Grade Five was a turning point in my childhood. Earning a place in Section One meant meeting higher expectations. I learned to earn the trust of demanding teachers, experienced my first crush, proved myself after being underestimated, and discovered that many of my fears were far greater in my imagination than in reality.
At home, I took on more responsibility by helping my family. Outside school, friendships, adventures, and a few childhood conflicts taught me humility, forgiveness, and resilience.
Looking back, Grade Five shaped more than my confidence, it shaped my character. It taught me that respect is earned through actions, courage grows by facing fear, and the ordinary moments of childhood often become life's most enduring lessons.
Finally Promoted to Section 1
That school year brought a milestone I had long hoped for but never quite expected: I was promoted to Section One. For the first time, I joined the school's top section and attended morning classes. Walking to school each day with my brother Junjun, I carried a quiet, private pride. I was no longer the child watching wistfully from the sidelines, wishing to belong to the morning session at the main building. I had finally returned, years after that sudden, fateful transfer to a lower section back in Grade One.
On my first day in Mrs. Cagigas's class, I quickly learned why everyone talked about her. Within days, whispers spread that she was a witch. Classmates pointed to her pale complexion and claimed her eyes turned red especially when she got angry, stories told with the complete certainty that only children can have.
At that age, part of me wondered if the rumors were true.
In reality, Mrs. Cagigas was nothing like the stories. She was an intelligent, disciplined, and highly respected teacher who taught Reading, Phonics, and English exceptionally well. Her classroom demanded attention, and no one dared take her lessons lightly.
My brother Glenn had warned me about her long before I entered Section One. He often told the story of how she had tapped him on the head with a hardbound textbook after he failed to answer a question. Whether the story had grown with each retelling, I never knew, but it stayed with me. From my very first day, I sat up straight, listened carefully, and studied hard, determined never to give her a reason to reach for that textbook.
I Saw My Teacher At The Market
I made it a point to greet Mrs. Cagigas whenever we crossed paths. It was not only out of genuine respect, but also with a quiet hope that she would think well of me.
We often met in the public market, where my mother sent me to buy something for our daily consumption. One day, she stopped, smiled, and said, "Good boy. You're the one who does the market errands, aren't you?"
"Yes, Ma'am," I replied, trying not to smile too broadly.
Her brief nod meant more to me than she probably realized. Earning the approval of a teacher I admired felt like a quiet victory.
By then, I had become my mother's right hand. While my siblings avoided going to the market, I had learned how to choose fresh fish, good cuts of meat, and crisp vegetables. They weren't just skills my mother taught me; they also gave me a sense of responsibility and confidence. Knowing that both my teacher and my mother appreciated my efforts gave me something to be proud of.
My First Crush
At home, my siblings often teased me by calling me a "sissy." I rarely knew how to answer them. But Grade Five brought a quiet change. For the first time, I found myself drawn to a girl.
I'll leave her name undisclosed out of respect for her privacy. She was fair-skinned, always neat, and carried herself with a quiet charm that caught my attention. Like many boys my age, I admired her from a distance and never found the courage to tell her how I felt.
One afternoon, I saw her at the public market. Before I could look away, she smiled and greeted me by name. My face flushed with embarrassment, and I couldn't say a word. The boy who could talk endlessly with his friends suddenly became speechless. She smiled once more, then walked away, leaving me standing there wondering what had just happened.
Two other girls also caught my attention that year, both daughters of teachers. One carried herself with a confidence that made her seem older than the rest of us. Classmates whispered that she already had a boyfriend, and to my young mind, that made her seem far beyond my reach.
The other was also fair-skinned, slender, and soft-spoken. She never sought attention, yet there was something about her that stayed with me long after Grade Five had ended. Only recently did I learn that she had died in a car accident. Though we had never been close, the news saddened me. It was a quiet reminder of how fragile life is and how none of us knows what tomorrow will bring.
Not as Bright as My Siblings
Section One challenged me in new ways, and I grew to admire most of my teachers, Mr. Jaca in Health and Science, Mrs. Baklay in Mathematics, and Mrs. Cagigas in English. But my Filipino teacher, Mrs. Bacasmas, gave me a lesson I would never forget.
One day, our Pilipino subject teacher asked us to write a Kathang Pormal entitled Ang Aking Talambuhay or a Formal Theme on "My Autobiography". As I described my family, I wrote that my father was a radio operator. I knew he served in the Philippine Constabulary and worked with radio communications, but I didn't quite understand the nature of his job.
When Mrs. Bacasmas read my paper, she accused me of copying my seatmate's work because his father was also a radio operator, working as a seaman. She said she knew my parents personally and insisted that my father was a soldier, not a radio operator. Then, in front of the entire class, she remarked that I was not as bright as my older siblings, May and Glenn.
Her words deeply embarrassed me. I knew I hadn't copied anyone's work. My father did handle radio communications as part of his military duties, but at ten years old, I didn't know how to explain the difference. I simply sat there in silence, carrying the weight of a comparison I had never asked for.
Weeks later, our periodical examination results in Filipino were released. I scored 96 out of 100, the highest rating in her class. I didn't boast or try to prove anything. I simply let the result speak for itself. Looking back, Mrs. Bacasmas unknowingly taught me one of life's enduring lessons: the best way to silence a mouth full of judgment is not through argument, but through evidence and results.
I Became A Runner For Teachers
Our classroom was directly across from the office of the school supervisor, Mr. Gantuangco. A quiet and observant man, he learned that I was the nephew of Mama Tancing, who owned a small carinderia near the school. Before long, he would ask me to buy his lunch. I never turned down a request from someone I respected, so I always accepted the errand with pleasure.
Mrs. Cagigas also entrusted me with similar errands. I often brought her a bowl of linat-an, a hearty beef soup from Mama Tancing's kitchen. To a ten-year-old, these were more than simple tasks. Being trusted by my teachers made me feel responsible, dependable, and proud.
Usually, Mrs. Cagigas waited for me in our classroom whenever I bought her lunch. One day, however, she asked me to bring it to her house, which was just across the school. As I approached to her house, my imagination began to race.
The house sat beneath large trees whose canopies blocked much of the sunlight, making it look dark even at midday. Cobwebs clung to the walls and corners, adding to its eerie appearance. To my ten-year-old mind, it looked exactly like the kind of place where a witch would live. The stories my classmates had told me suddenly felt real.
I walked to the door as cautiously as I could. When Mrs. Cagigas opened it, she greeted me with a warm smile and thanked me for bringing her lunch. She was exactly the same kind of teacher I knew at school, but a bit gentler this time. After handing her the food, I politely said goodbye and hurried home, relieved that nothing bad had happened to me.
Her house reminded me of another place in our neighborhood. A man named Quirino, who lived in an old house, tree-covered that sat beside an old well. Many people claimed he was a male witch, and as children, we believed the rumors without question. We even imagined that the old well was where he had thrown the bodies of his victims.
I often saw Quirino on the street. He was tall, pale, quiet, slow moving, and looked like a dracula in the movies, which only made the stories more believable to us. Later, my younger brother Elmer and I became friends with his nephew. Every Good Friday, his nephew portrayed Jesus Christ in a re-enacted play, carrying the cross and being nailed to it before a large crowd. Seeing their family's deep involvement in that religious tradition slowly erased my childhood fears. They were ordinary people, not the frightening figures our imaginations had created.
Looking back, I realized that the real danger was never hidden in dark houses or old wells. It came from judging people through rumors and appearances. Childhood taught me that imagination can create monsters where none exist, while the true measure of a person is found not in gossip, but in character.
Entrusted With Store Supplies
Our small sari-sari store was one of the few things that kept my mother busy. It had originally been managed by my spinster aunt, Mama Presing. But when she left to help another aunt run a food business, my mother, Mama Asyon, took over the store.
I wished Mama Presing had stayed with us. I often felt sorry for her. At night, I could hear her persistent, rattling cough echo through the house. Beside her bed was a tin can where she spat her phlegm, and we children were warned to keep away from it. Looking back, what stays with me most is the quiet way she endured her illness. She never complained or asked to see a doctor. Perhaps she understood our family's situation all too well, hospitalization is very costly.
Papa had been responsible for buying supplies for our store at Carbon Market, sometimes purchasing goods on credit when money was scarce. But Mama eventually discovered that he had been taking money from the store to support his jai alai gambling habit. Hurt and angry, she decided he would no longer handle the store's purchases.
Instead, she entrusted the responsibility to me. At just ten years old, I began buying supplies for our store. With a shopping list in one hand and carefully counted money in the other, I walked alone to the nearby market and returned with every item, every cent accounted for.
Those errands taught me responsibility, honesty, and the importance of earning someone's trust at an early age.
That same year, a new family moved into the house next door after Bebe and Canor and family moved away. They were Mery's family, her parents, Conching and Peping, and the children: Tatang, Odong, Cendil, Ojet, Mater, Boy, Belen, and Mery, who later became very good friends with us.
Since from the beginning, we treated each other like family. Our homes were filled with laughter, shared stories, and the easy companionship of good neighbors. Before long, it felt as though they had always been part of our lives.
Fistfight and a Bloody Nose
Outside school, I was growing stronger and more confident. Most afternoons were spent outdoors with neighborhood friends. We played marbles, chess, basketball, spider fighting, bamboo guns, blowpipes made from papaya stalks, and many other games that filled our childhood with fun with friendly competition.
One afternoon, while playing marbles with Ayen, Nat's younger brother, we argued over what I believed was a violation of the rules. To adults, it would have seemed like a small misunderstanding, but to us, it was serious. The argument quickly turned into a fistfight.
Hearing the commotion, Nat rushed over to defend his younger brother. Suddenly, I found myself facing both brothers. The fight was brief, but when it ended, one of them had a bloody nose.
As my anger faded, so did my sense of being right. What had seemed so important moments earlier now felt childish. I realized that pride and a quick temper often create problems far bigger than the issue itself.
Fortunately, childhood quarrels rarely lasted long in our neighborhood. Our families were close, and within a day or two we were friends again, back to playing together as if nothing had happened.
Looking back, I realized, one of childhood's greatest gifts is the ability to forgive quickly and move on without carrying too much resentment.
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