This story begins on the day I first drew breath, a fragile cry entering a vast and indifferent world and follows the tender, unguarded years of my early childhood.
It is a journey shaped by the creaking walls of a century-old home, by moments of laughter and quiet fear, by innocent mischief and youthful wonder, and by dreams that lingered long after I awoke.
Above all, it is a remembrance of the love that nurtured me, the experiences that quietly shaped my character, and the lessons revealed through both joy and sorrow.
Looking back, I cannot help but wonder whether those early years already held the first faint traces of the person I was destined to become.
These pages are not simply a record of childhood memories.
They are an invitation to return to a time when the world seemed larger, mysteries felt possible, and even the smallest moments possessed the power to leave a lasting imprint on the heart.
At Cebu Maternity House, time must have seemed suspended between hope and uncertainty as the doctors and nurses attended to my mother. Then, on Friday, October 13, 1967, at exactly 1:40 in the afternoon, the stillness was broken by the cry of a newborn, a sound that echoed within the walls of the delivery room and announced my arrival into the world.
I was born weighing seven pounds, small and unaware, yet already beginning a journey that would unfold only once in a lifetime.
My parents named me Ulysses. According to the book of names they consulted, it was said to mean "the angry one." Whether that interpretation was accurate or not mattered little to them. The name also carried the legacy of Ulysses, the Latin name of Odysseus, the legendary hero of ancient Greek epic, celebrated for his courage, resilience, and long journey home.
I was the fourth child in the family, following my siblings May, Glenn, and Artemio Jr. Though I entered the world with no memory of that October afternoon, it marked the beginning of a life that would be shaped by family, faith, friendships, hardships, and the countless ordinary moments that, together, define a human life.
After my mother had regained her strength, we returned to our home in Pardo. It was more than just a house, it was a relic of another era, nearly a century old, its weathered wooden beams and creaking floorboards bearing silent witness to generations of lives lived within its walls.
The house was divided into three separate living quarters, each with its own rhythm and character. On the upper floor lived an elderly woman whom everyone affectionately called Mana Awang, together with her relatives. Their footsteps, conversations, and the gentle sounds of daily life often drifted down through the wooden ceiling, becoming part of the familiar music of our home.
The ground floor was shared by two families living side by side in close quarters. The walls were thin enough that voices carried easily from one room to another, making privacy a rare luxury but fostering a quiet sense of togetherness.
Our family's portion of the house consisted of four adjoining rooms that led into a modest kitchen. The living room and dining area occupied a single well-worn space, opening onto a wooden porch enclosed by a simple lattice railing. At the front, a short flight of wooden steps descended to the yard, where everyday life unfolded beyond our doorstep.
By modern standards, it was an ordinary house, weathered by time and marked by age. Yet to me, it was a place filled with warmth and familiarity. Its worn floors echoed with laughter, its old walls sheltered our joys and sorrows, and every corner held a memory waiting to be remembered.
It was there, within those aging walls, that my earliest story truly began.
My earliest memories come not as complete stories but as scattered impressions, soft and fleeting, like sunlight quietly filtering through a window.
I remember my father carrying me in his arms, his presence steady and reassuring, as he introduced me to the world beyond our home. Though I was too young to understand what I was seeing, I sensed that everything around me was alive with wonder.
Towering coconut palms swayed gently overhead. Banana leaves rustled with every passing breeze. Sunlight poured across the landscape, bathing the fields and trees in a warm golden glow. To a small child, the world seemed immense yet welcoming, mysterious yet filled with quiet promise.
As I grew older and those walks became more frequent, my curiosity grew with them. We wandered along narrow footpaths, and I filled the journey with endless questions about everything I saw. Why was the sky so high? Where did the birds go at night? Why did the wind make the trees dance?
My father always had an answer.
He responded with complete confidence, spinning delightful explanations that satisfied my young imagination. Only years later did I realize that many of those stories were inventions, playful answers created to amuse an inquisitive child rather than lessons drawn from books.
When I was old enough to know better, I would teasingly remind him of those little tales.
He would simply smile, and we would both laugh.
Looking back now, I understand that the truth of those stories mattered far less than the love with which they were told. In answering my endless questions, my father was doing more than entertaining a curious child. He was teaching me to look at the world with wonder, to ask questions without fear, and to find joy in discovering what lay beyond the next bend in the path.
In those early years, I belonged not only to my family but, in many ways, to the entire neighborhood. It was the kind of community where every child was cherished, and affection was given freely, without hesitation or reserve.
The neighbors delighted in seeing me. They would gently pinch my cheeks, amused by their roundness and softness, while my mother would laughingly protest, "Don't pinch his cheeks too hard, or they'll grow even bigger." Her words, spoken half in jest and half in earnest, have remained with me ever since.
Among those neighbors was a young girl named Merri, whose kindness left a lasting impression on my childhood. She visited often, always bringing with her a gentle warmth that made me feel safe and loved. She would lift me into her arms, encourage my first attempts at speaking, and patiently indulge the curiosities of a growing child.
To me, Merri was more than a neighbor. She was like an older sister, a quiet, caring presence whose affection became woven into the fabric of my earliest memories.
Looking back now, I realize that I was fortunate to grow up in a place where love extended beyond the walls of our home. The neighborhood itself became an extension of our family, and the kindness of ordinary people quietly shaped my earliest understanding of what it meant to belong.
One evening, the barrio came alive with a bayle, the community dance that drew people together with music, laughter, and quiet anticipation. A temporary dance hall had been enclosed with bamboo fencing and illuminated by strings of soft lights that flickered gently against the darkness.
Inside, young women sat in neat rows, waiting to be invited onto the dance floor. Young men approached them with coins in hand, paying a small fee for the privilege of sharing a dance, a custom that was as much about courtship and companionship as it was about music.
That evening, my aunt, Mama Presing, took me with her. Curious about the excitement beyond the bamboo fence, I struggled to free myself from her embrace so I could catch a glimpse of what was happening inside.
I was only a small child, standing outside the enclosure, peering through the narrow gaps in the bamboo slats. The music drifted into the night, mingling with laughter and conversation, while the dancers moved beneath the glow of the lights. I did not fully understand what I was witnessing, only that it seemed magical.
Then Merri noticed me.
Smiling, she came over, took me gently by the hand, and led me through the entrance and onto the dance floor.
I did not dance.
I was far too shy, too overwhelmed by the unfamiliar faces, the music, and the lights. I simply stood quietly beside her, holding her hand as the evening carried on around us.
The details of that night have long since faded, but a few moments remain as vivid as ever: the warmth of Merri's hand, the happiness reflected in her smile, the music filling the air, and the glow of the lights dancing across the faces of people celebrating together.
It was one of my first glimpses of a community gathered in joy, and, although I was too young to understand it then, I remember feeling that I belonged, not just to my family, but to something larger than myself.
Growing up surrounded by nature, I found companionship in even the smallest of creatures. To me, every living thing held a story, and each discovery felt like meeting a new friend.
One day, while walking along a quiet path, I noticed a tiny insect clinging to a shrub. Its vibrant colors and delicate form immediately captured my attention. Though small and seemingly insignificant, it possessed a quiet beauty that sparked my curiosity.
Wanting to protect it, I carefully brought it home and gently placed it in a small hollow in the cement floor. I covered the space with leaves, imagining I had created a safe little sanctuary where it could rest.
From that day on, I visited it every day. I spoke to it as though it were an old friend and gave it the name Florecin.
Over the course of a week, this tiny creature became a cherished part of my daily life, filling my childhood with wonder and quiet companionship.
Then, one day, it was gone.
Perhaps it had flown away.
Perhaps it had died.
I never learned what had happened. Yet its absence left an unexpected emptiness within me.
For the first time, I experienced the quiet, bittersweet sting of loss, a simple childhood moment that gently taught me how deeply we can become attached, even to the smallest lives that briefly cross our own.
Childhood is a stage of innocence, when actions often exist without a full understanding of their meaning or consequences.
One afternoon, a group of older children invited a playmate and me into an abandoned shanty. Their laughter filled the small, dimly lit space as they encouraged us to hold each other, climb onto one another, embrace, and even exchange a kiss.
We followed their instructions without hesitation because we did not know any better. To them, it was entertaining. To us, it was simply another childhood game.
I laughed along with everyone else, never imagining that a moment so innocent in my eyes would one day carry a very different meaning.
As the years passed, I came to realize that childhood often shields us from the significance of our experiences.
Time, however, has a way of uncovering what innocence cannot yet perceive, allowing forgotten memories to be understood through the clearer, more discerning point of view of adulthood.
Adventure, to a child, knows no boundaries.
At five years old, I convinced my seven-year-old cousin to join me on a quest to hunt spiders along the highway. Armed with nothing but a stick and boundless curiosity, we wandered farther and farther, following every small discovery as it led us away from familiar ground.
Hours passed. Roads blurred into unfamiliar paths. Before we realized it, we had reached the outskirts of the city proper, nearly ten kilometers from home. My cousin grew anxious and urged us to turn back, but I, still spellbound by the idea of adventure, refused.
Eventually, we retraced our steps and returned to a household thick with worry. My aunt’s scolding was sharp, though it came from a place of relief and fear. But even then, I did not fully grasp the lesson.
That same year, during a fiesta in another barangay, I was once again separated from my parents. Left behind, I decided to find them on my own, even though I did not know exactly where they had gone. I imagined myself walking past vehicles, strangers, and tartanillas, guided only by instinct and determination.
But as evening fell, confidence gave way to uncertainty. The world that had once felt open and inviting suddenly became vast and unfamiliar. I turned back.
Small and disoriented, I made my way through the fading light until I was found near the market by my father’s sister, who gently led me home.
I returned safely, but with a quiet awareness, even if unspoken at the time, that the world was larger and more complicated than I had yet understood.
Even in sleep, my childhood was not entirely free from fear and wonder. My dreams were vivid, sometimes beautiful, but often terrifying.
In one dream, a simple rat transformed before my eyes into a monkey, then into a towering ape, its gaze fixed and unnatural. I would wake trembling, unable to understand how my mind could create such horrific images.
Other dreams were even stranger. The statue of Sto. Tomas de Villanueva from our church would come alive, stepping down from its stillness and walking toward me along the coconut-lined path outside our home. At first, it appeared only as a shadow. Then it took form and began to chase me.
The dream returned more than once. Sometimes it was him. Sometimes it was the Sto. Niño. I never fully understood why, only that these visions lingered in my sleep like echoes I could not silence.
At times, I would wake from dreams of a crucified Christ, immense, towering, and solemn. His eyes were fixed on me, not with anger, but with a depth I could not name or comprehend.
It felt as though those eyes reached beyond my fear and into something far deeper within me, something I could not yet understand as a child, but could never quite forget.
Years later, during my time at San Agustin Seminary, I found myself recalling those childhood dreams with a quiet question.
Sto. Tomas de Villanueva belongs to the Augustinian Order. The Sto. Niño is also deeply connected to the same spiritual tradition, enshrined in the Basilica Minore del Santo Niño in Cebu, a church under Augustinian care.
At the time, I wondered whether there was any meaning in that connection or whether it was simply coincidence, my young mind weaving together images from the world I grew up in.
Was it a sign, or merely memory reshaped by imagination?
For a period of my life, I did walk that religious path in a more formal sense. I entered the seminary and tried to discern that calling more deeply. But life, as it often does, eventually turned in unexpected directions. I stepped away from that path in 1991.
Today, I live a simpler life, far removed from that vocation, continuing my journey in the world outside the walls of the seminary.
Still, I sometimes look back, not with certainty, but with reflection, and recognize how even childhood impressions can linger in the background of a life, resurfacing in unexpected ways.
As I grew older, I began to notice something within myself that I could not easily understand or excuse.
There were moments in my childhood when I acted thoughtlessly, confusing play with arrogance, and curiosity with cruelty. No one had taught me such behavior, and yet I often wondered where it came from.
I remember one boy in particular, a poor-looking child named Gaudioso, whose skin bore visible blisters. I had befriended him at first, and we played together in passing moments of childhood familiarity.
But in the days that followed, something changed in me.
Whenever he walked past our house, I would throw stones at him and quickly hide inside. He would look back in anger and try to retaliate, but I would remain out of sight, untouched by the consequences of what I had done.
Even now, I still return to that memory with unease, not to justify it, but to try to understand it. I do not fully know why I behaved that way as a child, only that it stands as one of the earliest moments when I became aware that innocence and wrongdoing can sometimes exist side by side in the same young heart.
© 2026 ET PLUS · articles · All Rights Reserved | The Man Called Me