By Rex Catubig

 

I went to school in our barrio for my primary grades—from grade one to grade four. Kindergarten was unheard of. Upon reaching seven years old, you are automatically grade one. Which for me was an unsettling experience. Suddenly, I was thrust into an unfamiliar environment, thrown into a den of the same age I hardly knew.

Going to school was an uncharted foray. It meant walking through a narrow pathway lined with open drainage to the walk-up school building squatting humbly on the riverbank.

Despite my misgiving, I gained a couple of friends right away. Teofilo Jacob and Victoriano Daligdig were from Lomboy and Salapingao, fishpond barrios yonder. Each morning, Victoriano would pass by my house which bordered Laki Leoncio’s fishpond and together we would walk to school, stopping by briefly at the open schoolyard, to buy five-centavo bowl of steaming, achuete colored pancit sabaw of Nana Binyang—Nanay of our classmate Vicente, nicknamed Pillayot, a corruption of “piley” or cripple which described his polio stricken legs.

We were a closely knit group—bonded by the rote recitation of Caton–classmates in grade one, and the next year and the year thereafter.

But after grade four, we had to transfer to either the Carael Elementary School, in the adjacent barrio, or at the West Central Elementary School, in the población across the river.

It was to be a whole new world of classmates—and friends.

As a transferee from the barrio to the WCES in the city, I was certainly an odd man out, the “mo” in “eenie meenie miney”. It did not help that my English had a thick accent that the girls snickered at.

But there was one who was more accepting of my barrio origin than the snotty rest. He was Arturo Ramirez and he easily became my buddy. I survived the last two years of elementary grades partly because of his friendship.

We grew even closer in high school where we enjoyed hanging out at the Reyna mansion, jamming Beatles songs with a now bigger circle of friends.

But we parted ways after high school graduation since we went to different schools in Manila, getting together only during summer vacation.

After college, we got totally separated. Art and other classmates chose to start life in the US.  We got reconnected again when I visited the States.

He was very accommodating to all our classmates who visited him. His cooking was legendary. Stories abound how he would serve a thirty-pound lobster. His table spread was worthy of royalty and his beef tapa was to die for.

Yet for all his magnanimity towards others, he was unkind to himself. Something gnawed at his heart and soul, and he slowly withdrew and withered.  Even his marriage sadly ended.

The year he died, after having been a recluse, I got through him on the phone. He was uncharacteristically excited and was full of plans–for early retirement and settling back home.

I couldn’t have second guessed that within a few months, would bring the shocking news of his death, not in the warm comfort of his home but in the damp nook of his urban nightmare.  Despite his gregariousness in life, he died a lonesome, solitary death, clutching at the dream his demons wrestled off him.

May the memory of our friendship bring you rest.

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