SY 1980–1981
That school year was unlike any other. It was my first real encounter with the world in all its contradictions, kind and indifferent, beautiful and harsh.
I learned that small acts of generosity from friends, the encouragement of a teacher, and simple moments of shared laughter could leave lasting marks. Even setbacks, like missing an exam, became lessons in resilience.
Though I never completed that school year, I carried it with me: the 25-centavo bread, promissory notes for test permits, awkward moments at the skating rink, and the sea at dawn after a night of celebration.
It was enrollment season, and the air in Pardo was filled with the anticipation of new school year activities. Mothers were carrying folders of grade cards, fathers carefully counted bills from their pockets, and children carried quiet dreams of the future amid their excitement.
In our home, however, the atmosphere was different.
The excitement that filled other households was replaced by uncertainty. The air felt heavy with silent calculations and difficult choices. Every peso had a purpose, and every decision came with a cost.
My older brothers and sister had already gone to the city to continue their studies. I longed to follow in their footsteps. Summoning all the courage a twelve-year-old could muster, I told Mama that I wanted to study in the city too.
She looked at me, not with disapproval, but with the weary eyes of a mother who had already done the math countless times and knew the numbers simply did not add up.
She didn't say no.
But she couldn't say yes either.
Days passed. The enrollment period edged closer to its deadline, each day carrying away a little more of my hope. While other students were already preparing for classes, I remained in limbo, waiting for an answer that seemed less likely to come with every sunrise.
Then, at the very last moment, when I had almost convinced myself to let the dream go, Mama finally said yes.
It wasn't a grand announcement. There were no celebrations or drama.
It's just a simple, quiet yes.
But to me, it sounded like a door that opens.
And that was all I needed.
I enrolled at Gullas High School so late that most of the preferred sections had already been filled. The school stood between a church and a cemetery, a two-story building nestled between faith and mortality, as if both were there to remind us to stay humble.
And so, I was assigned to Section H, the last section in the year level.
About fifty students squeezed into that classroom. Some were top performers. Some were quiet observers. Others struggled to keep up. And then there were students like me, ordinary kids carrying extraordinary gratitude simply for having the chance to be there.
Looking back now, I realize that being placed in the last section was not a setback.
It was the beginning of a journey that would test me in ways I could not yet imagine, a journey marked by struggle, sustained by resilience, and illuminated by hope.
Twenty-five centavos. That was my daily allowance, just enough for a piece of bread and a small native delicacy from the school canteen or store down the road. It wasn't much, but hunger has a way of sharpening the senses. In those days, I discovered that the generosity of people could sustain a person far longer than food ever could.
There was a classmate from Bulacao whose name time has since erased from my memory, though I can still picture him clearly: narrow eyes, a square jaw, and naturally wavy hair that always seemed perfectly in place. His family owned a small business, not prosperous by any grand measure, but comfortable enough that he noticed when others had less. Whenever he sensed I was short on money, he would quietly slide a snack my way, without ceremony, without pity, and without making me feel indebted. It was a simple gesture, yet it carried a grace I have never forgotten.
Then there was Victorino Nacua of Inayawan, Pardo, cheerful, energetic, and the kind of person who could brighten a room simply by walking into it. He often called me his closest friend, a distinction that both surprised and touched me. At the Inayawan Sports Complex, he moved effortlessly across the skating rink, as if he had been born with wheels beneath his feet. Determined to follow his example, I laced up a pair of skates and stepped onto the rink. Within moments, my feet had completely abandoned any intention of cooperating. Victorino laughed, not mockingly, but with pure delight, and before long, I was laughing too. Looking back, that shared laughter may have been the greater gift.
Our Section H classroom was filled with personalities I still remember. There was Christopher Chua, if memory serves me correctly, of Chinese descent; Achilles Lastimosa of I. Tabura Street; Eduardo Pacaña, handsome, spirited, and noticeably more effeminate than most of the boys in our class; and Danilo Teves, a jai alai player whose talents and interests seemed to extend far beyond the court. Each of them contributed something unique to the character of that year.
I also remember Reynaldo Balcorza, who lived in a modest house on Villa Tambis along F. Jaca Street. Built of lawanit, plywood, and bamboo flooring, the house was humble in appearance but generous in spirit. Reynaldo himself reflected that same warmth. He was among the kindest people I knew, and through his quiet generosity, I began to understand that kindness is a form of wealth entirely independent of money.
The girls in our class left their own lasting impressions. Ma. Luisa was impossible to overlook. During a campfire program, she danced to "Body Language" with a confidence and ease that held the crowd's attention from beginning to end. Ludivina possessed a quieter kind of beauty, one that revealed itself gradually rather than demanding notice. And then there was Lallaine, who passed by our house on her way home each afternoon. Bright, disciplined, and effortlessly intelligent, she was the sort of student whose very presence inspired others to work harder.
Looking back, what remains most vivid is not the poverty or the struggle, but the people. They were ordinary teenagers living ordinary lives, yet their small acts of friendship, kindness, laughter, and encouragement became some of the richest treasures of that year. Long after the coins were spent and the bread was eaten, those memories endured.
In class, I was the quiet one. Reserved. The kind of student teachers sometimes overlooked because he was rarely ostentatious or demanded attention. But I was always listening, always observing. Beneath the silence, I was paying attention.
Long before high school, my elementary English teachers, Mrs. Cagigas and Mrs. Santos, had planted something enduring within me: a love for language. They nurtured it carefully, perhaps without realizing how much it would come to mean. Through their encouragement, words became more than lessons on a blackboard. They became companions, possibilities, and eventually a refuge.
When the results of our periodical examinations were released, Mr. Baba did something I never expected. He stopped calling me by my name. From then on, whenever he called on me during recitation, he would simply say, "Intelligent guy."
Each time I heard those words, something stirred quietly within me. It was more than pride. It was recognition. For a boy who often felt invisible, being seen was its own kind of affirmation.
I earned perfect scores on his daily quizzes, not because life came easily, nor because I was exceptionally gifted, but because English was the one place where I felt completely at home. In the world of words, I found confidence that often eluded me elsewhere.
Inside that classroom, grammar exercises and reading passages opened doors to a larger world. For an hour or two each day, the worries waiting outside, the empty pockets, the unpaid obligations, the quiet anxieties of poverty could not follow me. Language offered me a shield, and within it, I discovered not only what I could do, but who I might become.
One afternoon, classes were dismissed earlier than usual, and a group of us drifted toward the shores of Cogon. There, hidden among the mangrove trees and tall grass, was a pond that's deep, dark, and irresistibly inviting in the reckless way such places always seem to young boys.
Without a second thought, several of my classmates stripped down to their briefs and plunged into the water. Their laughter echoed across the pond as they splashed, dove, and challenged one another, behaving as though the entire afternoon belonged to them alone.
I stayed on the bank, lacking the courage or perhaps the recklessness to join them. Instead, I watched from a distance, amused by their antics and delighted by their carefree joy.
Looking back, I have come to appreciate that there is a special kind of happiness in simply witnessing others enjoy themselves. Their laughter filled the air, and somehow that was enough.
Among the many memories from that year, none remains more vivid than our campfire night.
As dusk settled over the school grounds, students gathered around a crackling fire while each grade level presented songs, dances, skits, and other performances. The talent was not polished or professional, but it was genuine. Every performer stepped forward with sincerity, offering the best they could give.
One performance, however, I stood to wait.
When Victorino Nacua stepped into the circle of firelight and began singing “If I Never Sing Another Song” by Matt Monro, an unexpected silence swept over the crowd. Conversations faded. Laughter subsided. Even the restless students seemed momentarily captivated.
His voice carried beyond the glow of the campfire and into the darkness that surrounded us. For a few unforgettable minutes, amid all the youthful distractions and excitement, something remarkable happened: everyone listened.
The program ended at around eleven o'clock that evening, and we returned to our classroom to sleep or at least that was the intention.
Sleep, however, never stood a chance.
Instead, we talked, joked, and laughed deep into the night. Our classroom overlooked a cemetery, separated from us by little more than a wall a few meters away. At some point, one particularly daring classmate decided to relieve himself through the open window. The sight of him standing there with the dark silhouette behind him sent the entire room into uncontrollable laughter.
In that moment, the proximity of the dead made everything somehow funnier. We were frightened and amused at the same time, a combination uniquely available to the young.
Ironically, during daylight hours, that same cemetery served a very different purpose. Whenever a funeral was taking place nearby, some enterprising students would find ways to acquire free snacks from the gathering. Looking back, it seems slightly mischievous, perhaps even a little morbid. At the time, however, it simply felt like resourcefulness.
Perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation, or perhaps it was the strange thrill of being so close to something that frightened us. Whatever the reason, the presence of the dead somehow made everything seem funnier. We were both terrified and amused, a combination of emotions that seems uniquely available to the young.
But the night still had one more adventure waiting for us.
At around two o'clock in the morning, preparations began for the next day's activity. By four, while most of the city remained asleep, we were already on the move.
We walked along Gabuya Street, turned onto F. Jaca Street, and continued through Inayawan beneath a sky still wrapped in darkness. Eventually, our journey brought us to the shoreline of Cansojong in Talisay.
By then, my legs ached from the long trek, and my eyes felt heavy from lack of sleep. Yet when the first hints of dawn appeared on the horizon and the sea began to shimmer with the morning light, every discomfort seemed to vanish.
I remember standing there and feeling something I could not fully express at the time:
I am young, and the world is beautiful.
Some memories fade with age. That sunrise never did.
Other adventures continued beyond school-sponsored outings.
Through the Youth Countryside Action Program (YCAP), we planted trees and participated in activities intended to connect young people with their communities. One Sunday, we hiked all the way to Buhisan Dam and the surrounding watershed.
The scenery was beautiful. The exhaustion was unforgettable.
By the time I returned home, every muscle in my body seemed to protest the journey. Yet even now, decades later, I remember the satisfaction of reaching the destination and the sense that the world had become a little larger because I had seen more of it.
Every Saturday brought another routine: Youth Development Training or YDT.
There was marching and discipline, of course, but there was also a great deal of waiting. During those idle hours, my Chinese-looking classmate and I would climb to our favorite spot atop the second grotto, the one dedicated to the Virgin Mary on the left side of the church grounds.
We would sit there for several minutes, talking about nothing in particular and everything at once. The conversations themselves have long faded from memory, but the feeling remains: the warmth of the glaring sun, the quiet companionship, and the slow passage of time as we watched the day wear itself down toward evening.
Eventually, the roll call would come, and we would climb down and return to whatever duties awaited us.
At the time, those afternoons seemed ordinary. Looking back, they were part of a season of life when friendship required no schedule, adventure needed no money, and happiness could be found in a walk, a song, a shared joke, or a place to sit and watch the day unfold.
Despite the joyful moments, life was far from easy. During examination weeks, students were required to settle their tuition balances before they could receive their exam permits. While my classmates were already seated in their classrooms, answering test questions, I was often standing in line at the registrar’s office with a promissory note in hand, pleading for permission to take the exams because I could not afford to pay. The experience filled me with a deep sense of embarrassment and helplessness.
One examination day remains particularly vivid in my memory. I spent so much time at the registrar’s office that I began to lose hope of taking the test. Thankfully, not everyone was indifferent to my situation. After several appeals, a woman behind the counter finally handed me an exam permit. She did not have to do so, but her small act of kindness allowed me to sit for the examination. Unfortunately, the same ordeal repeated itself during nearly every grading period.
By the fourth grading period, our financial situation had become even more difficult. I had accumulated two months of unpaid tuition, including the month of March. At the same time, our newborn brother, Erwin, needed milk, vitamins, and other necessities. My father's only source of income was a modest pension, which had been reduced further by loan repayments. Eventually, there was simply no way to make ends meet. As a result, I was unable to take the final examinations.
Not long afterward, I became an out-of-school youth. What followed were two years away from formal education, two years spent watching life move forward without the familiar rhythm of classes, examinations, and report cards. It was a difficult chapter in my life, one that I will recount in the next chapter.
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