Early Encounters
in Life
This story begins on the very day I first drew breath, a fragile cry breaking into the vast, indifferent world, and unfolds into the tender, unguarded years of early childhood. It is a journey shaped by the creaking walls of a century-old home, by fleeting laughter and quiet fears, by innocent mischief and dreams that lingered like shadows long after waking.
It is, above all, a remembrance of love that cradled me, of lessons that slowly carved themselves into my being, and of subtle signs that, perhaps, were already whispering of the man I would one day become.
At the Cebu Maternity House, time seemed suspended between hope and uncertainty as the medical staff attended to my mother. Then, on a Friday the 13th of October in 1967, at exactly 1:40 p.m., the stillness was broken by the cry of a newborn, a sound echoing within the four walls of the birthing room. I entered the world weighing seven pounds, small and unknowing, yet already bound to a story that would unfold only once in a lifetime.
I was named Ulysses, a name said to mean "the angry one," yet also carrying the grandeur of legends from ancient Greece. I was the fourth child, following my siblings May, Glenn, and Artemio Jr., stepping into a world both uncertain and full of promise.
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When my mother regained her strength, we returned to our home at Pardo. It was not merely a house, it was a relic of time, standing for nearly a century, its wooden bones whispering stories of those who had lived and loved within its walls.
The house was divided into three distinct living spaces, each with its own identity. Above us resided an elderly woman we fondly called Mana Awang, together with her relatives, their footsteps and voices often drifting softly through the ceiling. The ground floor, meanwhile, was shared by two families, bound by such close proximity that even spoken words could easily be heard. Our own portion stretched across four connecting rooms, leading into a kitchen. The living and dining areas merged into a single, well-worn space that opened onto a wooden grilled porch. At the front, a short flight of steps descended toward the outside.
It was a place worn by years, yet alive with presence, a home not defined by luxury, but by memory.
My earliest memories come in fragments like soft, fleeting impressions, or like sunlight quietly filtering through a room. I remember my father carrying me in his arms, his presence steady and unshakable, as he brought me outside to meet the world.
There were coconut trees swaying gently overhead, banana plants rustling in the breeze, and the golden warmth of the sun wrapping everything in quiet wonder. To a child, the world appeared vast yet kind, mysterious yet inviting.
As we walked along narrow footpaths, I would later begin to speak and ask him simple questions, endless questions born of curiosity. He would answer with playful certainty, weaving stories that I would only come to realize much later were inventions. Yet in those moments, they were truths to me. It was only when I had grown into reason that I gently confronted him about them.
In those early years, I belonged not only to my family but to the neighborhood itself. People adored me in the way communities embrace their young. Openly, warmly, and without restraint, they would pinch my cheeks, delighting in their softness, while my mother would gently protest, "don't press the cheeks too hard, lest they stretch too wide," she warned them.
Among them was a young girl named Mery, whose kindness left an imprint on my childhood. She would visit often, her presence gentle and affectionate, lifting me into her arms, encouraging my first words, and filling my small world with a sense of belonging. To me, she was more than a neighbor, she was something like an older sister, a quiet guardian of my early years.
One evening, the barrio came alive with a bayle, a dance filled with music, laughter, and anticipation. The space was enclosed by bamboo fencing and illuminated by soft lights that flickered against the night. Inside, young women sat in neat rows, waiting to be invited, while men approached them with coins in hand—paying for a dance, for a moment, for connection.
I watched from outside, small and hesitant, peering through the bamboo slats, unsure of the world unfolding before me. Then Mery saw me. With a smile, she gently pulled me from the dark and led me onto the dance floor.
I did not dance; I was too shy and too overwhelmed. I simply stood motionless beside her.
I only remember the warmth of her hand, the brightness of her joy, and the strange feeling of being part of something larger than myself.
Growing up surrounded by nature, I found companionship in the smallest of creatures.
One day, I discovered a tiny insect clinging to a shrub along a quiet path. It fascinated me especially its vibrant color and its delicate fragility.
I took it home and carefully placed it in a small hole in the cement floor, covering it with leaves as though building a sanctuary.
Each day, I returned to visit it. I spoke to it like a friend, calling it by the name Florecin.
For a week, it became part of my world, until one day it was gone.
Perhaps it had flown away. Perhaps it had died. I did not know. But in its absence, I felt, for the first time, the quiet sting of loss.
Childhood is a realm of unknowing, where actions are detached from meaning.
One afternoon, older children called me and a playmate into an abandoned shanty. Their laughter filled the small, dim space.
They told us to cling to each other, to climb, to hug, to kiss, even. And so we obeyed, unaware, uncomprehending. To them, it was amusement. To us, it was simply another child game.
So, I laughed along, not realizing that some moments, though innocent in intent, would later carry a different weight in memory.
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, chasing our small discoveries.
Hours passed. Roads blurred into unfamiliar paths. Before we knew it, we had reached the outskirts of the city proper, nearly ten kilometers from home. My cousin grew fearful, urging us to turn back. But I, spellbound by adventure, refused to listen.
At last, we retraced our steps and returned to a household thick with worry. My aunt's scolding was sharp, but beneath it lay concern. Yet I did not learn.
That same year, left behind by my parents during a fiesta in another barangay, I set out alone, determined to find them without even knowing which house they had gone to.
I saw myself walking past vehicles, strangers, and tartanillas, guided only by instinct and determination.
But soon, darkness fell, and my stubbornness gave way to fear. The world, once inviting, became vast and uncertain.
I turned back, small and fragile against a world beginning to fade.
I returned home safely after my father's sister saw me wandering aimlessly near the market and led me back.
Even in sleep, my childhood was not free from both fear and wonder. I dreamed vividly, though sometimes beautifully, but oftenly terrifying.
In one dream, a simple rat transformed before my eyes into a monkey, then into a towering ape, its gaze piercing and unnatural. I awoke trembling, unable to understand how my mind could conjure such horror.
Other dreams were stranger still. The statue of Sto. Tomas de Villanueva from our church came alive, walking toward me along the coconut-lined path right in front of our home. At first, he was only a silhouette, but then he began to chase me. The dream returned, again and again. Sometimes it was him. Sometimes it was the Sto. Niño. I did not really understand.
At times, I woke from a dream of a crucified Christ, immensely huge, towering, and authoritative. His eyes were fixed on me, not with anger, but with a depth I could not name.
It felt as though they pierced deeply into my soul.
Years later, during my time at the San Agustín Seminary, I thought about those dreams, with a question.
Sto. Tomas de Villanueva belonged to the Augustinian Order. The Sto. Niño too, is deeply tied to the same spiritual congregation. You will find the statue enshrined in Cebu.
Was it a coincidence? Or were those dreams a quiet hint of what I would become in the future?
For a time, I walked in that kind of religious path. But life, as it often does, turned in unexpected ways. I have been away from the limelight since 1991.
Today, I live simply, far removed from that calling, trying to make my way in the world.
✦ to be continued in the next chapter ✦
As I grew older, I began to question something within myself that I could not easily accept.
There were moments when I acted thoughtlessly, mixing fun with arrogance. No one had taught me such behavior, and yet I wondered why I did it.
In those early years, I saw a poor-looking boy with blisters covering his body. I knew his name was Gaudioso, because I had befriended him at first. But in the days that followed, whenever he passed by our house, I threw stones at him and then hid inside. He looked furious and tried to retaliate, yet I remained safely concealed.
Even now, I find myself questioning why I harbored such cruel tendencies as a child.
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