This story begins with my first breath and follows the early years that quietly shaped the person I would one day become. Within the weathered walls of a century-old home, life unfolded through laughter, curiosity, childhood mischief, family, friendships, and dreams that lingered long after they had ended.
Looking back, I now see how love, ordinary moments, simple joys, quiet disappointments, and everyday struggles became my greatest teachers. Experiences that once seemed small and unremarkable gradually shaped my character, values, perspective, and understanding of the world in ways I could never have recognized as a child.
These pages are more than a collection of childhood memories. They are an invitation to return to a time when the world felt vast and full of wonder, when every discovery seemed extraordinary, and when even the smallest moments quietly left lasting impressions. They are the story of how an ordinary childhood became the foundation upon which the rest of my life would be built.
The Day I Came into the World
At Cebu Maternity House, time must have seemed to slow as the doctors and nurses attended to my mother. Then, on Friday, October 13, 1967, at exactly 1:40 in the afternoon, the silence was broken by the cry of a newborn, quietly announcing my arrival into the world.
I weighed seven pounds, small, unaware, and utterly unprepared for the life that lay ahead. Without knowing it, I had begun a journey that would be mine alone, unfolding one ordinary day at a time.
My parents named me Ulysses. According to the book of names they consulted, it meant "the angry one," though whether that interpretation was accurate mattered little to them. They were drawn instead to the name's association with Ulysses, the Latin form of Odysseus, the legendary hero of Greek epic renowned for his courage, resilience, ingenuity, and the long, difficult journey that eventually brought him home. Over the years, I have often wondered, half in jest and half in earnest, whether a name is ever just a name or whether it quietly carries a story long before the person who bears it begins to write one.
I was the fourth child in our family, born after my siblings May, Glenn, and Artemio Jr. Like everyone else, I remember nothing of that October afternoon. Yet it marked the beginning of a life that would gradually be shaped by family, faith, friendships, disappointments, unexpected blessings, and countless ordinary moments that seemed insignificant as they happened, but would one day become the very memories that defined my story.
The House Where My Story Began
Once my mother had regained her strength, we returned to our home in Pardo. It was more than simply a house. It was a place rich with history, nearly a century old, its weathered beams and creaking floorboards bearing silent witness to generations of lives long before mine had even begun.
Three separate households lived beneath its aging roof, each following its own daily rhythm. Upstairs lived an elderly woman whom everyone affectionately called Mana Awang, together with her relatives. Their footsteps, conversations, and occasional laughter drifted gently through the wooden ceiling, becoming a familiar soundtrack to everyday life. Downstairs, two families shared the same structure, separated by little more than thin wooden walls. Privacy was limited, but a strong sense of community came naturally.
Our family's living space consisted of four adjoining rooms that opened into a modest kitchen. The living room and dining area shared a single well-used space, which led to a small wooden porch enclosed by a simple lattice railing. From there, a short flight of wooden steps descended into the yard, the place where my childhood truly unfolded through endless games, scraped knees, small discoveries, and carefree adventures.
By today's standards, it was an ordinary old house, worn by time and constant use. Yet to me, it was anything but ordinary. Its wooden floors still seemed to echo with laughter long after the voices had faded. Its aging walls had quietly sheltered every celebration, every hardship, and every ordinary moment that together formed the story of our family. It often felt as though every corner held a memory patiently waiting for me to return and rediscover it.
Whenever I think back to where my life's journey truly began, my mind always returns to that old wooden house. It was there, within those weathered walls, that I first learned about family, community, curiosity, love, and the simple joys of childhood. Long before I understood the wider world, that house had already become my entire universe and it remains the place where the first pages of my story were quietly written.
First Glimpses of the World
My earliest memories do not arrive as complete stories. They come instead as scattered fragments, soft around the edges, like shafts of sunlight filtering gently through a window.
I remember my father carrying me in his arms, walking with the calm, unhurried pace of a man who had nowhere more important to be. In those quiet moments, he was introducing me to a world I was far too young to understand, yet one I somehow already sensed was filled with wonder.
Towering coconut palms swayed high above us. Banana leaves rustled with every passing breeze. Sunlight spilled across the fields, turning the landscape into a place that felt both immense and inviting. To a small child, the world was mysterious, but never frightening. It seemed vast enough to explore forever and gentle enough to welcome every curious step.
As I grew older, those walks became longer, and so did my questions. We wandered along narrow footpaths while I filled the silence with the endless curiosity only children possess.
"Why is the sky so high?"
"Where do the birds go at night?"
"Why does the wind make the trees dance?"
My father always had an answer.
He delivered each one with complete confidence, weaving delightful little stories that sounded every bit as convincing as the truth. They were not lessons drawn from books, but playful inventions created on the spot to satisfy a young boy's boundless curiosity.
Years later, when I was old enough to recognize that many of his explanations had been pure imagination, I would tease him about them. He would simply smile, and together we would laugh, a small ritual between father and son that became even more precious than the stories themselves.
Looking back, I have come to realize that the factual accuracy of those answers was never the point. Their true value lay in the love with which they were given. My father was doing far more than entertaining a curious child. Without realizing it, he was teaching me to meet the world with wonder instead of fear, to ask questions without hesitation, and to discover that life's greatest adventures often begin with a single step down an unfamiliar path.
The Affection of Neighborhood
In those early years, I did not belong only to my family. In many ways, I belonged to the entire neighborhood. It was the kind of community where every child was treated as everyone's responsibility, and affection was given freely, without reservation.
The neighbors adored me in the way adults often delight in a cheerful, round-cheeked toddler. They would pinch my cheeks with playful enthusiasm while my mother laughed and gently protested, "Don't pinch his cheeks too hard, or they'll grow even wider." It was partly a joke and partly a mother's playful concern. Even today, I can still hear her voice saying those words, long after the chubby cheeks themselves have disappeared.
Among those neighbors was a young woman named Merry, whose kindness became one of the brightest threads woven through my childhood memories. She often visited our home, always bringing with her a warmth and gentleness that made me feel completely at ease. She carried me in her arms, encouraged my earliest attempts to speak, and patiently indulged the endless curiosity that seemed to accompany my growing years.
To me, Merry was more than a neighbor. She became like an older sister, someone whose quiet affection and steady presence helped shape my earliest understanding of love, kindness, and belonging.
Looking back, I realize how fortunate I was to grow up in a community where love did not end at the doorstep of one's home. Our neighbors celebrated one another's joys, shared one another's burdens, and treated every child as part of one extended family. Long before I understood the meaning of community, they had already shown me what it looked like. Their ordinary acts of kindness left an extraordinary imprint on my life, reminding me that sometimes the greatest gifts we receive are not possessions, but the people who choose to love us as though we were their own.
Dance, Music, and Light
One evening, our barrio came alive with a bayle, a community dance that drew families from their homes into an atmosphere filled with music, laughter, and celebration. A temporary dance floor had been enclosed with bamboo fencing and illuminated by strings of colored lights that shimmered softly against the darkness, giving the entire place an almost magical glow.
Inside the enclosure, young women sat patiently in rows, waiting to be invited to dance. Young men approached with a few coins in hand, paying a small fee for each song and for the opportunity to dance with the lady of their choice. It was a long-standing barrio tradition, one that blended music, festivity, and the quiet beginnings of courtship.
That evening, my aunt, Mama Presing, took me with her. Curious about the lively music and cheerful voices beyond the bamboo fence, I squirmed in her arms, eager to see what was happening inside.
I was still very young, pressing my face against the narrow spaces between the bamboo slats as I watched couples gracefully moving across the dance floor. The music floated into the cool night air while laughter echoed all around. I did not understand the occasion or its customs. I only knew that it felt enchanting.
Then Merry noticed me. Smiling warmly, she walked over, took me gently by the hand, and led me through the entrance onto the dance floor. I was far too shy to dance. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces, bright lights, and lively music, I simply stood beside her, quietly holding her hand while she danced and the celebration continued around us.
Much of that evening has faded with time, as childhood memories often do. Yet a few moments remain remarkably clear: the warmth of Merry's hand, the happiness reflected in her smile, the joyful music, and the colorful lights dancing across the faces of people gathered in celebration.
Looking back, I realize it was one of my earliest experiences of a community united in simple happiness. Although I was far too young to understand it then, I sensed that I belonged to something larger than my own home and family. It was my first glimpse of the quiet beauty of shared traditions, moments that bring neighbors together, create lasting memories, and gently remind us that joy is often richest when it is shared.
My Tiny Little Friend
Growing up surrounded by nature, I found companionship in even the smallest of creatures. To my young mind, every living thing seemed to possess its own quiet wonder, and every discovery felt like meeting a new friend.
One day, while walking along a quiet path, I noticed a tiny insect clinging to a shrub. It was delicate, brightly colored, and unlike anything I had paid attention to before. Small as it was, it completely captured my imagination.
I carefully brought it home and placed it inside a small hollow in our cement yard, covering the space with a few leaves. In my childish imagination, I believed I had created a safe little home where it could stay.
From that day on, I visited it every day. I talked to it as though it could understand me and eventually gave it a name, Florecin. For nearly a week, this tiny insect became part of my daily routine, offering a kind of companionship that only a child's imagination could create.
Then, one day, it was gone.
Perhaps it had flown away. Perhaps it had died. I never discovered what became of it, and in time I realized that I did not need to know. What remained was the quiet sadness of its absence. For the first time, I understood how easily the heart can become attached, even to the smallest of living creatures. That tiny insect stayed with me for only a few days, yet it left behind one of my earliest lessons about affection, attachment, and the quiet ache of losing something we have come to cherish.
A Child's Innocence
Childhood is a season of innocence. We encounter the world with curiosity and trust, often participating in things without fully understanding their meaning or consequences.
One afternoon, a group of older children invited a playmate and me into an abandoned shanty. Laughing among themselves, they encouraged us to hug each other, climb over one another, embrace, and even exchange a kiss.
We simply did what they asked because we were too young to understand what any of it meant. To the older children, it may have been a source of amusement. To us, it was nothing more than another game, one we joined without hesitation or awareness.
I laughed along with everyone else, completely unaware that the memory would return to me years later with an entirely different meaning. What had seemed ordinary through the eyes of a child would eventually be understood very differently through the eyes of an adult.
Looking back, I have come to appreciate how deeply childhood innocence shapes the way we experience the world. Children often trust without question and imitate without understanding. Only with maturity do we begin to recognize the significance of certain moments that once seemed ordinary. Time has a quiet way of uncovering what innocence could never have perceived, allowing old memories to be seen with greater clarity, wisdom, and understanding.
The Day I Went Too Far
Adventure knew no boundaries in my childhood, and more than once, I discovered how easily curiosity could outrun common sense.
When I was about five years old, I persuaded my seven-year-old cousin to join me on what seemed, at the time, like a grand expedition. Armed with nothing more than a stick and an endless supply of curiosity, we set off to hunt spiders along the roadside. One discovery led to another, and without realizing it, we wandered farther and farther from home.
Hours passed. Familiar roads gave way to unfamiliar streets until we found ourselves near the outskirts of the city, several kilometers from where we had started. My cousin grew frightened and pleaded that we turn back. I, still captivated by the adventure, wanted to keep going.
Fortunately, reason prevailed. We retraced our steps and eventually arrived home, where we found our family anxiously searching for us. My aunt greeted us with a stern scolding born more from relief than anger. At the time, however, I doubt I fully understood the fear we had caused.
That same year, I managed to lose my parents again during a fiesta in a neighboring barangay. Instead of waiting where I was, I confidently decided to look for them on my own. With the fearless optimism that only a small child can possess, I wandered through unfamiliar streets, passing strangers, vehicles, and horse-drawn tartanillas, convinced I would somehow find my way.
As daylight slowly faded, so did my confidence. The lively streets that had seemed exciting only hours earlier suddenly felt vast and unfamiliar. For the first time that day, I realized how truly lost I was.
I turned back, though I no longer knew where "back" was.
Thankfully, one of my father's sisters spotted me near the public market. She gently took my hand and brought me home, ending what could have become a far more serious ordeal.
Looking back, those incidents taught me lessons that childhood curiosity alone could never have provided. Adventure is part of growing up, but so is learning that the world is far larger and far less forgiving than it first appears. Sometimes the most valuable discoveries are not found at the end of an adventure, but in realizing when it is time to turn back.
Haunted by Early Dreams
Even in sleep, my imagination rarely found complete peace. My childhood dreams were remarkably vivid, sometimes fascinating, often frightening, and occasionally so lifelike that they stayed with me long after I awoke.
In one recurring dream, an ordinary rat slowly transformed before my eyes. It first became a monkey, then grew into a towering ape whose piercing gaze filled me with fear. I would wake trembling, unable to understand how my young mind could create something so strange and unsettling.
Other dreams were even more mysterious. The statue of Santo Tomas de Villanueva from our parish church would suddenly come to life. It would step down from its pedestal and begin walking toward me along the coconut-lined path near our home. At first it appeared only as a distant figure, but with each passing moment it drew closer until it began chasing me.
That dream returned several times over the years. On other nights, it was the Santo Niño who appeared instead. I never understood why those sacred images found their way into my dreams. I only knew that they left a deep impression on me, lingering in my thoughts long after the dreams had ended.
At other times, I dreamed of Christ hanging upon the Cross, immense, solemn, and overwhelming in His presence. His eyes seemed fixed upon me. They did not appear angry or condemning, but carried an expression I was far too young to understand. Even now, I find it difficult to describe exactly what I felt. All I know is that those dreams became part of the landscape of my childhood, remaining in my memory long after countless other dreams had faded away.
Looking Back
Many years later, during my time at San Agustin Seminary, I found myself looking back on those childhood experiences with quiet curiosity.
Only then did I realize that Santo Tomas de Villanueva was a renowned 16th-century Spanish Augustinian friar who later became Archbishop of Valencia. Often called the "Father of the Poor," he was celebrated for his extraordinary humility, personal austerity, and unwavering dedication to charity, giving generously to the sick, the poor, and the marginalized.
I also came to appreciate that the Santo Niño has also been closely associated with the Augustinian Order since the image was entrusted to the Augustinians in Cebu during the early Spanish colonial period. The centuries-old image, originally presented by Ferdinand Magellan to Rajah Humabon's family in 1521, continues to be enshrined and venerated at the Basilica Minore del Santo Niño de Cebu, which remains under the care of the Augustinians.
Looking back, I found it remarkable that two of the strongest religious influences in my childhood were both rooted in the same religious order. Whether that was merely an interesting coincidence or part of a larger providential design is something I cannot say with certainty. Even so, the connection has often given me to wonder and remains one of those curious past woven into the story of my life.
I could not help but to presume that those early influences had shaped my openness to religious life long before I was old enough to understand it. Perhaps they planted seeds that would later grow into a sincere desire to enter the seminary. Or perhaps I was simply discovering meaningful connections that had always been there, visible only in hindsight.
For a time, I did follow that path. I entered San Agustin Seminary and earnestly sought to discern whether God was calling me to the priesthood. However, my journey took a different direction now. In 1991 I left the seminary.
Today, I look back on those years not as evidence that my childhood somehow foretold the future, but as a reminder that the experiences of our early lives often shape us in ways we only begin to understand much later. Whether those connections were providence, coincidence, or simply the natural unfolding of life, I cannot say with certainty. What I do know is that they became part of the story that eventually led me to where I am today.
Playful Antics
As I grew older, I began to recognize something about myself that I could neither easily explain nor proudly defend.
There were moments in my childhood when I acted thoughtlessly, mistaking mischief for harmless fun and curiosity for something that occasionally hurt others. No one had taught me to behave that way. Even now, I sometimes wonder where those impulses came from, though I have never found a satisfying answer.
I remember one boy in particular named Gaudioso. He came from a poor family and had noticeable blisters on his skin. We were friends in the simple, uncomplicated way children often are, spending time together whenever our paths happened to cross.
Then, for reasons I still cannot fully explain, my behavior toward him changed.
Whenever he passed by our house, I would secretly throw small stones in his direction before quickly hiding from view. He would look around angrily, trying to find whoever had thrown them, but I always stayed concealed, escaping the consequences of my own actions.
Looking back, that memory still fills me with regret. I do not revisit it to excuse what I did, but to acknowledge it honestly. I cannot fully explain why I behaved that way as a child. Perhaps it was immaturity, a desire for amusement, or simply a failure to understand how my actions affected someone else.
That experience became one of my earliest lessons in self-awareness. It taught me that childhood innocence does not automatically guarantee kindness or good judgment. Children are still learning empathy, responsibility, and compassion. I was no exception. Remembering that episode reminds me how important it is to confront our own shortcomings honestly, because growth begins the moment we are willing to recognize where we have fallen short.
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