Even in college, becoming a priest was somewhat remote from our thoughts. We were simply teenage boys growing up in an enclosed environment, away from the hustle and bustle of the city island life. We were enjoying life, never bothering to consider what and how life would turn out to be outside the four walls. No care whatsoever. We were having all the fun, I remember.
I remembered a commotion late that Friday night when a vehicle entered the Seminary gate. I heard some seniors scramble from their respective cubicles to get a good look of a passenger inside. And that was the first time I heard her name. “Naa si Annie, bay (not her real name of course),” I heard someone brag at having had the good fortune of seeing her when the car passed near the lighted area. She was with a group of Divine Word College students who were taking part in some school play directed by one of the seminary priests. After the practice, they brought Fr. Joe home.
I looked out nonchalantly from my window but didn’t see the vehicle. I didn't bother to leave my room. The poetic musings of a Filipino Jesuit priest about the despicable social injustices committed by the Marcos regime were far more fascinating. I went back to my reading.
The next day, however, I was curious. I also learned her family name from Juntabs who seemed to possess the uncanny skill of extracting information on almost anything going on in the city, things that you don't learn in the classroom or in casual conversation, as if he were a character in some spy movie who had local knowledge of the underworld.
During the days leading up to Christmas break in SY 82-83, our class was busy preparing for the caroling which we planned to benefit the prisoners at the provincial jail where we go every weekend for apostolate. I was in charge of collating a list of potential families to visit for the caroling. So I decided to look up her family name in the phone directory. There was only one entry under that name. A daughter of an engineer, I discovered, and wrote down the address. During our free time, I together with JunTabs went around Tagbilaran to deliver the letters to the families we identified earlier. To save on cost, we had to walk. We did not mind walking. We were young and energetic, all rearing for adventure. Besides, it was not only a good break from a regulated life inside the four walls of the seminary, but we soon realized that we enjoyed walking.
We enjoyed every moment of it . . . visiting the homes and delivering the letters to houses along J.A. Clarin, Espuelas, Borja and Toralba sts. Although on several occasions, Juntabs would complain, "Paspasa nimo mo lakaw, Nox, oy!" Of which I would reply, "Hinay ka lang molakaw ug gamay pud ug lakang." Of the number of letters in our possession, we set aside one letter for last.
It was still early in the afternoon. The sky was clear and the breeze cool. There were few vehicles on the streets. I cannot remember now if it was a week day or a weekend, or if it was the start of the Christmas break. Anyway, the streets were lonely and in most of the houses we visited, the father or the mother was not home and we ended up leaving the letter with the house maid or in the mailbox.
Finally we were down to the last letter. We went up and down the street but couldn’t find the house number. Juntabs and I inquired, but nobody seemed know that family name, which was strange because even in the city, people usually have an idea of their neighbor's family name. We almost gave up, but we decided to try one last time. We then realized that we were searching on the wrong end of Torralba Extension. We finally found the house. It was not by the roadside. That was probably the reason why we also missed it.
A short fence made of thin vertical iron bars fringed a small lawn in front of the house. The property was wedged tightly between residences and a young kid was playing on the lawn. I asked him if it was the residence we were looking for. He said yes. All the while Juntabs was straining his neck looking for her. I handed the boy the letter asking him to give it to his parents. There was no one else there. Then Juntabs told me that she must be inside the house. He instructed me to ask the boy. So I asked the boy if he had a sister by the name of Annie. He said, “Yes”. Our hearts jumped. I grabbed the letter from his tiny hands and told him to call her, which he did.
When she peeped from the door, smiling, our jaws dropped. I could only manage to raise my hand holding the letter. Her hands were covered in white lather. She was washing, she said. She was kind enough to stop what she was doing and came to the gate. I started explaining to her our purpose--the caroling, jail apostolate, the reason for doing it at all. The explanation probably took more than 5 minutes, until Juntabs and I had nothing else to say. I looked at Juntabs hoping that he would continue where I left off. He looked back at me hoping that I could also think of something else. There was nothing else to say, but we wanted to stay some more. For a few seconds we were speechless. It was then that I started to laugh, disbelieving at our folly. Juntabs too started laughing uncontrollably.
She looked surprised, not knowing why we suddenly burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. We were at a loss for words. We did not know what to say. Finally I decided to tell the truth that our other reason for going there was to see her in person. I then told her that I had heard her name mentioned quite a lot of times, but never had a chance to see her. That’s why we went to all the trouble of delivering the letter just to see her..
She must have been taken by our candidness. She smiled and invited us into the house for a glass of water. Oh, we were more than glad to obliged, of course. We did not only get to drink cold water--which I swear was sooooooo sweet. We also got to talk to her, and even played the guitar, and sang songs with her. We stayed for more than two hours.
The caroling at her house turned out to be much anticipated by our classmates. But I wasn’t very curious anymore, for I had known the person behind the name that they always spoke about.
(nox arcamo)
I was engrossed in a book inside my room in Dorm A, on the side occupied by the college juniors when I first heard her name mentioned. I was occupying a room near the chinning bar. It had a vertical wooden slat for window that opened up to the second floor corridor. From my bed I could see the top of the avocado tree in front of the canteen. It was the only window of my cramped existence that surprisingly fit a single bed, a table set against a wall with barely enough space for my elbows, a chair and an open cabinet. It afforded me a view of the flagpole, rotunda, and high school building. And if I keep it open at night--which I always did even if passers-by could easily peek through the window--it would offer me a view of the stars. The evening star and the occasional distant rumble of tricycle would always lull me to sleep as I laid down on my bed.
I remembered a commotion late that Friday night when a vehicle entered the Seminary gate. I heard some seniors scramble from their respective cubicles to get a good look of a passenger inside. And that was the first time I heard her name. “Naa si Annie, bay (not her real name of course),” I heard someone brag at having had the good fortune of seeing her when the car passed near the lighted area. She was with a group of Divine Word College students who were taking part in some school play directed by one of the seminary priests. After the practice, they brought Fr. Joe home.
I looked out nonchalantly from my window but didn’t see the vehicle. I didn't bother to leave my room. The poetic musings of a Filipino Jesuit priest about the despicable social injustices committed by the Marcos regime were far more fascinating. I went back to my reading.
The next day, however, I was curious. I also learned her family name from Juntabs who seemed to possess the uncanny skill of extracting information on almost anything going on in the city, things that you don't learn in the classroom or in casual conversation, as if he were a character in some spy movie who had local knowledge of the underworld.
During the days leading up to Christmas break in SY 82-83, our class was busy preparing for the caroling which we planned to benefit the prisoners at the provincial jail where we go every weekend for apostolate. I was in charge of collating a list of potential families to visit for the caroling. So I decided to look up her family name in the phone directory. There was only one entry under that name. A daughter of an engineer, I discovered, and wrote down the address. During our free time, I together with JunTabs went around Tagbilaran to deliver the letters to the families we identified earlier. To save on cost, we had to walk. We did not mind walking. We were young and energetic, all rearing for adventure. Besides, it was not only a good break from a regulated life inside the four walls of the seminary, but we soon realized that we enjoyed walking.
We enjoyed every moment of it . . . visiting the homes and delivering the letters to houses along J.A. Clarin, Espuelas, Borja and Toralba sts. Although on several occasions, Juntabs would complain, "Paspasa nimo mo lakaw, Nox, oy!" Of which I would reply, "Hinay ka lang molakaw ug gamay pud ug lakang." Of the number of letters in our possession, we set aside one letter for last.
It was still early in the afternoon. The sky was clear and the breeze cool. There were few vehicles on the streets. I cannot remember now if it was a week day or a weekend, or if it was the start of the Christmas break. Anyway, the streets were lonely and in most of the houses we visited, the father or the mother was not home and we ended up leaving the letter with the house maid or in the mailbox.
Finally we were down to the last letter. We went up and down the street but couldn’t find the house number. Juntabs and I inquired, but nobody seemed know that family name, which was strange because even in the city, people usually have an idea of their neighbor's family name. We almost gave up, but we decided to try one last time. We then realized that we were searching on the wrong end of Torralba Extension. We finally found the house. It was not by the roadside. That was probably the reason why we also missed it.
A short fence made of thin vertical iron bars fringed a small lawn in front of the house. The property was wedged tightly between residences and a young kid was playing on the lawn. I asked him if it was the residence we were looking for. He said yes. All the while Juntabs was straining his neck looking for her. I handed the boy the letter asking him to give it to his parents. There was no one else there. Then Juntabs told me that she must be inside the house. He instructed me to ask the boy. So I asked the boy if he had a sister by the name of Annie. He said, “Yes”. Our hearts jumped. I grabbed the letter from his tiny hands and told him to call her, which he did.
When she peeped from the door, smiling, our jaws dropped. I could only manage to raise my hand holding the letter. Her hands were covered in white lather. She was washing, she said. She was kind enough to stop what she was doing and came to the gate. I started explaining to her our purpose--the caroling, jail apostolate, the reason for doing it at all. The explanation probably took more than 5 minutes, until Juntabs and I had nothing else to say. I looked at Juntabs hoping that he would continue where I left off. He looked back at me hoping that I could also think of something else. There was nothing else to say, but we wanted to stay some more. For a few seconds we were speechless. It was then that I started to laugh, disbelieving at our folly. Juntabs too started laughing uncontrollably.
She looked surprised, not knowing why we suddenly burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. We were at a loss for words. We did not know what to say. Finally I decided to tell the truth that our other reason for going there was to see her in person. I then told her that I had heard her name mentioned quite a lot of times, but never had a chance to see her. That’s why we went to all the trouble of delivering the letter just to see her..
She must have been taken by our candidness. She smiled and invited us into the house for a glass of water. Oh, we were more than glad to obliged, of course. We did not only get to drink cold water--which I swear was sooooooo sweet. We also got to talk to her, and even played the guitar, and sang songs with her. We stayed for more than two hours.
The caroling at her house turned out to be much anticipated by our classmates. But I wasn’t very curious anymore, for I had known the person behind the name that they always spoke about.
(nox arcamo)
