genius, his emotional struggles, and the lack of appreciation he received during his lifetime.
To prepare for my report, I carefully studied both the song and the life of Van Gogh. I learned that Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) was a Dutch Post-Impressionist painter whose vivid colors and emotionally powerful paintings would later revolutionize the art world. Although he created more than 2,000 artworks, including some of the most recognizable paintings in history, he lived much of his life in poverty and obscurity. He struggled with loneliness, emotional turmoil, and mental illness, and sadly received very little recognition while he was alive. It was only after his death (as he took his own life) that the world began to appreciate the brilliance of his work, eventually recognizing him as one of the greatest painters in Western art history.
For my classroom presentation, I illustrated Van Gogh's life on a large piece of cartolina. Using drawings and handwritten notes, I visually narrated his story, from his passion for painting and his unique vision of the world to the hardships and suffering he endured. Standing before my classmates, I explained how this song reflected the beauty of his art as well as the sadness of a life that was largely misunderstood by many during his lifetime.
Here it is, the song entitled Vincent by Don Mclean:
During my third year in high school, there was a classmate who caught my attention. She was pretty, neat, well-mannered, and seemed intelligent. There was something about her personality that I found attractive. Looking back now, I can honestly say that I had a quiet admiration for her.
Yet despite that attraction, I never seriously considered pursuing a relationship. The truth was, I did not feel ready for such things. More importantly, I lacked the confidence to imagine myself in a romantic relationship with anyone.
One reason was our family's difficult financial situation. In my young mind, I thought that having a girlfriend meant being able to treat her to snacks, buy her small gifts, or take her somewhere nice. I could not afford any of those things. Many times, I wished I had more money, not for luxury, but simply to avoid feeling inadequate compared to other boys.
Another reason was that my priorities were different. From an early age, I had trained myself to focus on my studies. I believed that education was my pathway to a better future, not only for myself but also for my family. My mind was fixed on academic goals, and I tried my best not to allow distractions to interfere with them.
Still, there were moments that made me wonder whether she felt differently about me.
She was always kind whenever we interacted. Sometimes I caught her looking at me in a way that felt different from how she looked at others. Whether it was merely my imagination or not, I cannot say with certainty. At the time, however, I paid little attention to it. My self-esteem was quite low, and I never assumed that someone would genuinely be interested in me.
One particular incident remains vivid in my memory.
One day during a break, I was sitting alone on a circular bench beneath a tree on the school grounds. As usual, I was studying and reviewing my lessons while most students were busy socializing. Without warning, she approached and quietly sat beside me.
She did not say a single word.
At first, I continued reading, pretending not to notice. But after a few moments, I became aware that she was moving closer and closer. Before long, our shoulders were almost touching.
I felt my face grow warm. My heart started racing. I did not know what to do.
Being shy and inexperienced, I became extremely self-conscious. Rather than moving closer, I slowly shifted away to create some space between us. Each time she moved a little nearer, I would discreetly move a little farther away.
Looking back, I sometimes laugh at how awkward I must have appeared.
Eventually, she seemed to realize that I was uncomfortable. She stopped moving closer and simply remained seated beside me for a while. Neither of us spoke. After a few minutes, she quietly stood up and walked away.
That was the end of that peculiar moment, yet it stayed in my memory for many years.
Another incident involving her happened sometime later. During those days, someone, not so sure if a classmate or an outsider, I can no longer remember, was taking photographs of students around the school. It was not common for me to have photographs taken because money was scarce, so I treasured every picture I could afford to keep.
When the photographs were finally developed, I paid for the copies that included me. One of them showed a group of boys, including myself. Since I had very few photographs from my high school years, I considered it something worth preserving.
To my surprise, this same classmate suddenly took the photograph from my hands and said she wanted to borrow it. I remember being caught off guard by her boldness. The picture did not even contain her, it was only me with group of boys.
She assured me that she would return it.
But she never did.
For years, I wondered why she wanted that photograph so badly. Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps she simply liked collecting pictures. Or perhaps there was another reason known only to her.
Whatever the case, the photograph was never returned, and with it went one of the few visual memories I had from my high school days.
Today, when I look back on those moments, I realize how innocent and uncomplicated teenage feelings were. Often, feelings were expressed through simple gestures, quiet glances, awkward silences, or actions that were never fully explained.
I may never know what she truly felt, if anything at all. But those memories remain a small and unforgettable chapter of my high school life, a time when I was too focused on my studies, too uncertain of myself, and perhaps not yet ready for what people call puppy love.
There was a classmate of mine who stood out wherever she went. Tall, striking, and confident, she had a presence that naturally drew attention. Many considered her beautiful. She was bold, flirtatious, and completely unafraid to speak her mind. I, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved, and still trying to find my place in high school.
One noon, just before our afternoon classes began, the classroom was buzzing with the usual chatter and laughter. Without warning, she walked straight toward me. In a playful but loud voice that instantly captured everyone's attention, she announced:
“I want to kiss you! I love you, I need you!”
Then she puckered her lips and leaned in uncomfortably close, almost kissing me before I managed to pull away.
The classroom exploded with laughter and teasing. My face turned bright red. I was completely mortified. I didn't know whether to laugh, smile awkwardly, hide under my desk, or run out of the room. Instead, I sat frozen in place, overwhelmed by embarrassment.
Some classmates later shared stories about her troubled reputation and alleged misconduct at a previous school. Whether any of those stories were true, I never knew. What I did know was that her unpredictable behavior often made me uneasy.
Later that same noon, she approached me again. This time, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the classroom, leading me toward the school's comfort room. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
At that moment, instinct took over. Without giving it much thought, I quickly swung the door shut and locked it from the outside. Fortunately for me, there happened to be a latch on that side, an unusual feature but an effective one.
Within seconds, loud banging echoed from inside.
“Open this door, you sissy!” she shouted.
I walked away as fast as I could.
To this day, I have no idea how she eventually got out. What I do remember is that she returned to the classroom later looking absolutely furious. For the rest of the day, I made a point of keeping a safe distance.
Looking back, the entire incident feels almost surreal, part comedy, part chaos, and part teenage drama. At the time, however, it was one of the most embarrassing and uncomfortable moments I had ever experienced.
During my third year in high school, my weekends became quite different from what I had originally imagined. Instead of spending all my free time at home studying my lessons, I began attending a non-commissioned military training program known as CAT, or Citizen's Army Training.
Every weekend, we gathered on the school grounds for military drills and tactical exercises. Under the scorching heat of the sun, we practiced marching formations, commands, and various military routines. It was physically demanding, especially during hot days when the heat seemed harsh.
Our CAT officer and trainer was known for his strict discipline. He expected precision and proper bearing from every cadet. We were constantly reminded to maintain good posture and military appearance at all times. One command echoed repeatedly across the parade grounds and became deeply ingrained in our minds:
"Chest out! Stomach in!"
We heard those words so often that they became almost impossible to forget. Whether we were standing at attention, marching in formation, or simply waiting for instructions, we were expected to carry ourselves with confidence and discipline.
Most of our training sessions were conducted outdoors, but occasionally we attended classroom lectures and took written examinations covering military concepts, procedures, and regulations. Compared to the physical drills, these sessions were less exhausting but required careful study and preparation.
Although CAT occupied much of my weekends, there was one thing I genuinely appreciated about those days. I had a small group of close classmates who, like me, took their studies very seriously. We understood the importance of education and were determined to do well.
Usually, two or three of us would gather outside the classrooms during our free time to review lessons and prepare for examinations. One of my closest study companions was a classmate who also happened to be our neighbor. Since our school was within walking distance of our homes, he would often stop by our house every morning to wait for me. Together, we would walk to school, discussing assignments, lessons, and upcoming examinations along the way.
Our dedication paid off, especially in CAT. We consistently earned perfect scores in the written examinations. In fact, I cannot remember ever getting a single answer wrong. Because of our excellent performance, we were frequently exempted from taking the regular CAT periodical examinations, a privilege granted only to students who had already demonstrated mastery of the subject matter.
For a while, that privilege felt rewarding. However, it also taught me an important lesson about complacency.
During my fourth year, I made a costly mistake. Having become accustomed to being exempted from CAT examinations, I assumed that the same privilege would apply to the final examination. Believing that I would once again be excused, I did not take the CAT Finals.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
The final examination was mandatory for everyone, with no exceptions. Because I failed to take it, my grade suffered significantly. The examination carried substantial weight in the computation of the students' overall ratings, and my absence negatively affected my standing.
It was a disappointing experience, but it taught me a valuable lesson: never assume anything and never allow past success to make you complacent. Even the most diligent students can make mistakes when they become too confident.
Despite that setback, I remain grateful for the lessons CAT taught me. Beyond military drills and examinations, the training helped develop discipline in every aspect of life, mental, physical, and emotional. It strengthened my endurance, taught me responsibility, and helped build my self-confidence.
Looking back now, I realize that the greatest reward I gained from CAT was not the perfect scores or exemptions from examinations. It was the discipline and confidence that gradually became part of my character. Those qualities stayed with me long after my high school years and continued to guide me through many challenges in adulthood.
Right after completing my third year of high school, summer arrived once again. For many students, summer meant freedom, relaxation, and endless days of play. For me, however, summer rarely felt like a vacation. It was a season of work, responsibility, and sacrifice.
My mother would often send me to stay with relatives during the school break. Officially, it was described as a vacation with my uncles and aunts. But as I would later realize, those "vacations" were seldom vacations at all.
That summer, I was sent to stay with relatives who operated a restaurant and a boarding house. From the moment I arrived, I found myself helping with various tasks. I assisted in food preparation, served customers, cleaned tables, washed utensils, ran errands, and did whatever work was assigned to me. Whenever supplies ran low, I was often the one sent to replenish them.
One memory remains particularly vivid. I would drag heavy crates of empty soft drink bottles along the roadside under the scorching summer sun. Sweat poured down my face as I struggled with the weight, while the heat radiating from the pavement seemed almost unbearable. Looking back now, I realize that the work was physically demanding for someone my age, but at the time, I simply accepted it as part of life.
Despite the hard labor, I endured everything with one hope in mind. I expected that at the end of the summer, I would receive enough money to help cover some of my school expenses for the coming academic year. Every task I performed felt like an investment toward my education.
Unfortunately, when the summer ended, the amount I received was far less than I had hoped for. I tried not to show my disappointment, but deep inside, I felt discouraged. The effort I had put in seemed disproportionate to the reward I received.
My mother always referred to these arrangements as spending my summer vacation with relatives. Technically, she was correct. I was indeed staying with my uncles and aunts. Yet from my perspective, those weeks felt more like seasonal employment than a holiday. Instead of enjoying carefree days, I spent most of my time working for what amounted to a very modest allowance.
After that experience, I returned home expecting to spend the remainder of the summer resting. But before long, my mother made other plans. This time, she sent both me and my younger sister to stay with another relative, once again under the familiar description of a "vacation."
As before, the reality was quite different.
Rather than enjoying leisure time, I found myself helping with household chores and various errands. My sister and I worked side by side, assisting wherever we were needed. Looking back, I sometimes felt more like a houseboy than a visiting relative.
What made it more difficult was that even among family members, mistakes were not always met with patience. Whenever I did something incorrectly or failed to meet expectations, I was often scolded harshly. Being young and dependent, I rarely defended myself. Instead, I would quietly lower my head, bite my tongue, and accept the criticism.
At the time, I convinced myself that this was simply the reality of being a poor boy. Poor families could not afford the luxuries that others enjoyed. Every opportunity to earn a little money required sacrifice, hard work, and endurance. Complaining would not change anything.
So I endured the long days, the physical labor, and the occasional harsh words. I carried on with the hope that, somehow, the small amount of money I would receive at the end would help ease my family's burden and support my schooling.
Looking back now, I realize that those summers taught me lessons that no classroom could provide. They taught me the value of hard work, humility, patience, and perseverance. While I sometimes felt exploited and underappreciated, those experiences also strengthened my character and deepened my understanding of sacrifice.
They were not the carefree summer vacations that many teenagers dream about. Yet they became an important part of my journey, another chapter in the life of a young boy determined to continue his education despite the hardships that stood in his way.
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