The transitions of youth often happen in quiet, private spaces—under the dim light of a gas lamp, or wrapped inside a simple handkerchief. This chapter describes my high school years, the daily service to my family, the silent sacrifice of my father, and a public testing that forced me to make a lifelong promise.
During my high school years, I moved away from our mountain homestead to live with my maternal aunt and my grandmother, Lola Adang. My aunt's house was located closer to the town center and to the public high school I attended. My aunt had four children, but the three eldest children lived with their paternal grandmother. The youngest child, Robert, was a handsome boy who was the center of attention in the household. Robert was a child with special needs. Before Robert was conceived, my aunt had decided to end her pregnancy without professional medical assistance, but the attempt failed, and Robert was born with severe mental limitations. Although Robert's physical development was near normal, Robert required constant care. He could walk wobble-legged, and he recognized the people he met regularly, but Robert would throw his saliva or his stool around the house if left unattended.
My aunt ran a buy-and-sell business and lent money for interest, so my aunt needed assistance to care for Robert and manage the housework. Lola Adang was too old to handle all these tasks. When I visited my aunt's house to collect finished nito handicraft, I began to help my grandmother by dividing the chores. Lola Adang cooked the meals and fed Robert, while I manually washed and ironed the clothes and cleaned the house. Together, my grandmother and I bathed Robert and washed his feces down the bamboo floor. Eventually, since my younger sister was old enough to help my father at the homestead, I moved into my aunt's house permanently. This arrangement lessened my father's household burdens, and in return for my labor, I enjoyed three decent meals a day and the comfort of electric lights and a television set.
However, the television and electricity did not make my studies easier. My aunt was very mindful of the electricity bills. To keep the cost low, we turned on the lights only in necessary areas. My aunt allowed the television to be turned on only during popular noontime variety shows and evening dramas, turning the television off before the news began to save electricity. Because of this, I studied by the light of a gas lamp at the kitchen table. The kitchen sat right next to the living room, separated only by a thin wall of native materials and a curtain. I had to focus intensely to ignore the loud sounds of the television and the reactions of our neighbors, who gathered at our house because they did not own television sets.
Despite the financial hardship, I was able to impress my teachers. I was number one in our class when we graduated. There was even a time my teacher said my average grade placed me among the top ten across all sections of the entire year level—higher than even the child of a prominent local figure. But I almost lost that chance.
The curriculum required all graduating students to attend Citizens' Army Training, or CAT. Non-attendance or incomplete grades could prevent a student from graduating or receiving honors. The program included classes, community service, and practical training—we learned to salute, carry wooden rifles, and march as a platoon on the school playground under the instruction of a battalion commander. In the beginning, we wore our school uniforms. But later, we were required to have a complete set of CAT uniform for a tactical inspection—and to wear them from then on.
Because I did not own a single item, I had to buy everything from scratch. Others were lucky enough to borrow from previous graduates or had the money to purchase from the pay-to-order shop that sold the uniform, shoes, and accessories.
I told my father about the uniform, and he was able to save some money. But it was far from enough, and the practical test was drawing closer and closer. When I knew I could not make the deadline, I asked my CAT teacher if there was anything I could do to avoid the worst consequence. He was firm about his policies, but I did not stop pleading until he finally offered me two choices.
The first choice: he would let me join the class once I had my uniform, but would give me only a passing grade of 75. The second choice: I would wear the uniform and, like everyone else, march on the playground carrying a rifle—but I would also have to stand guard at the flagpole for a set period of time. And while the tactical inspection was done on a weekend with only the senior class present, I would have to do mine on a regular school day.
I had time to decide. But since my academic record was the only consolation for all the hardships we had endured, I was not going to settle for a 75. I had always strived for good grades since I first started school. Lolo Imo used to reward me for perfect scores or excellent remarks from teachers. I would show my test papers to my father, who was not generous with praise but would look pleased to see them. Sometimes I would hear him talking proudly about me to others. That was the least I could do for him—to show that his effort was worth it.
He did not have any decent clothes or shoes. Most of what could be seen in the corner of the house where his things were kept were his work clothes—worn out from too much use and washing. He would save the white promotional T-shirts with commercial logos for special occasions. His footwear was no better, though he rarely wore them; he preferred to work barefoot, and his feet had become too thick and wide for shoes. The only valuable thing he ever owned was a wristwatch. I never knew where he kept it when it was not in use, and I hardly ever saw him wearing it—so rarely that I had almost forgotten he had it.
One day, he handed me something wrapped in a handkerchief. I untied the corners of the cloth, but before I finished, I already knew what was inside.
It was the wristwatch.
He said I could sell it and use the money to buy the CAT uniform. I was moved to tears and made him a promise. I said I was going to succeed, and when I was ready, I would take care of his responsibilities.
His only response was, "May God bless you."
I took the watch to town and went to the watch repair shop. The shopkeeper could only offer a small amount, but I had no choice. I took it and went to order the uniform. I knew the money—even after selling the watch—was still not enough. But I tried. I negotiated the price, knowing they had already earned well from the other students and that unsold stock would sit idle for a year.
Perhaps winning the owner's sympathy, I was able to place my order for the complete uniform at a reduced price with an incomplete payment. I promised to pay the rest when I came back to collect it. And I did.
Now I was in for another challenge. I had to wear the uniform and report to my CAT teacher. I came ready for the second option—physically and emotionally. As expected, I marched carrying my rifle on the playground, which was surrounded by the school buildings. Unfortunately, I was still marching when break time came. Students who had been watching from their classrooms were now outside. They must have been wondering why I was doing that, and I could not blame them for laughing. It was my choice. Some of them teased me, but I just shrugged it off. Those who knew my story understood what I was doing.
For a few days after that, I stood guarding the flag after the morning flag-raising ceremony. It was equally challenging, but before I knew it, the test was over. My CAT teacher gave me a more favorable grade. Although it pulled my general average down, I was able to keep my academic standing in class.
Although I graduated at the top of my class, I knew my father could not afford to send me to college. Like many of my classmates who could not afford further studies, I prepared myself for the possibility of traveling to Manila to work as a domestic helper or a babysitter. My plan was to save my earnings to pay for college later. My mother, Siloh, did not welcome the idea of spending more money on my education, and my father could not offer any false hopes. But I did not lose hope. I prayed directly to the invisible, watchful superpower that I believed was watching over my life. I had worked very hard, and I believed that God knew I deserved a chance to continue my education.
A promise made in tears has a way of anchoring a life. When her father sacrificed his only wristwatch—the single valuable item he owned—so she could buy the uniform required for graduation, she saw the raw weight of a parent's unselfish love. Marching alone under the ridicule of classmates on the playground was a small price to pay for the dignity of her academic honors. That wristwatch was not just sold; it was exchanged for a vow to lift her family out of poverty, a pledge that would guide every major decision of her future.