Grade Six became more than my final year in elementary school. It was a year that tested my confidence, challenged my sense of identity, and gradually shaped my character. Living in the shadow of my older siblings taught me to work harder, while my teachers and classmates gave me lessons that extended far beyond academics.
Looking back, I realize that the year's greatest rewards were not high grades or recognition, but the values I carried into adulthood, integrity, perseverance, humility, and the quiet confidence that comes from earning one's achievements through honest effort.
Section Reclassification
By the time I reached Grade 6, I was grateful to remain in Section 1. That placement meant more to me than academic standing alone. In a home where comparisons were common and praise was rarely expressed, it had become one of the few things that affirmed my own abilities.
Then everything changed.
That year, the school introduced a new sectioning system. Instead of assigning students according to academic performance, each class was composed of pupils with mixed abilities. Although the change promoted a more inclusive learning environment, those of us who had worked hard to earn a place in the top section struggled to accept it. It felt as though an achievement we had worked toward had quietly lost its significance.
Looking back, I appreciate the educational purpose behind the decision. At twelve years old, however, I saw it differently. Having only recently earned my place in Section 1, I felt I was losing one of the few accomplishments that had given me confidence.
Fortunately, several familiar classmates remained with me, including Dennis Guangco, Glenn Alegarbes, Ariel Quijano, and Felipe Abarquez. Their presence brought a welcome sense of continuity and made the transition much easier.
I wasn't particularly close to the girls in our class. My closest friends were all boys, and we naturally stayed within our own circle. We spent our free time talking, playing, and creating the kinds of small adventures that seemed so important at that age. Boys and girls generally kept to their own groups, and to us, it was simply the natural order of things.
The Constant Comparison
Our class adviser, Mrs. Santos, was a strict and highly respected English teacher. On enrollment day, she turned to my mother and asked, "Is he as smart as his brother?"
My mother answered without hesitation.
"Not quite."
I knew she meant no harm, but those two words stayed with me. From that moment on, I felt I had something to prove. My older brother, Junjun, had graduated as class valedictorian the year before, and my sister had earned academic honors in the years before that. Living up to their achievements was no easy task, and comparisons became almost inevitable.
I still remember Junjun's graduation. He almost missed the ceremony after arguing with our parents over something as simple as what he would wear, at least from what I overheard. My parents rarely attended school programs or other important milestones. Whether it was because of very personal issues, their upbringing, or simply the way they expressed their love, I never really knew.
As children, we eventually accepted it. Looking back, I don't believe they loved us any less. They simply weren't the kind of parents who openly celebrated achievements or expressed pride in ways we easily recognized.
Years earlier, when my sister May received honors in Grade Five, it was her teacher, Mrs. Cagigas, who pinned the ribbon on her, not our parents. That image remained with me. My sister stood before the audience being recognized for her achievement, yet the people she most wanted to share the moment with were absent.
On Junjun's graduation day, I arrived early and found a seat near the front. He arrived with our parents just in time to deliver his valedictory address. As I watched him stand before the audience, I felt nothing but pride, not only for him, but for our family. Seeing my parents there made the occasion even more meaningful because it was so uncommon.
English Class Reassignment
Mrs. Santos was not entirely satisfied with the new class assignments. Whatever the school administration hoped to achieve by mixing students from different sections, she evidently intended to make sure that everyone in her classroom could meet her academic expectations.
To assess her new pupils, she administered a screening test in English. We were asked to read a short passage, answer four comprehension questions, and complete a sentence organization exercise, a skill I readily admit was never my strongest.
Although the test was never officially called an entrance examination, everyone understood its purpose: the results would decide who stayed in Section 1 and who would be quietly reassigned elsewhere.
When the papers were returned, I had scored 2 out of 4.
So had Felipe Abarquez, one of my classmates and widely regarded as one of the brightest students in our batch. Years later, he would graduate as our class valedictorian. Only a handful of students scored 3 or 4.
Mrs. Santos set the cutoff at 2. Anyone who met or exceeded that mark would remain in Section 1.
I had just barely cleared the threshold.
But barely was enough.
I was staying.
Looking back, I realize that result meant more to me than a place in a classroom. It affirmed that I belonged among the students I had worked so hard to keep pace with. Sometimes, a narrow margin is all it takes to strengthen a child's belief in himself.
Lasting Songs I Learned
Mrs. Santos had a deep appreciation for music and believed it should be learned, remembered, and shared. Among the songs she taught us were Service and one that would remain with me long after Grade Six, One Little Candle.
At the time, it was simply another song we learned in class. We sang it together under her guidance, never imagining that its melody and message would follow me into later chapters of my life.
I sang it again during our Junior-Senior Prom in high school. As its familiar melody filled the hall, it brought back memories of Grade Six, my classmates, and the teacher who had first introduced it to us.
Two years later, I found myself singing it once more during a candle-lighting ceremony at San Agustin Seminary in Makati. The song seemed especially fitting for the occasion. Its quiet message, that even a single light can brighten the darkness, resonated more deeply than it ever had in childhood.
Looking back, I realize Mrs. Santos taught us far more than English. Through songs like One Little Candle, she gave us memories that endured and lessons that revealed their meaning only with time.
Teachers' Ways to Motivate
Our teachers that year each had distinct approaches to shaping our character and encouraging academic performance. Their methods reflected different educational philosophies, and each left a lasting impression on me.
Mrs. Bacayo, our Health and Science teacher, believed firmly in discipline as a means of maintaining order and accountability. By today's standards, some of her disciplinary practices would be considered unacceptable. When a student failed to answer a question correctly, she sometimes administered physical punishment by pinching the skin near the ear or, on occasion, the sensitive flesh of the groin. I experienced both more than once. The discomfort lasted only a few moments, but the experience remained with me long afterward.
Mrs. Kiamco represented a very different approach. Rather than relying on punishment, she motivated us through encouragement and positive reinforcement, believing that recognition inspired students to perform at their best.
To encourage academic excellence, she rewarded anyone who obtained a perfect score on her quizzes with twenty-five centavos. Although the amount was modest, it was a meaningful incentive for children our age and made every quiz something we genuinely looked forward to.
Mrs. Kiamco rewarded any pupil who earned a perfect score on an examination with twenty-five centavos.
On one occasion, I appeared to be the only student who had earned a perfect score. As I reviewed my paper moments before submitting it, I noticed that one of my answers was incorrect. Acting on impulse, I quietly corrected it before Mrs. Kiamco collected our papers.
No one noticed.
I received the twenty-five centavos, but I also carried the quiet awareness that I had not earned that particular reward honestly.
Fortunately, that incident remained an isolated lapse in judgment. On many other occasions, I achieved perfect scores through careful preparation and genuine effort. Those accomplishments, not the twenty-five centavos, are the ones I remember with genuine satisfaction. They remind me that the true reward was never the coin itself, but the confidence that came from knowing I had earned my success with integrity.
My Own Dose of Medicine
That year, I belonged to a close-knit barkada, and being part of that group gave me a confidence I had not yet earned. Looking back, I realize how easily children can be influenced by the approval of their friends. What seems like harmless fun within a group can become deeply hurtful to someone else.
One of our classmates was a girl named Marietta. She had dark skin and tightly curled hair, and I often called her matsing, the Tagalog word for "monkey." To me, it was just a nickname. I never stopped to think how insulting or humiliating it must have been for her. I thought it was harmless. I was wrong.
One day, just before our noon dismissal, we were cleaning the classroom as part of our daily routine. Without warning, Marietta grabbed a broomstick and struck me several times.
The blows were painful enough to leave dark bruises that lasted for days. When my mother noticed them and asked what had happened, I told her I had slipped and fallen.
It was a lie born of embarrassment. I couldn't bring myself to admit that the classmate I had repeatedly ridiculed had finally fought back. Deep down, I also knew I had given her a reason to do it.
Looking back, I don't blame Marietta for reaching her breaking point. Although violence is never the right response, neither is repeated humiliation. That incident forced me to see my own behavior from her perspective for the first time.
It became one of my earliest lessons in empathy. I learned that teasing is rarely as harmless as the one doing it imagines, and that words can leave wounds long before anyone raises a hand.
The bruises eventually disappeared, but the lesson never did. Whenever I remember Marietta, I do so with regret, wishing I had treated her with the kindness and respect she deserved from the beginning.
Either A Perfect Score or Zero
Every afternoon, we gathered in the school workshop for our Industrial Arts classes under the guidance of Mr. Abasolo. He was a quiet, disciplined craftsman who taught with precision and expected the same from his students. His standards were demanding, but they were never arbitrary.
Ironically, my first memorable encounter with him had occurred years earlier when I was in Grade Three. One afternoon, a group of classmates and I were throwing clumps of mud at the workshop wall. When Mr. Abasolo unexpectedly stepped outside, panic took over. Hoping to avoid punishment, I quickly switched to throwing small stones and claimed I was only trying to knock off the dried mud already stuck to the wall.
It was an excuse that convinced no one, least of all myself.
Whether he saw through my story or simply chose to let it pass, I never knew. What endured was the embarrassment of having been caught in such an obvious lie.
By Grade Six, he was no longer the teacher whose workshop I had almost vandalized. He had become my Industrial Arts instructor.
His classes introduced us to technical drawing, lettering, carpentry, and other practical skills that were entirely new to most of us.
During the first half of the school year, the boys attended Industrial Arts while the girls took Home Economics.
Midway through the year, the classes switched, giving everyone the opportunity to learn the fundamentals of both subjects. For us boys, that included basic sewing and other household skills that, at the time, were traditionally associated with the girls' curriculum.
Mr. Abasolo's grading policy was as simple as it was unforgiving: one mistake meant a score of zero. There were no partial credits or consolation points. A single misplaced line in a drawing or an improperly executed lettering exercise was enough to invalidate the entire work.
At first, I assumed he was exaggerating.
He wasn't.
Rather than discouraging me, his uncompromising standards sharpened my focus. I learned to work methodically, checking every line, measurement, and detail before submitting an assignment. To my surprise, that discipline consistently earned me perfect scores.
Looking back, those afternoons in the workshop taught me far more than technical skills. They showed me that precision is cultivated through patience, that excellence often depends on details others overlook, and that the teachers who challenge us the most sometimes reveal strengths we never knew we had.
Learning to Be Resourceful
Outside school, the neighborhood remained my kingdom, and play was its language. Across from our house lay an open lot shaded by coconut trees, bordered by banana plants, and anchored by a small bamboo hut with a nipa roof and a cool cement floor.
It was there that older boys and young men gathered each afternoon to play hantak, a coin-flipping gambling game, and cards. I was too young to join them, but old enough to watch. From a distance, I observed how fortunes changed hands, one coin at a time, and how adults filled their idle hours.
One day, I urgently needed a Pentel pen for an Industrial Arts project. It was not optional. Mr. Abasolo accepted no substitutes, and without the proper pen, I could not complete the assignment.
When I asked my mother for money, she simply didn't give me any.
But, she showed me another way.
She gave me ₱1.80 to buy a kilo of camote (sweet potatoes). Together, we peeled and sliced them into cubes, fried them until golden, and coated them in caramelized sugar. After they had cooled, we threaded the pieces onto thin bamboo skewers.
Carrying the homemade treats, I walked to the bamboo hut where the gamblers gathered and offered them for sale. One by one, my sweet potatoes were sold like hot cakes. By the time I sold the last few, I had earned already enough to buy the Pentel pen I needed.
At first, I remember feeling ashamed as I approached the older boys and men. Selling food was never part of my plans, but necessity has a way of quieting pride.
At the time, I thought I had every reason to resent my mother for giving me a hard just to buy a Pentel pen. Looking back, however, I realize she gave me something far more valuable than the pen itself. Without saying a word, she taught me that if I wanted something, I first had to learn how to earn it. That lesson stayed with me long after the ink in that Pentel pen had run dry.
Grade School Graduation
As graduation approached, conversations among my classmates increasingly turned to high school, which school to attend, what lay ahead, and the lives we imagined beyond the familiar walls of our elementary classrooms.
Felipe had once hoped to enroll in a technical school in the city, where admission required a general average of at least 85. But when enrollment season arrived, I found him at Gullas High School instead. I understood why without asking.
It was the same reason I never pursued the technical school myself: money or, more accurately, the lack of it.
Financial hardship has a quiet way of redirecting ambition before ambition has the chance to argue back. Dreams remain, but circumstances often determine which paths are within reach.
Then came March 1980, the end of my elementary school years.
Our graduation ceremony was held at Pardo Parish Church. Its old stone walls and soaring arches lent the occasion a solemnity that few of us fully appreciated at the time. I took my seat without expecting much, though I quietly hoped to receive some form of recognition.
Earlier that year, the district had administered a standardized examination, with the highest scorer in each subject to be recognized during graduation.
I scored 95 in English, the highest mark.
But I was not the only one.
A teacher's daughter received the same score. In the event of a tie, the recognition was awarded to her. I never learned how the decision was made. I only knew that I had achieved the same result yet watched someone else walk to the front of the church.
To an adult, it might seem like a minor disappointment. To a twelve-year-old, it was not.
When the ceremony ended and the applause faded, I looked for my mother. She had accompanied me to the church that morning, but now she was nowhere in sight.
At first, I searched calmly among the families gathered near the pews and church entrance. As the crowd thinned, my steps quickened. I looked outside, then back inside, hoping I had simply missed her.
I waited.
One by one, my classmates left with their parents. They posed for photographs, embraced relatives, and drifted into their celebrations. Before long, the church had grown quiet.
With no sign of my mother, I walked back to school alone for the packed lunch prepared for the graduates.
Later, I managed to have my graduation photograph taken. By then, most of my classmates had already gone home. The celebration had ended, and I simply stood where the photographer directed me. The shutter clicked, preserving the only graduation photograph I would ever keep.
There were no medals hanging from my neck and no ribbons pinned to my uniform. At the time, that absence mattered more to me than the photograph itself.
Looking back, however, I see it differently. If there was anything worth celebrating, it was not an award but the closing of one chapter of my life.
That lone photograph still captured something that mattered. It marked the end of my elementary school years and the beginning of whatever lay ahead.
I had graduated from elementary school.
And in the end, that was enough.
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