MY LIFE-CHANGING YEAR IN UP

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ..." – Charles Dickens, "A Tale of Two Cities"

It was my best year. Proud of me for graduating First Honor in Lagao Elementary School in General Santos City, my mother was delighted in choosing family members who would pin my ribbons for many subjects I topped. After graduation, she took me with her in a vacation in Iloilo, as my prize, to visit my two brothers and three sisters studying at the University of San Agustin and the Western Institute of Technology.

 Still basking in the sunshine of my achievement, my mother couldn't help but talk about me to Tia Miling, the landlady of my siblings' boarding house.

"Your bright boy must study in UP High," she urged my mother.

One morning, I found myself in a classroom of students, so different – in image and bearing -- from my former classmates in Lagao. For the first time, I felt overwhelmed after picking up tidbits of personal information: heirs to wealthy families, scions of political clans, first and second honors all, and so on. But, one bowled me over: she graduated from International School and spoke like an American I had watched only in a movie. Everyone seemed to hold their breath when I told the class I came from Mindanao – the only one. I told them my father's job: a rice mill operator – unintentional wrong choice of word since my father was a mechanic. That somehow covered up my being poor. It was the worst of times. It didn't take too long for my classmates to notice my poor status. During recess, while they were going to the school cafeteria to take their snacks, I was going to the toilet to take a leak. Then, I would go to the library, not to read, but to while away my time until the recess ended – a routine each day of the whole school year. I walked an over-a-kilometer stretch of rugged road to the school daily, while my classmates passed by me in their private cars or public transport. I came up against the humblest moment in one road scene when a packed jeepney stopped along the road and heard this gentle voice of a beautiful girl in our class:

"Ray, ride with us," she said. "I'll pay for your fare."

I got mixed feelings: so humbled, yet so grateful for the kind soul who seemed to empathize with my sorry plight and didn't care what others would think. I could no longer recall what happened next. Perhaps, such an ordeal was so traumatic that even my memory declined to store it.

One rush morning during breakfast, I got noodles, my late sister Nasie, stand-in mother, bought at a street store. Shortly afterward, she ate my leftover and was shocked – the food was spoiled. She later confided she shed a tear and prayed nothing terrible would happen to me in school.

It was our Christmas party. While the whole class was getting our room ready for the night, putting up Christmas tree and decorations, I was in the Principal's office asking for her permission for me to attend the party: I was unable to pay my contribution. Saying it was no big deal, she projected a tender countenance on her face, reflecting how pitiful I was, and seemingly conveying how she wished she could hug me.

Being poor and, by a twist of fate, having gotten into the world of the rich engendered a daily grinding routine for me throughout the year that affected my psyche, including my academic performance: the best I could make in one grading period was Number 11 in the class.

Sensing my traumatic year in UP through my first meal at home – devouring a braised pork belly while watching me tearfully – my mother enrolled me in Notre Dame of Lagao the following school year. During my first and second grading periods, I wore a gold plate on my breast every day for being at the top of the class. On my third grading period exam, the Principal refused me to take it: I was unable to pay my tuition fee. While the exam was going on, my mother was pleading for consideration – it was turned down.

Resigned and crushed, my mother and I went to MSU Prep High and pleaded with the Principal, Mr. Java, to accept me as a transferee and late enrollee. He told my mother that policies were no hindrance but frankly said I could face a big problem: the next grading periodical exam would come in 3 days. Teary-eyed, my mother looked at me; I nodded.

For the next three days, I worked like a horse in preparing for the exam, waking up at dawn, while my mother was holding a lukewarm towel to wipe my face every time I would fall asleep. When the results came out, the whole school was stunned: I topped all the subjects.

Neither am I a genius nor exceptional in achieving such a feat. I felt something inside me had bottled up for more than a year, and in one moment in time, burst and cried out, "Enough!" and powered me to do the tough job.

Not far from being a miracle, such a feat hints at God's presence. At that time, the only fragment of my memory that dealt with divineness was my Theology subject in Notre Dame of Lagao under Marist Bro. Leonard was fond of giving essay writing tests. One essay was entitled "Loving God": I topped it.

I can't help thinking about such tiny fleck of hosanna in my essay catching His eye. No wonder His kindred people are the last, the lost, and the least, that was me then.

"There is a time for everything,

And a time for every happening under heaven ...

A time to weep and a time to laugh ..."

-       Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4