SY 1985-1986
In my final years of high school, I found myself balancing academic success with the harsh realities of poverty. I worked hard in my studies, overcame discouragement, and turned setbacks into motivation to excel in class. Although financial struggles often forced me to rely on promissory notes and even sell vegetables to pay my tuition, I remained determined to finish my education.
Along the way, I built some friendships, enjoyed memorable adventures with classmates, and experienced the joy and heartbreak of corresponding with American pen pals, including the tragic loss of one dear friend.
After graduating with the *Best in Conduct* award, I faced uncertainty about my future as college seemed beyond my family's means. The political upheaval of the 1986 EDSA Revolution further delayed my hopes for a scholarship, while the death of my beloved grandmother left me grieving. In the midst of that uncertainty, I turned to prayer and, through a quiet moment of reflection, found the peace and conviction to entrust my future to God and pursue a religious vocation.
Despite the many challenges I faced during those years, I found something that gave me confidence and a sense of accomplishment: academic excellence. School became a place where I could prove to myself that difficult circumstances did not have to determine my future. I devoted much of my time and energy to studying, knowing that education was one of the few opportunities I had to improve my life.
Among all my subjects, English and Mathematics, especially Algebra, were my strongest. I genuinely enjoyed solving mathematical problems and analyzing lessons that many of my classmates found difficult. Because of this, classmates often approached me for help with their assignments and lessons. More often than not, it was the girls in our class who would ask me to explain algebraic equations or guide them through complex problems. I never minded. In fact, I enjoyed helping others understand concepts that once seemed intimidating to them.
Unexpectedly, I also gained the attention of the school's so-called "naughty boys". During examinations, some of them would deliberately sit behind me and quietly plead for answers whenever they found themselves stuck. I usually ignored them until I had completed my own work. Only then would I occasionally help, sometimes with hesitation, knowing they had spent more time joking around than studying. Deep inside, I knew it was unfair to those who had worked hard to prepare. Yet I still found it difficult to refuse completely. Looking back, perhaps it was my quiet way of seeking acceptance and friendship. I have always been the kind of person who gives generously, even when I have very little to offer myself.
I consistently performed well. I was never absent from the Top 10 of our class rankings, and at one point, I even reached the Top 3. Yet despite my academic achievements, I never saw myself as the stereotypical bookworm who lived only for grades. While I was naturally quiet and reserved, I also valued friendship and enjoyed spending time with my classmates whenever opportunities arose.
Some of my closest classmates frequently visited our home. Although I often preferred solitude and sometimes declined invitations, there were occasions when I joined them in their activities. Through those moments, they came to know me not merely as the quiet student who excelled in class, but as someone they could laugh with, share stories with, and rely on as a friend.
Basketball remained one of my favorite pastimes. It had been my sport since childhood, and I never outgrew my love for the game. Whenever classmates invited me to play, I gladly joined them at the school basketball court or at any neighborhood court where a game was taking place. It did not matter whether the court was well-maintained or simply a rough concrete surface with weathered backboards. What mattered was the camaraderie, the competition, and the joy of playing alongside friends.
Beyond basketball, I occasionally joined classmates on outdoor adventures, particularly hiking trips into the mountains surrounding Cebu. One of the most memorable excursions took place when a group of us decided to trek from Talamban proper into the uplands. We followed the old Tac-an–Budlaan trail, passing through lush forests and crossing paths near a beautiful waterfall in Busay. The scenery was breathtaking. Towering trees shaded the trail, the cool mountain air refreshed us, and the sounds of flowing water echoed through the landscape.
As we continued climbing, we eventually reached the highlands of Sirao, the well known Sirao Gardens. Even then, the area was already known for its natural beauty, with fields of colorful flowers spread across the mountainside. The panoramic view of Cebu from the uplands was unforgettable. Standing there, surrounded by nature, it felt as though the world stretched endlessly before us.
A little farther along the trail stood the home of one of my classmates, the same friend who had become especially close to me during my second year of high school. His family warmly welcomed us. We rested, shared stories, enjoyed a hearty meal, and, as young men eager for adventure, drank a few bottles of beer together.
By late afternoon, we began our journey home. Instead of retracing our original route, we decided to take a different trail that wound through Pit-os, Bacayan, and eventually back toward Talamban proper. What seemed like an exciting shortcut soon turned into a challenge. Darkness fell before we could complete the trek. By the time we reached Pit-os and Bacayan, night had fully descended.
In those days, the upland areas of Cebu were vastly different from what they are today. Much of the landscape was covered by thick forests, and there were very few houses scattered across the mountains. Streetlights were practically nonexistent. As darkness enveloped the trail, we found ourselves feeling our way through the shadows, relying on faint paths and familiar landmarks to guide us home. At times, we were literally groping in the dark, laughing nervously while trying not to lose our bearings.
Our financial struggles never truly went away. No matter how diligently I studied or how carefully I prepared for my examinations, there were days when reality would strike hard, we simply did not have enough money to pay my tuition fees. Academic effort alone could not shield me from the hardships that poverty brought into our daily lives.
I became accustomed to submitting promissory notes in my previous school anyway. In the beginning, my father wrote them for me. He was quite good in English and knew how to express our situation respectfully and convincingly. Later, as I grew older and more confident in my writing, I began drafting the letters myself and simply asked him to sign them. It became a routine that I wished I did not have to learn, but necessity often teaches lessons that life never intended for children to know.
There were times, however, when I felt embarrassed about repeatedly appearing in the school office to submit yet another promissory note. Pride would quietly creep in, and I would search for another way to raise the money. During those moments, I often turned to my grandmother for help.
Seeing my disappointment, my grandmother would quietly walk into the garden and harvest whatever was ready. Sometimes it was a large squash, other times a bundle of leafy vegetables or a basket of freshly picked produce. Handing them to me, she would gently say, “Try selling these to the vegetable vendor across the street.”
I would then walk to the roadside, carrying those vegetables in my hands and hoping they would help me enough money to cover what I needed. Each step was filled with both hope and uncertainty. Fortunately, the vendor often bought them, and somehow the money would be just enough. Tuition fees during those days were not as expensive as they are today, even in a private school. Yet for a family that struggled to meet its basic needs, even a small amount could feel overwhelming.
The scarcity extended beyond tuition fees. Even the shoes I wore were hand-me-downs from my older brother. I vividly remember the day one of them tore open at the side, where the sole had begun separating from the upper part of the shoe. I never complained, nor did I ask for a replacement. I knew there was no money for a new pair.
Instead, I searched for a needle and thread and patiently stitched the damaged shoe back together. It was not a perfect repair, but it was enough to keep me going. I treated my school uniform the same way. Whenever it developed small tears or the fabric became thin from repeated use, I carefully mended it myself. I patched worn areas, reinforced loose seams, and did everything I could to make it presentable. Most people never even noticed the repairs.
One incident from my high school years remains vivid in my memory. It happened during an ordinary Algebra class in the opening weeks of the school year, yet it left a lasting impression on me and quietly shaped my determination in the months that followed.
I was seated behind a classmate named Flordeluna, a bright and studious girl who loved reading romance novels. Years later, she would graduate as our class valedictorian. At the time, we shared a common interest in books. I occasionally lent her some of the novels that belonged to my sister, and whenever the opportunity arose, we would exchange thoughts about the stories we had read.
On that particular day, we were quietly chatting while the lesson was in progress. Our conversation was brief and harmless, but it was enough to catch the attention of our Algebra teacher. Without warning, he stopped his lecture and called me out in front of the entire class.
"You have no right to be talking during my lecture," he said sternly.
Then came the words that stung far more than the reprimand itself.
"Especially someone who is not as intelligent."
The classroom fell silent. I could feel every pair of eyes turning toward me. His words struck me like a blow. It was no longer simply a correction for talking during class, it felt like a judgment of my intelligence and my worth as a student.
For a brief moment, embarrassment washed over me. I wanted to disappear into my seat.
Yet I said nothing.
I did not argue. I did not defend myself. I did not allow my anger to show. Instead, I carried those words home with me. Long after the class had ended, they continued to echo in my mind.
Rather than allowing the insult to discourage me, I turned it into a challenge.
From that day forward, I became even more determined to excel in Algebra. I studied harder than ever before. I reviewed every lesson carefully, solved additional problems beyond our assignments, and read ahead whenever possible. I wanted not only to understand the formulas but also to develop speed and accuracy in solving mathematical problems. What had once been a subject I simply enjoyed gradually became a personal mission.
As the weeks passed, my efforts began to bear fruit. Quiz after quiz, my scores consistently ranked among the highest in the class. More often than not, I earned perfect marks. During examinations, I frequently finished ahead of my classmates, not because I rushed, but because I had prepared thoroughly.
Eventually, even my teacher could no longer ignore my performance. The same teacher who had publicly questioned my intelligence began to recognize my abilities. After major tests, he often entrusted me with checking the papers of my classmates. As a matter of routine, he would first review my own test paper before handing me a stack of papers to grade.
He never openly apologized, and I never expected him to. In many ways, his change in attitude was apology enough. The trust and confidence he eventually placed in me spoke louder than words ever could.
During the latter part of my high school years, I discovered one of the most unexpected and rewarding experiences of my youth: exchanging letters with American pen pals.
To this day, I still do not know who submitted my name to a pen-pal network. One of my correspondents mentioned that she had found my name in a magazine, but beyond that, the mystery remains unsolved.
What began as a simple exchange of letters soon became much more than a hobby. Writing to people from another country not only improved my English but also broadened my understanding of the world. Every envelope that arrived brought a sense of anticipation and excitement. Through those letters, I caught glimpses of lives vastly different from my own, their families, schools, traditions, and everyday experiences. For a young boy growing up in the Philippines, it felt like opening a window onto another world.
My first pen pal was a girl named Terri Williams, who was about my age and lived in Virginia. As was common among pen pals at the time, we exchanged photographs. She sent me a picture of herself, and I mailed one of mine in return.
Back then, I had very few photographs of myself. In fact, only two survive in my memory. One was the portrait I sent to Terri. The other showed me with four classmates. That photograph mysteriously disappeared after a classmate borrowed it, and to this day I have never learned what became of it.
Sometime in the middle of 1985, I received Terri's first letter. It arrived completely unexpectedly. Seeing her handwriting on the envelope instantly filled me with curiosity and excitement, making that simple piece of mail far more memorable than she could ever have imagined.
Terri and I soon developed a wonderful friendship through our correspondence. Our letters were warm, lively, and full of youthful enthusiasm. We shared stories about our daily lives, our cultures, our dreams, and the things that interested us. She often wrote about family trips and enclosed photographs from places she had visited. In return, I told her about life in the Philippines and the experiences that shaped my own world.
I eagerly awaited every letter she sent. In those days, mail from the United States usually arrived within a week. Sometimes I even stopped by the post office just to check whether a new envelope had arrived. Whenever I recognized her handwriting, my day instantly became brighter.
Then, without warning, the letters stopped.
Weeks passed in silence. I told myself she was probably busy or away on another family trip. I waited patiently, expecting another letter to arrive at any moment.
Finally, one did.
But it was not from Terri.
It was from her mother.
Dated November 24, 1985, the letter contained news that left me stunned.
For clarity, the letter read as follows:
Dear Ulysses,
This is the hardest letter I've ever had to write. My name is Pat Williams and I am Terri's mother. I did not remember to write you until your letter came for her.
It is with great sadness that I tell you Terri is no longer with us. She died on October 19, 1985. She was killed by an unknown man on her way home from the movies. Her car broke down and she and a girlfriend were picked up by him. Then he offered to help them but instead tried to kill them both. The other girl survived and led the police where Terri was. The police have been looking for the man ever since but still haven't found him.
I am sending you Terri's senior picture. She had saved one for you. She had gotten this two days before it happened. She was glad to have you for a pen pal. She was very happy to get letters from you.
I'm sorry I had to write this letter but I felt that you should know why she won't be writing you anymore. Please know that your letters brightened her life for a while. I wish you well in the future.
Sincerely,
Pat Williams
Terri had died on October 19, 1985, just a week after my birthday.
The news was devastating. I was young, innocent, and completely unprepared for a loss like that. Although thousands of miles separated us, our letters had created a genuine friendship. We had never met in person, yet she had become an important part of my life.
For months, her letters had crossed oceans and continents to reach the Philippines. Through them, she had become more than just a name on an envelope. She was a real person whose stories, photographs, and friendship had brought joy to my life.
And then, suddenly, she was gone.
Some time later, I received another letter, this time from a girl named Cindy Blum of Ohio. She explained that her home economics teacher had given her my name. We exchanged several letters and eventually shared photographs. On December 21, 1985, she sent me a picture of herself. As often happens in life, however, time passed, interests changed, and our correspondence gradually came to an end.
The last pen pal I had was Laura Sipa from California but originally from Romania. She was friendly, thoughtful, and continued writing to me even after I entered the seminary. By then, my life was beginning to take a different direction, yet her letters remained a welcome reminder of a remarkable chapter in my youth, a time when handwritten correspondence connected me to people and places far beyond my small corner of the world.
Looking back, those pen-pal friendships gave me far more than an opportunity to practice English. They introduced me to new cultures, broadened my perspective, and allowed me to form friendships that would otherwise never have existed.
My high school years came to a quiet close.
There were no grand celebrations, no farewell parties, and no elaborate tributes to mark the occasion. Graduation arrived not with applause and spectacle, but with the simple, almost understated turning of a page. Yet despite the lack of fanfare, it marked the end of a chapter that had profoundly shaped the person I was becoming.
Looking back, I managed to keep only a handful of photographs from those years, perhaps four in total. Two were taken on graduation day. In one, I stood beside our school director, a priest who had guided the school community.
In another, my mother pinned a medal on my chest as I received the “Best in Conduct” award. Those images remain among the few surviving visual reminders of a period that left an enduring imprint on my life.
I had also hoped to graduate as part of the honor roll. Throughout most of my high school years, I consistently performed well academically, even earning the highest grades in the fourth grading period in nearly all of my subjects. It seemed that I was on track to graduate with honors. However, a costly mistake changed that outcome.
In our CAT (Citizen Army Training) program, high-performing students had often been exempted from taking certain periodic examinations. Having grown accustomed to that practice, I assumed the same exemption would apply to the final examination as well. That assumption proved to be a serious mistake.
Overconfident and complacent, I failed to take the CAT Finals, believing I would once again be excused from taking it. Instead, I received a score of zero for the examination. That single lapse was enough to affect my overall standing and cost me a place on the honor roll.
The day after graduation, the excitement quickly faded, replaced by a question that had been quietly troubling me for months.
Would I be able to go to college?
For many of my classmates, the answer seemed straightforward. Some already knew which universities they would attend. Others had families capable of supporting their education. They spoke about courses, campuses, and future careers with a certainty that I envied.
My situation was different.
While I shared the same dreams, I did not have the same assurances. Our family's financial circumstances made higher education far from certain. Finishing high school had been a challenge in itself; attending college would require resources we simply did not have. The future I envisioned depended largely on opportunities that were beyond my control.
Still, I refused to abandon hope.
Prior and immediately after graduation from high school, I had taken every college entrance examination and scholarship test that I could, several of them. Each application represented more than a chance to study, it represented a possible escape from the limitations that poverty imposed. Every exam was an opportunity to change the direction of my life.
Then a letter arrived.
It came from a newly established technical-vocational school offering free tuition to qualified students. For someone in my position, it should have felt like a blessing. Free education was not something to dismiss lightly, and many students would have accepted the opportunity without hesitation.
Yet I found myself struggling with the decision.
The program was vocational in nature and did not lead to a traditional four-year college degree. Deep inside, I carried a dream of attending a university. Perhaps it was youthful ambition. Perhaps it was stubbornness. Or perhaps it was the belief that a college education could open doors that I had spent years trying to reach.
Whatever the reason, I could not shake the feeling that my journey was meant to continue elsewhere.
So I waited.
It was not an easy wait. Each day seemed filled with uncertainty. I checked the mail with anticipation, hoping for news from the universities and scholarship programs where I had submitted applications. Every passing week tested my patience and strengthened my fears that no opportunity might come at all.
I stood at a crossroads between adolescence and adulthood, uncertain of which direction life would take me. High school had ended, but the next chapter had not yet begun. I was caught between gratitude for having made it that far and anxiety about whether I could continue pursuing the future I had imagined.
At the time, all I knew was that I was waiting and hoping that somewhere, one of those examinations, applications, or scholarship programs would provide the opportunity I so desperately needed.
While I was anxiously waiting for the results of a government scholarship application, the nation found itself caught in one of the most significant events in its history.
In February 1986, the EDSA People Power Revolution erupted in Manila. Millions of Filipinos took to the streets in a peaceful uprising that captured the attention of the world. For four extraordinary days, ordinary citizens, religious leaders, soldiers, and civilians stood together in defiance of a regime that had ruled the country for around two decades.
The revolution ended with President Ferdinand Marcos leaving Malacañang Palace and going into exile in Hawaii. A new government was installed, and many Filipinos celebrated what they hoped would be the beginning of a brighter future.
For the nation, it was a time of transformation.
For me, however, it brought only more uncertainty. What happened to my government scholarships?
The government offices and institutions that processed scholarships and educational assistance were understandably preoccupied with the political upheaval. Weeks passed, then months. I waited for news about the scholarship examination I had taken, hoping that a letter would arrive and provide direction for my future.
No letter ever came.
Whether the program was suspended, delayed, or simply forgotten amid the transition of government, I never learned. All I knew was that the opportunity I had pinned so many hopes on quietly disappeared without explanation.
Once again, I found myself standing at a crossroads, uncertain about what path to take next. And I seemed couldn't wait for it anymore.
Yet despite the uncertainty surrounding my future, another possibility had already begun to take root in my mind.
As early as my third year in high school, I had developed an interest in religious life. The idea first emerged when several seminarians from the Society of the Divine Word (SVD) visited our school as part of a vocation campaign.
They spoke about life in the seminary, their studies, and their commitment to serving God and others. What impressed me most was not merely what they said, but how they carried themselves. They appeared disciplined, intelligent, confident, and at peace with their purpose. There was something about them that I deeply admired.
For the first time, I began to imagine myself following a similar path.
Encouraged by that interest, I signed up and took their entrance examination while I was still on my third year. I was hopeful and excited. However, when the seminarians returned to discuss the results, they explained kindly that I was still too young to be admitted. Their seminary accepted only high school graduates.
They advised me to wait another year and apply again after graduation.
So I waited.
However, during my fourth year in high school, another influence entered my life.
Fr. Nicolas, a priest from the Order of Saint Augustine assigned to the Basilica del Santo Niño, became one of my mentors. He was also our Spanish teacher. Unlike some teachers who kept a formal distance from their students, he possessed a simple and approachable manner that made him easy to admire.
Since our home was only a short walk from the school, he would often accompany me after classes. During those walks, we talked about school, faith, and the future. Over time, he became convinced that I had the potential for a religious vocation.
His encouragement went beyond casual advice.
On several occasions, he personally visited and spoke with my mother, asking for her permission to allow me to enter the seminary. He believed that pursuing the priesthood would be a meaningful path for me, and he wanted my family to consider the possibility seriously.
Eventually, at his urging, I took the entrance examination for the Augustinian seminary at the Basilica del Santo Niño.
When the results came out, Fr. Nicolas was ecstatic.
He proudly told my mother that I had obtained the highest score among all the applicants that year. His joy seemed almost greater than my own. It was clear that he saw something in me that gave him confidence about my future.
I was deeply honored by his faith in me.
Yet even then, I understood that a vocation could not be chosen by someone else.
No matter how much a teacher, a priest, or even my family wished it for me, the decision ultimately belonged to me alone. Entering the seminary was not merely a matter of academic ability or passing an examination. It required a genuine calling, a commitment that had to come from the heart.
And so I found myself facing another important question:
Was the priesthood truly the path I was meant to follow?
While I waited for news about my future, the summer of 1986 gave me a brief break from uncertainty.
For the first time in years, I had fewer responsibilities and more free time. But I knew I could not spend the entire summer simply waiting for opportunities to come.
With the help of one of my uncles, I landed a summer job in the stockroom of a large manufacturing company whose products were found in almost every Filipino home. The company made milk, chocolate drinks, noodles, and other everyday consumer goods sold across the country and overseas.
My job was simple but repetitive. Hour after hour, I inspected cans in huge stock room, checking for dents, rust, leaks, or other defects before they were packed and shipped. Though the work was routine, it taught me discipline, responsibility, and the value of honest labor.
More importantly, it was my first real job.
I earned only the minimum wage, but to me it felt like a fortune. For the first time, I was being paid fairly for my own hard work. Holding my paycheck filled me with pride, not because of the amount, but because of what it meant.
After years of struggling just to stay in school, earning my own income gave me my first taste of independence. It made me feel that I was finally stepping into adulthood.
For a while, life seemed brighter.
But that same summer brought one of the greatest losses of my young life.
My grandmother, the woman who helped me go back to school, became ill.
At first, we thought it was only a fever that would soon pass. But a concerned relative insisted that she be taken to the hospital. What seemed like a minor illness quickly turned into something far more serious.
From then on, everything happened so fast.
To this day, I still do not know what illness took her life. No one clearly explained it to us.
One day she was just there, the next day, she was gone.
In the weeks following my grandmother's death, I found myself carrying more questions than answers.
The future remained uncertain. The scholarship I had hoped for never materialized. College seemed beyond my reach. The possibility of entering the seminary stood before me, yet I had not fully committed myself to that path. I felt as though I was standing at a crossroads, with no clear sign pointing the way forward.
Then, one quiet evening, I found myself alone in the backyard of my grandmother's house.
The night was calm. The sounds of the neighborhood had faded into the distance, leaving only the stillness of the darkness around me. Above, the sky stretched endlessly, scattered with stars. Beneath me was the same ground where I had spent countless days like my secret sanctuary when I wanted to be alone.
I sat there in silence.
For the first time in many months, I stopped worrying about examinations, scholarships, and uncertain plans. Instead, I prayed.
Not the routine prayers I had learned by heart as a child, but a prayer that came from the depths of my heart.
I spoke honestly to God about my fears, my confusion, my disappointments, and my hopes. I asked for guidance. I asked for direction. Most of all, I asked what He wanted me to do with my life.
As I sat there beneath the night sky, something changed within me.
I cannot fully explain it even now. There was no voice, no vision, and no dramatic sign. Yet a deep sense of clarity began to replace the uncertainty that had weighed on me for so long. It felt as though a veil had been lifted from my mind. The confusion that had clouded my thoughts slowly gave way to peace.
Tears filled my eyes as I continued to pray.
In that quiet moment, surrounded by darkness and starlight, I felt drawn toward a decision that had been forming within me for years. The admiration I had felt for the seminarians who visited our school, the encouragement of Fr. Nicolas, my growing desire to serve God, and the countless experiences that had shaped my life seemed to converge into a single realization.
I wanted to offer my life to God.
It was not a decision born out of pressure or persuasion. No one was there to influence me. No one was watching. It was a choice made freely, in solitude, through prayer, and with complete sincerity.
There, in the backyard of my grandmother's home, I surrendered my plans and entrusted my future to God's hands.
Whether that path would ultimately lead to the priesthood or somewhere else, I did not know. What mattered was that I had finally found the courage to take the next step in faith.
That night marked the end of one chapter of my life and the beginning of another.
I said goodbye not only to my high school years, but also to the version of myself that had been searching for direction. With uncertainty still ahead but faith in my heart, I stepped into the unknown, trusting that God would lead me where I needed to go.
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