Grade Three marked a turning point in my childhood. After being placed in a lower section, I became determined to prove that I was more capable than the labels others had placed on me.
That experience motivated me to work harder, and my efforts paid off. I made significant progress in my studies, especially in Mathematics, where I earned the highest score on the periodical examination.
Looking back, I realize that my determination came not only from a desire to succeed but also from a deep longing to be accepted, respected, and recognized for who I truly was.
Here's my Grade Three journey.
Downgraded to a Lower Section
By that point, I had already begun to suspect that my Grade Two teacher did not think much of me. So when Grade Three came around and I found myself assigned to Section Four, I was not exactly shocked. It felt less like a surprise to me. It's something I had quietly anticipated all along, a decision no one ever spoke aloud, yet one that seemed to have been made nonetheless.
Section Four was a step below where I believed I should have been. At our school, everyone understood what section assignments meant, even if no one openly talked about them.
Pardo Elementary followed a system that was simple but rigid. Section One was reserved for the students considered the brightest, the ones teachers praised, entrusted with responsibilities, and proudly placed at the center of school programs, contests, and academic activities.
Everyone else assigned to the lower sections was where expectations often seemed lower and opportunities fewer. As a child, it was easy to feel as though you had been quietly set aside, existing just beyond the place where attention naturally revolved.
That year, my teacher was Mrs. Abao, a woman probably in her late thirties or early forties. She carried herself with quiet confidence, warmth, and quiet dignity. There was nothing intimidating about her; instead, she possessed a natural grace and quiet authority that effortlessly earned the respect of everyone in the classroom.
On the first day of class, I wondered whether she would even notice me, or whether I would once again become just another child sitting quietly behind a desk. By then, I had already begun to understand something I could not yet put into words: being overlooked and being invisible were not the same thing.
Still Doing My Best in School
Being assigned to Section Four carried a certain stigma. Many regarded it as one of the lower sections, often associated with below average or struggling students, but I never allowed that label to define me. I had not given up on myself, and that was the one decision no one else could make for me. I kept pace with every lesson and, before long, found myself competing with some of the brightest students in the class, especially a girl named Marissa Buaya, who was quick-thinking, composed, and never easy to surpass.
Mrs. Abao had a remarkable way of making learning both exciting and memorable. She often transformed ordinary classroom lessons into friendly academic contests that encouraged us to think quickly and participate enthusiastically. One activity, in particular, has remained vivid in my memory.
We would line up between the rows of desks like runners waiting for the starting signal. The teacher would ask a question, and the one who could answer first or answered correctly earned a step forward. One step at a time, we moved closer to the finish line, which could be either back or front of the classroom. Whoever reached first was recognized as the "brightest" for that round. I found myself advancing again and again. Sometimes Marissa reached the front before I did; other times, I claimed the victory. The lead changed constantly, yet the competition was always filled with excitement, mutual respect, and good humor.
Looking back, I realize the greatest reward was never the title itself. What mattered was that I was always in the race, always learning, always improving, and always moving forward. In those days, simply continuing to grow felt like a victory in its own right.
Looking back that year, something within me was quietly unfolding, a kind of growth I could sense long before I had the words to describe it. English, Filipino, and Mathematics gradually began to make sense, not merely as subjects to memorize but as ideas to understand. In Mathematics, I progressed from simple arithmetic to multiplication, division, and fractions, each new concept building naturally upon the last.
Every lesson seemed to open another door, revealing possibilities I had never noticed before. With each new discovery, my understanding of the world grew a little wider. I began to realize that learning was not simply about remembering facts but about seeing connections, asking questions, and making sense of the world around me. Without fully realizing it, I was not only gaining knowledge, I was growing into a larger understanding of life itself.
A Test Result I Couldn't Forget
More than anything that year, I wanted my teacher to see me, to truly see me. Grade Two had left wounds that had not yet healed. I had felt underestimated, dismissed, and embarrassed over something as trivial as a coffee stain. To an adult, it may have seemed insignificant. To a child, however, such moments can leave lasting impressions. They linger quietly, shaping confidence in ways that are not always visible.
Feeling invisible has a quiet way of diminishing a child's confidence. It happens gradually, almost unnoticed, until self-doubt begins to take its place. Yet instead of allowing those experiences to discourage me, they strengthened my fighting spirit. To be Section 4 became a fresh beginning, a classroom free from the assumptions I had carried from the previous year. My goal was never simply to earn high grades. More than anything, I wanted my efforts to be recognized. Every child longs to be seen, encouraged, and believed in. Sometimes, a few sincere words of affirmation are enough to awaken confidence that has long been waiting to grow.
That opportunity came during one of our periodical examinations, a test where reputations and first impressions held no advantage. Examination papers showed no favoritism, and the scores reflected only what each student had learned. When our papers were returned, I expected to receive a good mark, but nothing more. To my surprise, I had earned the highest score in the examination, tied with my classmate Marissa.
Mrs. Abao could hardly contain her delight. She congratulated us both, though she briefly wondered whether one of us might have copied from the other. It was not an accusation, but a reasonable question, since our papers were identical. For a brief moment, the classroom fell silent as everyone waited to learn the truth.
It soon became clear that no cheating had taken place. What surprised everyone even more was that it was the highest score among all the Grade Three sections, including Section One, widely regarded as the home of the school's brightest students. Even I had never imagined such an outcome.
That experience taught me a lesson I have carried throughout my life. Ability is not confined to those who receive the highest labels or the greatest recognition. Talent, intelligence, perseverance, and determination are not the exclusive possession of a privileged few. They can be found in every walk of life, including among those who are often underestimated, overlooked, or unfairly judged by society.
Greatness belongs to no single group. What many people need is someone who believes in them, recognizes their potential, and gives them the opportunity to demonstrate what they are truly capable of.
One Embarrassing Moment
I genuinely enjoyed being with my classmates that year. There was no bullying, no cruelty, and none of the small social conflicts that often make childhood more complicated than it needs to be.
Instead, we shared the easy companionship that comes naturally to children. We laughed together, played together, and occasionally found ourselves caught up in harmless mischief that seemed perfectly innocent at the time. Like most children, we rarely stopped to think about the consequences until it was too late.
One morning during our gardening period, that carefree spirit led us into trouble. It began, as many childhood adventures do, with an idea that seemed amusing in the moment but foolish in hindsight.
I picked up a few small lumps of clay and began throwing them against the wall beside the Industrial Arts building, simply to see them splatter. Within moments, several of my classmates joined in. Before long, nearly all of us were laughing as we tossed handfuls of clay at the wall, completely absorbed in the fun and unaware that anyone was watching.
Then, without warning, Mr. Abasolo, an Industrial Arts teacher, stepped out from the doorway. Our laughter vanished instantly. We froze where we stood, each of us realizing that our little game had come to an abrupt end.
He scolded us firmly but without anger, like a teacher who had seen similar incidents many times before. His disappointment was enough to make us lower our heads in embarrassment.
Wanting desperately to explain myself, I did what children often do when they panic, I spoke before I thought.
"You see, Sir," I said with complete sincerity, "I was throwing stones to remove the clay from the wall."
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they sounded. My explanation made no sense at all. Instead of helping my case, it only made the situation more embarrassing. My classmates knew it, Mr. Abasolo knew it, and deep inside, I knew it too.
Fortunately, we escaped with nothing more than a stern scolding. My unfortunate excuse, however, had a much longer life.
For days afterward, my classmates delighted in repeating my famous explanation. No one needed to retell the entire story. Someone only had to say, "I was throwing stones to remove the clay from the wall," and everyone would burst into laughter, remembering the flying clay, my hopeless excuse, and one of the most embarrassing moments of my childhood.
Trying to Impress My Teacher
The desire to be seen as capable, to be considered worthy of attention, led me into choices that cost more than I understood at the time. At that age, I had not yet learned the difference between genuine confidence and the desire to appear confident. I only knew that I wanted to be noticed, not realizing that the two were not the same.
Whenever the school held fundraisers, my hand was always the first to go up. I volunteered to contribute even when no one was expected to. I would ask my mother for money, despite knowing that our family had very little to spare. She never refused. Instead, she would quietly search through a drawer, the pockets of her apron, or an old wooden chest until she found the coins or bills I needed. It would take me many years to understand what was hidden within that silence. It was not reluctance, but love expressed through quiet sacrifice, borne so gently that, to a child, it seemed effortless.
One fundraiser has remained in my memory more vividly than all the others. I asked my mother for one peso as though it were compulsory and carried it to school the next morning. When the collection began, I placed the coin into my teacher's hand with a quiet surge of pride, the kind that comes from being the first student in the class to contribute. I then glanced around the room, half expecting my classmates to follow my lead.
No one did.
I was the first to contribute. As it turned out, I was also the only one.
The pride faded almost as quickly as it had come. In a household like ours, one peso was far from insignificant. It represented far more than its monetary value. It was a small part of my mother's quiet and unspoken sacrifice, money she could have spent on our family's needs but willingly gave because her son had asked.
I sensed something I could not yet put into words. Regret arrived soon afterward. I could have remained silent. I could have kept the coin in my pocket and allowed the fundraiser to pass without anyone noticing. My mother would never have known the difference.
In truth, I had not given the money for the fundraiser. I had given it for myself. I wanted my teacher's eyes to rest on me. I wanted my classmates to notice me. More than anything, I wanted to become the person I imagined others admired. At the time, I did not fully understand my own motives. Looking back, I realize that what I longed for was not recognition itself, but the reassurance that I mattered.
That childhood mistake left behind a lesson I would only fully understand years later. Recognition should never become the reason we choose to do good. When our actions are driven primarily by the desire to impress others, especially when they come at the expense of someone else's sacrifice, their true value begins to fade. Looking back, I realized that my mother's generosity deserved far more respect than my desire for recognition. The most meaningful acts of kindness are often the quiet ones, offered freely without expecting praise, applause, or acknowledgment in return.
Too Ashamed to Sell Candies
Another incident from that year has remained vividly in my memory, although time has softened it into something I can now look back on with a faint smile.
One morning, my mother sent me to school with a small batch of homemade coconut candies to sell to my classmates. The idea appealed to me. There was a small commission for every piece I sold, and for a boy who counted every centavo, the opportunity to earn a little money was exciting.
But the moment I stepped into the classroom, my confidence quietly disappeared.
Somewhere in my young mind, selling those candies felt like revealing something I desperately wanted to keep hidden, that our family was not financially well off. After spending the entire school year trying to prove myself and earn the admiration of my teachers and classmates, I feared that selling candies would expose a different reality.
To my young mind, selling those candies felt humiliating. So I said nothing. The candies remained inside my school bag the entire day, untouched, unsold, and slowly softening in the afternoon heat. Opportunity after opportunity slipped away. Several times I almost gathered the courage to speak, but each time embarrassment held me back.
Only a few minutes before dismissal did I finally find enough courage to say something. Leaning toward a couple of classmates, I asked as casually as I could, "I have coconut candies. Would you like some?"
Notice what I left unsaid. I never told them the candies were for sale. I offered them as though I were simply sharing them, not helping my mother earn a little extra income. By the time I overcame my embarrassment, the school day was already ending, and the opportunity had all but disappeared.
When I arrived home, my mother was understandably disappointed. I had not sold a single piece. Several candies remained in my bag, untouched, which somehow made the failure feel even greater. Along with the unsold candies went the small commission I might have earned. My mother never scolded me. She did not have to. Her quiet disappointment spoke more loudly than words ever could.
Looking back, I now understand the irony. I was never ashamed of being poor. I was ashamed of being seen as poor, and those are not the same thing, even though they felt identical to me as a child. It took me many years to realize that there is dignity in honest work and no shame in helping one's family. The real mistake was never bringing the candies to school. It was allowing pride and embarrassment to outweigh my mother's quiet sacrifice, which had remained inside my school bag all day, waiting for me to find the courage to speak.
The Middle Child's Quiet Role
Growing up as the middle child in a large family came with its own silent realities. In our home, many things naturally flowed from the eldest to the youngest. Clothes, shoes, school supplies, and other belongings were rarely bought new for everyone. They were handed down from one child to the next until they had little life left to give. For many years, I simply accepted that this was how our family managed with what we had.
When the school bag I had inherited from my older brother finally gave way, its seams torn and its straps worn thin, my mother did not take me to a store to buy a new one. Instead, she sat down at her sewing machine. Using scraps of cloth, leftover fabric, and whatever materials she could find, she patiently stitched together a replacement, part by machine and part by hand. Piece by piece, those discarded remnants became something entirely new.
The finished bag looked unlike any other in my classroom. I carried it to school every day without saying much about where it had come from. A few classmates noticed how different it was, while others paid it little attention. At first, I felt self-conscious carrying it, believing it revealed more about our family's circumstances than I wanted others to know. But as time passed, that feeling gradually faded. I came to appreciate the bag, not because it resembled the ones sold in stores, but because it was something my mother had lovingly made with her own hands.
One afternoon, a neighborhood girl named Jica noticed my bag and smiled.
"Ninduta bag nimo, Uly, a!" she exclaimed.
"Your bag is really beautiful, Uly!"
I was caught completely by surprise. I had expected people to notice the bag because it was different, perhaps even to pity me for carrying something homemade. Instead, someone admired it.
That simple compliment changed the way I looked at my school bag. What I had once seen as a hint of our family's economy, became a reminder of something far more valuable: my mother's resourcefulness, creativity, and love. Looking back, I realize that the greatest things parents give their children are not always the newest or the most expensive. Sometimes they are the things made with by patient hands and silent sacrifices, carrying a value that no amount of money can ever replace.
The School Feeding Program
Those were the years of Martial Law under President Ferdinand Marcos. We were too young to understand politics or the forces shaping the country, but we sensed the weight of the times in the lives of the adults around us. Like children everywhere, we could feel that something was different, even if we could not yet explain what it was. Yet amid those difficult years, acts of kindness still found their way into our daily lives.
One of those came through the government's school feeding program. Public school pupils, particularly those who were undernourished or came from financially struggling families, were given Nutribun, a fortified bread usually served with a cup of powdered skim milk. On some occasions, yellow corn was also distributed. The program was a practical response to childhood malnutrition, providing many students with nourishment they might not otherwise receive during the school day.
The bread itself had a distinctive smell that children never forgot. To our young noses, it reminded us of the musty odor of corners where cockroaches often hid. As children do, we quickly turned that observation into a joke and nicknamed it pan de ok-ok, or "cockroach bread." We laughed about it among ourselves, yet when recess arrived, we still lined up without hesitation. Whatever we called it, it was still food, and for many children, it helped ease an empty stomach.
Ironically, the bread was never my favorite part. I enjoyed the powdered skim milk far more, and whenever yellow corn was available, I looked forward to that as well. To me, they tasted far better than the bread we jokingly teased.
Every recess, I joined the line together with my neighbors and classmates, Julius, Francisco, Roel, and Eulogio. There was no embarrassment and no hesitation. Although I was not always hungry, there was a simple practicality in accepting something that was freely given, especially in a family that had learned not to waste opportunities.
Looking back, I realize those lines represented something much greater than bread and milk. They reflected a society trying, in its own imperfect way, to care for its children. For some of my classmates, that simple meal may have been the most nourishing food they received that day. For me, it became a lasting reminder that kindness does not always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it comes in the form of a humble loaf of bread, a cup of milk, and the quiet dignity of standing together in the same line.
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