My first official "school" was the barangay day care center—just three blocks from home. I was about five or six years old, and to be honest, I didn't really attend that often. I was more of a part-time student, the type who preferred staying home and quietly disappearing from the class list. But despite my Houdini act, my teacher and some classmates actually came to our house once to check on me. That's small-town community care for you—no absences go unnoticed.
Even more surprising, they cast me as **Joseph** in the nativity play. Yes—Joseph. The calm, standing-there husband of Mary. Not a sheep. Not the background tree. Joseph. I had no lines, but I had a robe, and I had a crown. During one practice, my crown fell to the ground and before I could even react, the neighborhood's genius kid—one year older, already in first grade—swooped in and picked it up for me. I remember admiring him deeply from that moment. I didn't know much, but I knew I wanted to be smart like him. He had that "future engineer" glow.
Graduation day arrived and my godfather went with me. Just the two of us. My parents weren't there, and I don't remember why. But I was happy. There I stood, in my tiny gown and cap, with a shiny **gold medal** around my neck. For a long time, I genuinely believed I was gifted—after all, I barely attended classes but still got a medal! It wasn't until much later in life that I realized... everyone got one. Yup. It was a "you showed up" medal. And even though I didn't show up that much, I guess they figured, "Close enough."
I don't remember much else from day care, except this one dramatic rainy day. It was pouring hard, and my pick-up was late. One of my classmates' moms saw me waiting alone and kindly walked me to the main road under her umbrella. But after crossing, I still had a block to go—no umbrella, just me versus the elements. I ran the rest of the way home like a tiny soap opera character, completely soaked. When I burst through the door, my brother and another sibling were casually playing chess. My mom had apparently asked my brother to pick me up, but he got too into the game. I didn't even complain. Just stood there dripping like a sad mop while my mom did the scolding for me.
That whole "not complaining" thing was kind of my default. Another time, my mom brought me to one of her farm day jobs. It was during corn harvest season—back when machines weren't common and workers had to manually remove the kernels using a metal plate with holes. She told me to sit and play quietly behind a pile of corn cobs while she worked. I found a corn seed and, for reasons only child logic can explain, decided to shove it up my nose. It fit perfectly—too perfectly. No one noticed until days later when my nose started hurting. By then, the seed had *started growing*. That's when they brought me to a local "doctor" (or nurse? or just a very confident neighbor?) who removed it while my family chuckled at my creativity.
And still—I didn't complain.
Even when we were traveling home from my grandma's on my dad's old Kawasaki motorcycle. I sat in front, which sounds fun until you add bumpy roads and a huge plastic windshield. Every time we hit a bump—*bonk*—my forehead smacked the windshield. Over and over. I didn't say a word. When we finally got home, someone noticed the red marks on my head and asked, "What happened to you?" I just shrugged.
I wasn't the kind of kid who made noise or called attention to pain. I took things in silently—whether it was a soaked uniform, a corn sprouting from my nose, or a forehead that doubled as a drum.
I didn't cry.
I didn't shout.
I just kept going.
Funny thing is… for a crybaby, I sure had a lot of experience suffering in silence.