School Year 1978-1979
Grade Four marked a quiet turning point in my childhood. I moved into the main school building and was promoted to Section Two, two levels higher than the class I had belonged to the previous year.
With that promotion came new classmates, new teachers, and a growing awareness that the world was far larger and more complex than the familiar routines of childhood had led me to believe.
I studied with greater determination, played with equal enthusiasm, and carried within me emotions I was only beginning to recognize, feelings too subtle and complicated for a boy my age to fully understand or express.
I was not the brightest student in the class, nor the most accomplished. But I was learning, not only from books, but from the people around me and from the quiet experiences that were slowly shaping my character.
My memories of that year have been softened by time and worn thin by the decades that now separate me from them. Many details have faded, but a few remain remarkably clear. I gather them here as faithfully as memory allows.
I attended the afternoon session, where my teacher was Mrs. Pastor, a fair-complexioned woman in her thirties with neatly cropped hair. She carried herself with a quiet confidence and gentle warmth that immediately put me at ease. In her presence, the classroom seemed calmer, safer, and somehow more welcoming.
One afternoon after class, she asked me to accompany her and help carry a small wooden stool she regularly used in the classroom.
We walked together for what felt like two kilometers or more. To a child, it was a considerable distance, yet I never thought of it as a burden. I was simply happy to help.
From an early age, I had held deep respect for my teachers, especially those whose kindness matched their discipline. Mrs. Pastor had already earned that respect many times over, not through sternness or authority, but through the quiet patience, fairness, and grace with which she taught and treated her pupils.
By Grade Four, the familiar rhythm of the lower grades had given way to a more structured way of learning. Instead of one teacher handling every subject, we now moved from one lesson to another under different teachers, Mathematics, English, Science, Social Studies, and others. To my young mind, school suddenly felt more serious, more demanding.
Being assigned to Section Two also meant something to me. After spending the previous year in Section Four, I had climbed two levels, and I carried that quiet achievement with a sense of pride.
I continued working hard, determined to prove that I belonged. Yet it quickly became clear that some of my classmates possessed remarkable abilities of their own.
One of them was a boy named Reynold Chiquote or at least that is how I remember his name. He sat near me and seemed to operate on an entirely different level. He grasped new lessons almost instantly, answered questions before the rest of us had fully understood them, and consistently stayed a step ahead of the class.
One afternoon, I was called to the blackboard to write the classifications of animals, reptiles, amphibians, mammals, and the like.
Standing before the class, my mind suddenly went blank.
From his seat, Reynold quietly whispered the answer.
I hesitated.
I had always taken pride in answering questions on my own. Even as a child, there was something deeply satisfying about solving a problem without assistance. But there are moments when pride must yield to circumstance.
I accepted his help.
It seemed better than standing in silence while the entire class waited.
Yet even Reynold was not the brightest student among us.
That distinction belonged to a girl named Jocelyn Ababon, who lived in Kinasang-an, Pardo.
I visited her home once and found it to be a small wooden hut. Even to a child raised in a modest household, it was a quiet reminder that some families carried far greater hardships than our own.
None of that, however, was reflected in Jocelyn's performance at school.
She excelled with a quiet brilliance. Her circumstances never seemed to define her ability.
When the school year ended, I fully expected to see her again in Grade Five, Section One, where I had been promoted.
She was not there.
I never learned what became of her.
Perhaps her family moved away. Perhaps she transferred to another school. I have always hoped that was the case.
From time to time, I still think about her.
Some children possess extraordinary potential long before the world recognizes it. I have often hoped that life gave Jocelyn the opportunities her talent deserved, wherever her path eventually led.
Aside from Reynold Chiquote, two of the classmates I remember most from that year were James Alegado and Ariel Quijano.
Ariel, in particular, left a lasting impression on me, not through grand achievements or memorable speeches, but through the quiet skill of his hands.
He introduced me to the simple art of paper folding.
Under his patient guidance, ordinary sheets of paper became frogs that leaped when you pressed their backs, airplanes that glided gracefully through the afternoon air, and birds whose wings flapped with a gentle pull of the tail. He folded each piece with remarkable precision, transforming something ordinary into something that seemed almost alive.
At the time, it felt like nothing more than a pleasant way to pass the hours between lessons. I never imagined that such simple creations would remain with me for decades.
Years later, while at work, I found myself folding a paper frog entirely from memory. When I pressed its back and watched it hop across the table, a colleague's face lit up with the same childlike delight I had felt when Ariel first taught me.
In that instant, I realized that some lessons are never really forgotten.
They are not found in textbooks or examinations, but in small acts of generosity passed quietly from one child to another.
Whenever I fold a paper frog or a paper bird even today, I find myself transported, if only for a moment, back to that Grade Four classroom, to those carefree afternoons, and to a classmate whose gift was not merely teaching me how to fold paper, but showing me how simple acts of kindness can outlast the passing of time.
That was also the year I moved into the school's main building, where the upper sections, particularly Sections One and Two, held their classes. To a child, there was a quiet prestige about the place. You could sense it the moment you walked through its corridors.
My older brother, Artemio Jr., whom we called Junjun, was already there in Grade Five, Section One, attending the morning session. He had consistently belonged to the top section throughout his elementary years. An honor student from the beginning, he would eventually graduate as valedictorian.
The same could be said of my older siblings.
My sister May had been a consistent honor student during her years at Pardo Elementary School. Her name regularly appeared on the list of academic achievers, and she graduated as salutatorian, an accomplishment that, in many families, would have been celebrated with great fanfare.
In our home, however, achievements were received more quietly.
My parents acknowledged them with warmth rather than display. They were not given to grand celebrations or public expressions of pride. Yet beneath their reserved manner, I could always sense a deep and unwavering satisfaction. Their pride was seldom spoken aloud, but it was no less genuine for its silence.
By then, May was already in her second year at Abellana National School, one of Cebu City's most respected public secondary schools, situated between the downtown and uptown districts.
My brother Glenn, whom we called Giging, had just entered his first year there after graduating from Pardo Elementary with honors. Among his distinctions were Boy Scout of the Year and several other school awards.
Growing up in such a family was both inspiring and pressure-packed.
On every side, I was surrounded by older siblings whose achievements seemed effortless. Their accomplishments set a standard that quietly challenged me, not because my parents demanded that I equal them, but because I wanted, in my own way, to prove that I, too, could become someone they would be proud of.
I was still finding my own path. But perhaps that, more than anything else, was what childhood was meant to be.
In the main building, one of our regular chores was scrubbing the wooden classroom floor with bunot, dried coconut husks traditionally used in the Philippines to polish wood, often finished with a light coat of paraffin wax until it gleamed with a warm, honey-colored shine.
In the hands of a diligent student, the "bunot" did exactly what it was meant to do. It transformed dull, scuffed floorboards into a polished surface that never failed to satisfy our teachers.
But in the hands of a room full of nine-and ten-year-old children left unsupervised for even a few minutes, the humble bunot became something entirely different.
We would place one foot or sometimes both on the coconut husk, grab a classmate's shoulders for balance, and propel ourselves across the smooth wooden floor as though we were skating on ice. The effortless glide was thrilling. Losing control made it even more exciting.
Soon, someone would whisper the word that changed everything: “battle”.
From opposite ends of the classroom, two challengers would launch themselves forward, sliding at full speed toward one another. The goal was simple: knock the other child's bunot loose without losing your own.
The classroom erupted into laughter, shrieks, collisions, and triumphant cheers. We slid across the room, crashed into desks, spun wildly out of control, and scrambled back to our feet for another round.
It was noisy, chaotic, and completely irresistible.
Ironically, all that sliding polished the floor even more thoroughly than ordinary scrubbing ever could. By the time our teachers returned, the room gleamed beautifully.
They occasionally scolded us, though never with much conviction. After all, despite the chaos they had missed, the evidence was shining right beneath their feet.
Looking back now, I realize that childhood had a remarkable way of turning even the simplest chores into adventures. Give a child an ordinary coconut husk, and it becomes a pair of skates. Whisper the word gubat, and an ordinary classroom transforms into a battlefield filled not with anger, but with laughter.
Those bunot battles never earned us medals or prizes, but they remain among the happiest victories of my childhood.
More than anything else, what brightened that school year was the coming of Christmas.
We were required to bring a parol, or lantern, to decorate our classroom. I made mine by hand. From a strip of bamboo, I carefully carved thin slats and shaped them into a star, then covered the frame with colorful Japanese paper. It was simple, but I took care to make it even and steady. It felt luminous in my hands, something worth hanging where everyone could see.
Another thing I looked forward to was when our teacher asked us to write Christmas songs into our music notebooks from the blackboard and sing them in class. Something always changed in the room during those days. The air felt lighter, as though even the most indifferent student could not remain untouched by the excitement.
The song that stayed with me most that year was “Give Love on Christmas Day” by Michael Jackson. It seemed to be everywhere, on radios, in hallways, and in the voices of children from other classrooms. To this day, it remains my favorite Christmas song. For a few fleeting weeks, singing it in class felt like being in the happiest place on earth.
Give Love On Christmas Day Song
We practiced other songs as well like “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” “Mama Cita,” “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” and many others.
They followed me everywhere. I would sing them repeatedly on my walk home after music practice, the melodies lingering in my head long after the lessons ended.
On weekends, I sang them at home while doing small chores, drifting into my own world. One afternoon, while singing “Give Love on Christmas Day” with too much feeling, I forgot that my mother was nearby.
I stopped abruptly when I heard her say, “Louder, I want to hear more.” I never quite found the courage to sing for her again.
The Christmas party was the most anticipated day of the school year, and at its center was the exchange gift.
My sister and I went to the market together to choose my gift. I found a small figurine, delicate and charming, the kind of thing I had never owned but had always quietly admired. I wrapped it with care and brought it to school, holding the quiet pride of someone giving away something they truly valued.
When the gifts were finally exchanged, I unwrapped mine and found a bar of laundry soap and a small packet of detergent.
I walked home that afternoon in silence, the sadness settling somewhere deep behind my eyes. I did not cry where anyone could see. I held myself together just enough to keep it inside.
My mother, practical as ever, would have appreciated the usefulness of the gift, and I understood that. I truly did. But understanding does not always soften disappointment.
That day, in a way I could not yet explain, I felt some sadness inside me, something that had less to do with the soap, and more to do with what I had quietly hoped for, but not received.
Beyond the school gates, my life spilled into a world of noise, laughter, and endless play. The neighborhood children and I would disappear for hours, returning home only when hunger finally called us back.
Looking back, I recognize this as one of the purest versions of myself I have ever known, that complete, unselfconscious immersion in play, untouched by the hesitations and quiet burdens that come later in life.
Our days were filled with games like siatong, tago-tago, tigsu, dakop-dakop, bato-lata, bitok-bitok, and luthang. Each game seemed to exist only in memory and instinct, passed between us without written rules. We moved from one to another as easily as the afternoon light shifted across the yard, never running out of energy, and never running out of reasons to laugh.
When I played with the girls, we turned to jackstone, Chinese garter, and bagol. Occasionally, a few boys joined in, and together we played until late afternoon softened into evening, reluctant to let the day end.
At dusk, we gathered again in the fading light to trade horror stories in hushed, trembling voices. I still remember some of those who sat in that circle: Gina, Elvie, Glendale, Cindel, Nat, Ayen, Randy, and others whose names linger like echoes from the quieter corners of memory.
This was also the season of the bayle, the neighborhood dance held during the barrio fiesta, what we would later come to call a disco as the years passed.
It took place just near our house. My brother Junjun would move through the crowd carrying a box of cigarettes and candies to sell, with the quiet confidence of someone who had already learned an early truth: wherever people gather to celebrate, there is always an opportunity waiting.
I watched him closely. I learned. And in time, I followed his lead, selling at the bayle myself, earning small coins that rested in my palm with a surprising weight, as though they carried the first faint sense of independence.
For a few months during that school year, Papa’s younger sister came to live with us. We called her Mama Presing. She was unmarried, gentle, and soft-spoken, with a kindness so natural and complete that it felt almost otherworldly, especially in a household that was not always gentle.
The photograph on the left is one of the few images our family has of her, taken a year before I was born or probably I was still a newly born. In it, she stands beside my older siblings, a quiet presence in a moment I would later come to know only through stories and memory.
While she lived with us, she set up a small sari-sari store just outside our front door, selling bread, candies, and simple snacks, items that brought in only a modest income.
My brother Junjun built her a small wooden coin box for her earnings, and she tended to her tiny enterprise with quiet dignity.
But what she sold was never the point. What she brought into our home mattered far more.
Whenever Mama or Papa scolded me, or when the punishment felt heavier than my small body could bear, Mama Presing would quietly appear at my side. Along with gentle words, she would slip a few coins into my hand from her own modest savings. It was never enough to change my circumstances, but it was enough to quiet my tears, enough for me to feel that someone understood.
The photograph on the right, where she stands at the far left, was likely the last one our family ever took with her. She was present on the day of my christening at Sto. Tomas de Villanueva Church in Pardo, Cebu, as she always was during the important moments of our lives.
I cannot recall a single moment when she was unkind to me. Not one. In a life that has known its share of coldness and harshness, she remains, without question, one of the warmest presences I have ever known. And yet, I must admit something that still weighs quietly on me.
There were times I took coins from her cash box, small amounts, taken quietly, especially on days when Mama had little or nothing to give. But that is not the point. I know now that she would never have refused me if I had simply asked.
I knew it was wrong even as I did it. That knowledge did not stop me. The guilt of those moments has never fully faded. It lingers beside the memory of her kindness, and the contrast between the two has become its own quiet reckoning, far more enduring than anything she would have ever imposed on me.
We lost her sometime in the late 1980s, or perhaps the early 1990s; I can no longer say with certainty. For a couple of years before her passing, I did not see her, as I was far away, in the seminary in Manila. Still, I was able to visit her twice during my summer breaks, not long before she died.
During my first visit, I accompanied her and my father to a public hospital in the city for an X-ray examination. By then, she had already been staying at my aunt’s house.
On my second visit, still at my aunt’s home, I found her extremely frail, reduced almost to skin and bones, barely able to speak. Yet when she saw me, her face lit up with unmistakable joy. I sat beside her, and she embraced me with what little strength she had left. We spoke for a while. I told her about my life in Manila, about the seminary. Despite everything she was enduring, she seemed genuinely happy in that moment.
Those were difficult times. Our family was struggling deeply, and we could not afford to have her admitted to the hospital. In the end, we could only watch helplessly as her life slowly slipped away.
And even now, long after she is gone, what remains most vivid is not the hardship of her passing, but the quiet, steady kindness she gave so freely, a kindness that still softens certain moments of hardship and grief whenever I face one.
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