FIRST YEAR HIGH SCHOOL –SY 1980-1981
Late Enrollment
It was enrollment season, but my mother seemed indifferent about sending me to high school. My brothers and sister were already enrolled in the city, and I told Mama that I wanted to study there too. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough money, so she remained undecided.
At the last minute, I was finally enrolled at a nearby school, Gullas High School. It was a two-story building nestled between a church and a cemetery. Because I enrolled late, I was placed in Section H, the last section. Our class had around 50 students, with a mix of bright, average, and struggling learners. I only recognized a few faces from my elementary days, but I could no longer recall their names.
High School on 25 Centavos a Day
Because of financial constraints, my daily pocket money was only 25 centavos, enough to buy piece of bread and a native delicacy in the nearby food store. Nevertheless, I made some very good friends. One of them, whose name I’ve now forgotten, had small eyes, a square jaw, and wavy hair. He wasn’t wealthy, but his parents ran a small business. He often treated me to snacks seeing my pocket money was small enough. He was from Bulacao.
Another friend was Victorino Nacua from Inayawan, Pardo. He considered me his closest friend, he once sang “If I Never Sing Another Song” during our campfire program in school. He was very sociable though. I remember hanging out with him at the Inayawan Sports Complex. He was very good at skating. There was a skating rink there. I gave it a try but couldn’t even move my feet.
I also had a Chinese friend, his name sounds like Christopher or Michael Chua, not quite sure but the family name. Then there was Achilles Lastimosa from Itamda, I. Tabura St., and Eduardo Pacaña, who was quite handsome but often got into arguments with Reynaldo, another student who was clearly gay. Eduardo was a bit effeminate himself. I also had small chats with a classmate, quite mature for a first year high school. His name, if I am not mistaken, sounds like, Danilo Teves, a pelota or jai alai player.
I also remember Reynaldo Balcorza from Villa Tambis, along F. Jaca St. in Pardo. His house was small, made of lawanit, plywood, and bamboo flooring. He was very kind to me.
Among the girls, I remember Ma. Luisa Sumagang. She had a very sexy figure and somewhat pretty, the problem only was her face, it was filled with acne. During our campfire, she danced to the popular song “Body Language.” There was also Ludivina, with her simple beauty, and Lallaine, who was quite intelligent. She passed by our house on her way home.
Despite being reserved, it never hindered my academic performance
In class, I was a bit shy and quiet, but I participated in recitations. Once I got a near perfect score in our English subject during a periodical test. Our English teacher, Mr. Baba, then started calling me, not by my real name, but by the moniker "intelligent guy" whenever he called me for a recitation. I always got perfect scores on his daily quizes, kudos to my very good teacher mentors in English during my grade school days, Mrs. Cagigas and Mrs. Santos.
Activities Inside and Outside School
One day, classes ended early, and a group of classmates and I went to the shores of Cogon. Some of them swam in a nearby pond. It was quite deep, some of my brave classmates dove with only their briefs on. It was fun. But I never jumped into the pond.
Another highlight of the year was the campfire. Each grade level participated in different performances. The talent among the students was impressive, especially in singing. My friend and classmate, Victorino Nacua, sang the song "If I Never Sing Another Song" by Matt Monro.
After the program ended around 11 p.m., we returned to our room to sleep, but most of us didn’t. We joked around, so noisy, and everyone laughed out loud when one of our classmates tried to urinate through the school window. It's dark and just a wall distance from a cemetery, so it's pretty scary to go out in the dark to the comfort room alone. But it's never a problem during day time. Funny it may seem, but my classmate and I sometimes jumped off the school fence during recess where the cemetery was. It's our way to get free snacks whenever there was a burial.
At 2 a.m., we started packing our things, and by 4 a.m., we hiked all the way to Cansojong, Talisay, by the sea. We passed through Gabuya St., turned right at F. Jaca St., went through Inayawan, and finally reached our destination.
There were other activities throughout the year. One was the Youth Countryside Action Program (YCAP), where we did tree planting. One Sunday, we even hiked all the way to the Buhisan Dam and Watershed, so far that my whole body ached afterward.
Every Saturday afternoon, we also had YDT (Youth Development Training). Sometimes we marched around the churchyard or just stayed on campus, spending most of the time marching. Other times, we played in the grotto at the center of the churchyard. I was usually with my chinese looking classmate's hideout, just chatting on top of the other grotto, Grotto of Virgin Mary, situated left of the church, letting the time passed, till it's time for attendance.
The weight of a life lived in want
Despite the fun moments, life was tough. During exam weeks, we were required to settle our tuition fees to receive exam permits. While my classmates were already taking their tests, I was often stuck in line with promissory notes at the registrar’s office, pleading for a permit because I couldn’t pay. It felt with a deep embarrassment and helplessness as well.
One examination day, I felt hopeless because it took me so long in the registrar's office. Thankfully, not everyone was heartless. One woman, after I pleaded several times, finally handed me a permit, allowing me to take the test. The scenario was always like that every periodical exam.
Things got worse during the fourth grading period. I hadn’t paid tuition for two months, including March. We had a newborn baby, Erwin, who needed milk and vitamins. My father had no more income except a small pension, which had become even smaller due to a bank loan. With no other choice, I was not able to take the final exams. Later, I became an out-of-school youth and was not able to go to school for two straight years, which I will try to recall in the next section.
Looking back
That school year was a mix of joy and hardship, new friends, vibrant activities, and painful struggles with scarcity. Even though I didn’t finish the year, the memories and experiences shaped me in ways I didn’t realize at the time. The kindness of strangers, the laughter with friends, and even the ache of missing an exam, all of it was part of a chapter that gave me resilience, something I’d carry with me in years ahead.
Summer of 1981
It was summer time and the Lenten season was drawing to a close. As expected during this time of year, the days were hot and dry. With the heat came the familiar rhythm of daily chores, and once again, Mama’s voice echoed through the house, assigning tasks that I followed without question. From cleaning the floors to washing the dishes, from final rinses of laundry to trips to the market, I moved through the days with quiet obedience.
That Good Friday, I was tasked with washing clothes. I remember standing over the basin, carefully rinsing every trace of soap from the fabric. We didn’t have running water at home, so we did it through a deep well pump belonging to Noy Pacing and Nang Auring Cabaluna, two blocks away. Their family had long been close to ours; the pump, like their kindness, was always open to us.
Good Friday had its rules. We were told that bathing on this day was not good, but Mama said it was alright as long as it was before 2 p.m., since Christ was believed to have died at 3 p.m. I bathed early in the morning.
By around 12:30 p.m., I found myself in the yard of Andot and Balbing Cabaluna, near the house of Pacing, their brother. A few boys had gathered, Apang (Gaspar), Dario, Conrad, and others. We were busy crafting makeshift caps from empty cigarette cartons, a kind of childhood ritual that made us feel like soldiers or pilgrims on a sacred mission.
Once we had our "helmets," we marched up into the hills of Pardo. Our destination: a live reenactment of Christ’s crucifixion by a man named Nomer. The site, now the location of Alta Vista Resort, was then just a mountaintop plateau, but that day, it felt like the world’s center. Crowds swelled from every direction, families, vendors selling ice drops, banana cue, camote cue, candies, cigarettes, and ice water, all drawn to witness this powerful display of devotion.
Meanwhile, when evening came closer, the Pardo church had its own elaborate preparations. As the sun dipped into the horizon, a grand procession began. Stretching late into the night, it featured around 40 carros or floats depicting scenes from Jesus’ Passion. Statues of saints and biblical figures adorned each float, one carried Saint Veronica holding the veil with Christ’s face imprinted three times; another depicted Mary as Mater Dolorosa, her sorrowful eyes cast downward. The final float carried the lifeless body of Jesus, encased in a glass coffin, a haunting symbol of sacrifice and grief.
On Easter Sunday, the church hosted the Sugat, the joyful encounter of Jesus and Mary. I never witnessed it myself, but people said it began at dawn. A child dressed as an angel would be suspended from a pole above the meeting point, watching as Mary and the risen Christ reunited, a symbol of hope in the resurrection.
I think back to those days with a sense of quiet reverence. The rituals, the heat, the devotion, they all formed the woven fabric of childhood memories that were shaped by faith, community, and the sacred rhythm of tradition.
TWO IDLE YEARS - 1981 to 1983
Trying hard to make ends met
The next school year came, and I wasn’t enrolled. I simply stayed home, without direction or purpose. I drifted through the days, unsure of what lay ahead. Still, I found comfort in the company of neighborhood friends. What else could I do? Our family had hit rock bottom, completely bankrupt. Each day felt like a test of survival, and I didn't know where it would all lead. We were living hand-to-mouth.
I remember my father pawning anything of value to keep us afloat: the typewriter he had once proudly brought home from Manila, the watches he had gifted to my older siblings Glenn and May, even Mama’s jewelry, none were spared. One memory remains vivid: a hot, heavy afternoon. The sky was grey, the kind of light that makes everything feel heavier. I rode with Papa in a tartanilla (a horse-drawn carriage), carrying our sewing machine to a pawnshop in Taboan Market. Later, even our cassette player/recorder was pawned to our uncle, Tiyo Eddie.
To help the family, Papa turned to the sea. During low tides, he would wade through the shore with his "sudsud", a net pushed along the seafloor to catch tiny fish, shrimps, and crabs. Sometimes, he used a "saphig", a bamboo pole with a flat paddle to stir up mud and coax sea creatures to the surface. One improvised bamboo tool is "pokpok", used to gather clams. I joined him at times, and sometimes with my brothers or friend neighbors. But mostly, I went alone, so I learned the rhythm of the sea, thus improved my catch. The boys in the neighborhood gave me a nickname, “Uly Saphig”, because of that skill.
Spending my days with friend neighbors
My days were spent with other out-of-school youth like myself. At times, we wandered through the villages with sacks slung over our backs, scavenging for bottles and cans to sell at the junkyard. I was often with a boy named Badul, carefree, talented, and oddly charismatic. He sang and danced like he was born to entertain, and his presence brightened up my days.
At other times, I wandered with Boy, the son of Terri and Aida, younger brother of Claver, and also a friend of my brother. We’d trek to the rice fields to catch maya (sparrows). But first, we had to hike nearly ten kilometers into the mountains of Pardo to collect "pulot", a sticky substance from the "kamansi" tree. We used this gum-like resin as bird trap glue.
We’d also gather old palm tree limbs from the "kanipaan" (nipa plantations) to craft bird cages.
Out in the fields, we’d smear twigs with "pulot", pin a dead maya with wire as bait, and hide a cage of live birds covered with rice straws. Their chirping would lure unsuspecting sparrows straight into our simple, ingenious trap. It was rustic, clever, and deeply enjoyable. The hunting itself was an art.
One day, I was in the yard, carefully crafting a cage for the maya birds. Mama had a friend visiting at the time, and as they talked, her friend paused to watch my hands at work, patient, focused, weaving each piece with care. With a warm smile, she turned to my mother and said, “This boy has such skillful hands. Mark my words, he’s going to be successful someday.” I heard her words and held onto them. Someday. I didn’t know when or how, but in my heart, I hoped she was right, that one day, those hands would shape not just cages, but a better life.
Engaging in sports: basketball
Despite it all, I still found joy in sports, basketball especially. I played with neighborhood friends: Jing Canono, Badul Abadiano, Nat Cabaluna, Raymund Bacalso, Boy, and others. We once formed a mini-midget team for Kabulihan and entered a tournament in Paradise Village. Though we were shorter than most teams, we went undefeated. I was the captain ball. In the final game against Rainbow Village, the score was tied with only seconds left. I took a shot from the perimeter, and it landed. We won the championship, and for a moment, I was a hero.
Our team included Tata Bermudez, 'Kimpang' Bermudez (despite being a polio victim, he was agile and quick), Nat Cabaluna, Christopher Abellana (who would go on to play in the PBL and briefly in the PBA), Melvin Tabura, and others. Every barangay had a league, and I was always there, either playing or cheering for our team.
Memorable Songs
Certain songs will always remind me of those days:
Rey Valera’s “Sinasamba Kita,”
Sharon Cuneta’s “Dear Heart,”
and Freddie Aguilar’s “Anak”
These songs floated in the air waves. But one song was special, it echoed across the sea as I foraged for clams with my pokpok. It was Florante’s “Kahit Konti”
This is a song about sharing space, understanding, and small kindnesses. I used to sing it quietly, alone in the sea with the waves and the wind and sometimes, with occasional rains, while striking my "pokpok" bamboo pole on top of exposed seabed to detect clams.
The turning point
Around the last quarter of 1982, something deeply troubling happened. It was an early evening, our house dimly lit, perhaps the power had been cut, or the bill unpaid again. Suddenly, we heard a commotion. A neighbor, a friend of my sister, screamed that my younger sister, only around 10 or 11, had been taken by a man high on drugs. The neighborhood stirred. My father rushed out, and I followed. We found him, the man we all knew. Papa pulled my sister from his grip. We filed a case, but he never appeared in court. People like him, uneducated, violent, sometimes untouchable, were known in the area. His brother was a notorious drunkard, feared for carrying a gun when under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
Years later, that same brother of his was shot and killed. Fear had haunted our household. My mother barely slept besides suffering from nervous breakdown from time to time . Papa tried to borrow back a gun he once pawned with a relative, but was turned away, having no money to redeem it. Helpless and vulnerable, we decided to move. We relocated to a quiet, unfamiliar place near the mountains in northern Cebu City, Talamban.
It was the first quarter of 1983 when we packed up under the pale light of early evening. My father hired a relative’s jeepney to transport our belongings. By 7 PM, we were on the road, leaving Pardo behind, crossing the city proper, toward an uncertain future. I sat in the back, watching the streetlights blur past, wondering what life awaited us.
We arrived at my grandmother’s sister’s house. It was quiet and so much different where we came from. The silence was strange to me at first. I found myself often lying down, resting too much. There were few homes around, mostly relatives. It was much different compared to the bustling place I grew up with.
Eventually, I adjusted. But life remained hard. I missed my friends, and the sea, which had helped fill our dining table. My body, once lean and strong from vigorous activities, began to weaken from lethargic lifestyle. Still, there were blessings: Lola Intay, my grandmother’s sister, would bring leftover rice from their restaurant. Mama would re-cook it so it would save us money to buy rice. I spent my time tending an empty lot beside the house, tilling the soil, planting vegetables, helping grow what little I could to add to our everyday meal.
I remember one time, a high school classmate saw me still tilling the soil at noon. He admired my hard work, but I wasn’t doing it to show off. I simply had nothing else to do. He was a privileged only child, raised without a father but doted on by his mother. I envied him once, but in time, I saw life’s balance. Years later, at a funeral of one of our high school classmates, I saw him again. His life had unraveled. Addicted to women, he had three children by three different mothers. He drove his own taxi just to feed them. His mother, now old and tired, no longer gave him the attention she once did.
Looking back
We often see hardship as punishmenst, but in time, we learn: hardship teaches resilience. Pain deepens perspective. Every closed door pushes us to find another way.
And though the past was riddled with struggle, I carry it with a strange kind of pride. It shaped me. It strengthened me. And above all, it taught me to endure, until the lights, however dim, led me somewhere new.
FINISHING HIGH SCHOOL - 1984 - 1986
A return to the Classroom
After two long years away from school, I finally found my way back into the classroom. Thanks to the support of my grandmother, who helped to shell out a little spare of money for my enrollment at San Isidro Parish School, a private Catholic institution in our new hometown. I entered as a second-year high school student, already two years older than most of my classmates. A few were closer to my age though, but the difference still felt obvious to me.
To my surprise, despite missing the final periodical exams at my previous school, all of my first-year high school teachers had given me passing grades. It was an unexpected grace, one I didn’t take for granted. But even so, re-entering the world of school after so much time away felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory.
The first day was difficult. I felt like a stranger, so out of place, disconnected. Some of the “cool kids” even tried to bully me, sensing perhaps that I didn’t belong. But I kept my head down and stayed focused. These same boys who mocked me were clearly not serious about their studies, and I knew that if I wanted to survive and be respected, I had to prove I was different. I had to show them I was in a league of my own.
Eventually, they came to rely on me, especially during quizzes. They would glance at my answers, silently asking for help. And I let them. Perhaps it was my way of turning the tables. In time, they stopped to try to mock me. Instead, they began to respect me.
Still, the transition wasn’t without its setbacks. Early on, I overlooked a key requirement: we were supposed to submit our seatwork notebooks to the teacher after each session, something that hadn’t been practiced in my previous school. I failed to do so throughout the first grading period which cost me not to be on top. My grades suffered, despite all my effort.
But by the second grading period, I had adapted. I made sure every piece of work was turned in on time. Slowly but surely, I found my footing again. To my surprise, I rose into the Top 10 of the class, even after being out of school for two whole years.
The odds were against me. But I had known struggle before. And I knew how to fight through.
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In March 1984, I posed for a class photo with my classmates as a memento to mark the end of our second year in high school.
Summertime Activities
Unlike other students, I never enjoyed a summer of leisure. Each vacation meant work. I remember one summer working at a stone craft shop just a few meters from our house. The stones were heavy, and I was often scolded for mistakes. But sometimes, I also received praise, and the little money I earned was enough to bring a smile to my face.
I realized something, my self-esteem during those years was low. I didn’t think highly of myself. Scarcity probably influenced me to feel small and inferior than others.
One summer, I worked at a relative’s restaurant, doing everything from cooking and serving customers to running errands and walking long distances to replenish supplies. I remember dragging crates of empty soft drink bottles down the road, sweat pouring down my face in the sweltering heat. For all that hard work, I expected to earn enough to save up for my school expenses. But the money I received was far less than I’d hoped. Mama always said I was spending my summer “vacation” with my uncles and aunts, but really, I was just laboring for a minimal fee.
There was another summer I spent helping another relative, practically like a houseboy, working alongside my sister. Even among family, I wasn’t spared from rebuke. Whenever I made mistakes, I was scolded harshly. I would bite my tongue and bow my head. I told myself that this was just life of a poor boy, and poor boys make sacrifices. I endured it quietly, always hoping the pocket money at the end would make it worth it.
Consistently showing my dedication to studies
Amid all the odds, I found something I could be proud of, academic excellence. I devoted much of my time to studying. I was especially good at memorization and Mathematics. Classmates, particularly girls, often asked me to help explain difficult lessons. I also became unexpectedly popular with the “bad boys” of the school, who would sit behind me during exams and beg for answers. I only shared once I finished my own work, sometimes reluctantly, knowing they hadn’t studied at all. It felt unfair, but still, I helped. Maybe it was a silent form of trying to win their friendship. but in life, I always give generously, even when I had little.
I was never out of the Top 10, and at one point, I ranked Top 3 in class. But I wasn’t a typical nerd. Some of my good classmates liked visiting our house, and though I was quiet and often declined, sometimes I joined them. They saw me not just as the quiet scholar, but as a friend.
Scarcity of money continued to haunt me
But the struggle never really stopped. No matter how hard I studied, no matter how well I prepared for my exams, there were days when reality would knock hard, we simply didn’t have the money to pay for tuition.
I remember those moments, just when I thought I had everything ready, my notes, my books, and disposition, the money was always missing. My heart would sink. But somehow, my grandmother always found a way. She would head to her garden, pick a vegetable fruit, like a squash or a bundle of leafy greens, and hand it to me, saying, “Try to sell this to the vegetable vendor at the side of the street.”
I’d walk to the roadside where the street vendor had her stall, clutching that vegetable, hoping it would be enough. And often, it was. Just barely. Tuition back then wasn’t that expensive as nowadays, even for a private school. But for a family who barely had something, even the smallest amount was heavy.
It somehow humbled me, but it also fueled my spirit. While many of my classmates went through school with enough allowance in their pockets and brand-new things in their bags, I walked into class knowing that every single peso behind my education had been fought for, grown, picked, and sold by hand.
Even the shoes I wore were hand-me-downs from my older brother. I remember clearly the day they tore, right at the side, where the sole had begun to give up. I didn’t complain. I didn’t ask for a new pair. Instead, I took a needle and thread and quietly stitched it back together by hand, as best as I could. I did the same with my uniform, mending small tears, patching thin fabric, always doing what I could to keep up appearances. It's even hardly noticeable.
There was no shame in it. Just a quiet dignity I carried, knowing that I was doing what needed to be done . I did it without a hint of complaint. I may have lacked a lot of things, but never the will to survive.
An insult that turn a challenge
One moment from high school still lingers in my memory. During an Algebra class, I was seated behind a girl who loved reading romance novels, Flordeluna Lapa, the same girl who would later become our class valedictorian. I had shared some novels from my sister with her, and we quietly chatted during class.
The teacher caught us and called me out, harshly. "You have no right to be talking during my lecture," he said, then added, "Especially someone who are not even intelligent."
His words cut deep. But I didn’t respond. Instead, I studied even harder, reading ahead, mastering every formula. Eventually, he realized his mistake. I topped his class, often getting perfect scores on his quizzes. He even had me check the test papers of my classmates after each exam, starting with mine, which was always flawless or near it.
Citizen Army Training: Discipline Under the Sun
In the Philippines during the 1980s, Citizen Army Training (CAT) was a mandatory program for all fourth-year high school students, both boys and girls. It wasn’t just a subject; it was a formative experience. The goal was to instill discipline, patriotism, leadership, and civic duty through basic military orientation and community engagement.
Students were organized into platoons, companies, and battalions, taking on roles such as medics, admin staff, military police, or color guards. It felt like we were part of a real military unit, complete with structure and hierarchy. Every detail mattered, from the way we marched, to how we folded our uniforms, to the shine on our shoes.
Uniform inspections were taken seriously, belts had to gleam, shoes polished to a mirror shine, hair neatly trimmed, uniforms creased just right. If you failed any of these, you didn’t just get a warning, you were punished. Push-ups, duck walks, squat thrusts, or laps under the scorching heat were common. I saw classmates collapse from exhaustion, especially those with low heat tolerance. It was grueling.
Those of us who aspired to become officers had to go through physically punishing trials, bivouacs, rifle drills, and even hazing rituals. We were made to pass around live cockroaches, perform endless jumping jacks and push-ups, and endure relentless tests of our endurance and composure.
At first, I applied for an officer position. I had the drive and discipline. But after a while, I realized that the commitment was consuming my weekends, leaving me with little time for academics. Reluctantly, I stepped down and accepted a non-commissioned role. It wasn’t a failure, just a choice to balance priorities, a decision between prestige and practicality.
While some students found CAT traumatic, especially under officers who abused their authority, I saw it differently. For me, it was an experience that shaped my character. It taught me the value of punctuality, obedience, and camaraderie. The discipline it demanded stayed with me long after graduation.
There were written exams too. I remember how I always studied side by side with a close friend and classmate, Joel Cadampog. We pushed each other to do well, not just in CAT, but in all our subjects. Every CAT exam we took, we aced, perfect scores every time. That earned us exemptions from several succeeding tests.
But there was one mistake I regretted. When the final CAT exam came, I assumed I was exempt again. I didn’t show up. What I didn’t know was that no one was exempted from the final exam, no matter how well they had performed before. That single misstep brought down my overall grade in CAT that could have been possibly costed me the chance to graduate with honors. All my other subjects had strong grades. That one oversight made all the difference.
Still, CAT was more than just a subject. It was a test of willpower and discipline, a rite of passage. And even though it left me with a lesson earned the hard way, it also gave me a quiet strength that I carried into adulthood.
Letters from the other side of the world
In the latter part of high school, I discovered one of the most unexpected and rewarding pastime at that time: exchanging letters with American pen pals. I never really found out who submitted my name, one pen pal mentioned she saw it in a magazine.
Trying to engage in letter-writing with them, didn’t just sharpen my English, it expanded my world. Each envelope that arrived felt with much excitement, giving me a glimpse into the lives, cultures, and lifestyles of people far different than my own.
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The woman who stole my last photo
My first pen pal was a girl named Terri Williams from Virginia. She sent me her photograph, and I sent her mine. Back then, I had very few pictures of myself. In fact, only two come to mind. One was the solo photo I mailed to Terri. The other, a picture of me with four classmates, was stolen from me by a girl in our class. To this day, I’m not sure why she took it. Maybe she liked me or perhaps she was just intrigued by my quiet, distant demeanor.
I remember once, sitting alone on a bench outside our classroom, she came and sat beside me, so close, our shoulders touched. I instinctively moved away, but she followed, closing the space again. Truth be told, I was drawn to her too, but I was cripplingly shy, unsure of how to respond to her attention.
Years later, when we reconnected through our high school batch group chat, that long-lost photo resurfaced. She posted it. One of our classmates even joked, “I know the story behind that picture!” and smile emojis. It brought back all the memories, awkward, innocent, and sweet.
Got assaulted by a woman
There was this one classmate of mine also, tall, striking, confident, with a presence that turned heads. She was considered beautiful by many: bold, flirtatious, and unapologetically direct. I, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved, still trying to find my footing in high school life.
It was noontime, just before our afternoon classes would start. The classroom buzzed with the usual chatter and laughter when, out of nowhere, she walked straight up to me. With a playful, but loud, voice that caught everyone's attention, she blurted out in front of our classmates:
“I want to kiss you! I love you, I need you!”
She tried to protrude her lips too close to mine, almost smooching, if I hadn't shifted away.
The room erupted in teasing. My face flushed bright red. I was mortified. I didn’t know how to react, whether to smile, laugh, hide, or run. All I could do was sit there, stunned, drowning in embarrassment.
Some of my classmates later whispered things about her, rumors that she’d been expelled from her previous school because of misbehavior. Others claimed she was into drugs. Whether it was true or not, I didn’t know for sure, but I sensed something reckless in her eyes that made me uneasy.
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 open the door, stepping inside.
And then, instinct took over. Without thinking much, I quickly shut the door and locked it from the outside, there was a latch on that side, unusual but effective.
Within seconds, she was pounding on the door, her voice echoing angrily:
“Open this door! You sissy!”
That's it. Where were we?
What happened to my pen-friend Terri
Back to Terri, our letters were warm, lively, and filled with excitement. We shared little details about our lives, our cultures, our thoughts. She was so excited to share to me her travels with her family and shared photos. I looked forward to every letter, counting the days. Usually, it only took a week for a letter from the U.S. to reach me. I even went to the post office from time to time just to check if something had arrived. Her letters always made my day.
Then, suddenly, her letters stopped.
Weeks passed in silence. I kept waiting, hoping. Until one day, a letter did come, but it wasn’t from Terri. It was from her mother.
Terri's mom wrote me a letter
Pat Williams
Terri died on October 19, 1985, just a week after my birthday.
The news devastated me. I was young, innocent, and unprepared to deal with a loss like that. Somehow, even through the distance, I had grown close to her. And just like that, she was gone. I never forgot her. I never will.
My last two pen-friends
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I received another letter. It came from a penpal from Ohio, her name was Cindy Blum. She told me her home economics teacher gave her my name. We exchanged a few letters, and she sent me her photo on December 21, 1985. But life got busy, and so the correspondence faded.
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Then came the last penpal that I had, Laura Sipa. She's from California, quite an attractive girl who continued to write to me even after I had entered the seminary.
High school came to a quiet end
There were no grand celebrations, no parties, no big tributes to mark the milestone. I graduated without fanfare, just the quiet closing of a chapter that had shaped so much of who I was. I only managed to save a few photos from those years, four, at most. Two were from graduation: one with our school director, a priest, and another as my mother pinned on the medal I received for ‘Best in Conduct.’ These were the only visual remnants of a journey that left marks far deeper than any camera could capture.
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Still, I carried with me the scars, the lessons, and a quiet kind of strength that had grown in the shadows of hardship and perseverance.
Confused and uncertain of my future
On the night after graduation, I sat with uncertainty. Would I be able to go to college? That question loomed over me like a weight I couldn’t shake off. I had taken several entrance and scholarship exams though, holding on to hope that one of them might open a door. One letter arrived from a newly opened technical/vocational school offering free tuition. But it wasn’t a four-year degree. It didn’t feel like the path I was meant to take.
The EDSA thing
I was still waiting on the results of a government scholarship when the country erupted into a historic storm, the EDSA People Power Revolution in Manila. Chaos swept through the nation. President Marcos was ousted from Malacañang and sent into exile in Hawaii. The country was changing, but for me, it only brought more silence. I never heard back about the scholarship.
I showed interest in religious life
But I wasn’t without options.
Even as early as my third year in high school, I had felt a stirring toward something deeper. Some SVD seminarians had visited our school for a vocation campaign. They spoke of the religious life, of discipline and purpose. They looked smart, composed, peaceful. I admired them. I wanted to be like them.
I signed up and took their entrance exam, but days later they returned to tell me kindly, that I was still too young. Only high school graduates were accepted. They told me to wait a year. So did I.
Meanwhile, another path was opening.
A priest from the Order of Saint Augustine, Fr. Nicolas Echevarria of the Basilica del Sto. Niño, had taken an interest in guiding me. He was our Spanish teacher, a very simple religious person. After class, he would often walk with me to our house, just a short distance away. He spoke to my mother personally, again and again, asking for her permission to let me enter the seminary.
At his encouragement, I took the entrance exam at the Basilica. Afterward, he proudly told my mother that I had earned the highest score among all the applicants that year. He was overjoyed. He believed in me and wanted me to pursue the path to priesthood.
But in the end, it wasn’t about who wanted it for me. It had to be my decision.
A decision was made
And so, one night, I found myself alone in the backyard of my grandmother’s house. The air was still, and the yard was dimly lit. I sat in silence under the night sky, praying, truly praying, asking God for direction. Everything in my life at that moment felt uncertain. But there, in that quiet, I felt a clarity I hadn’t felt in months.
It was like a veil lifted.
I couldn’t explain it, but something in me shifted, deeply, tearfully, sincerely. With the stars above and the earth beneath my feet, I promised to God that I would offer my life to Him. It was a decision forged in solitude, in surrender.
And so, that night, I said goodbye, not just to high school, but to one version of myself. And stepped into the unknown with faith.
.Summer of 1986
The summer of 1986 gave me a brief taste of freedom.
Through the help of an uncle, I landed a job at the stockroom of a large manufacturing company, makers of milk, chocolate drinks, noodles, and other everyday goods. My task was simple but repetitive: inspecting cans for dents, rust, or damage before they were packed and shipped out.
I was earning minimum wage, but to me, it felt like a small fortune. It was the first time I held money that I had earned with my own hands. There was something deeply satisfying about it, not just the pay, but the dignity that came with honest work. It made me feel, even just a little, that I was finally stepping into the world.
My grandma did pass away
But that summer wasn’t only about work. It was also marked by deep sorrow.
My grandmother, the one who had taken me in, believed in me, and helped me return to school after two years of absence, passed away. It started as a simple fever, something we thought would pass. But a relative insisted she go to the hospital, and from there, everything seemed to spiral downward too quickly.
We never found out exactly what illness took her. All I remember is how sudden it all felt, one moment she was still there, and the next, she was gone.
Looking back
My high school life wasn’t filled with glamour, applause, or picture-perfect memories. There were no medals hanging on my wall or farewell parties that most would call unforgettable. But what I had, what I lived through, was real.
It was a journey marked by hardship, quiet victories, and silent perseverance. I carried the weight of poverty, uncertainty, and the responsibilities of growing up too soon. Yet somehow, I kept walking, armed with hope, held up by faith, and fueled by the quiet strength of the people who believed in me, especially my grandmother.
I didn't have the luxury of a carefree youth, but I learned lessons many others only come to understand later in life. I discovered the power of resilience, the value of education, the comfort of friendship, and the meaning of sacrifice. I learned that even the smallest steps forward, no matter how slow or painful, still meant progress.
High school did not define me, but it shaped me. It taught me to be strong when life was unkind, to work harder when doors were closed, and to dream even when dreams felt far away.
And when I finally stepped out of those school gates for the last time, I may not have known exactly where I was headed, but I knew one thing: I had survived and was ready to begin.