Arch of the Centuries

Graduation season is in full swing, and for those graduating from my alma mater — UST — it’s time for the much-awaited Baccalaureate Mass and the traditional walk through the Arch of the Centuries.

On my graduation year, I missed attending the batch Baccalaureate Mass.

I was the Editor-in-Chief (EIC) of the Thomasian Engineer Journal 1996 . There had been a last-minute push to produce a college batch yearbook, and volunteer staffers were scarce. I became it's default editor and producer. The engineering department heads were hesitant to support the project, doubting if it can be delivered on time.  As EIC, I gave my word: the yearbooks would be issued before graduation day (and an added note to self: come hell or high water). We were working on a very tight schedule, and I had to use every ounce of my convincing (and micro-managing) powers to ensure that publishers met the deadline.

We were racing against time. Deadlines loomed, details mattered, and every decision counted. I poured everything I had into making it happen, convincing and pushing everyone — including myself — beyond our limits. In the end, I chose to skip the Baccalaureate Mass to honor the commitment I made.

The yearbooks were delivered as promised. I had no regrets on what I had to miss.

The Baccalaureate was a once-in-a-lifetime event. A celebration of everything we had worked so hard for. But deep down, I also knew this: missing it would not make the conclusion of my college years less significant. It does not make me less of who  I am. I had clarity. I knew what I wanted, where I needed to go, and the kind of road I was willing to take to get there.

And sometimes, that certainty — that quiet fire inside — is what mattered most. You forge ahead and leave regrets behind.

 Congratulations Batch 2025, especially to the Thomasian Engineers!

 P.S.: After 22 years since we graduated, Alvin and I had our moment under the Arch of Centuries.

Proud Tomasinong Inhinyero

My Life at the Barrio: Where the Lake Meets the Hills

I spent a good half of my pre-married adult life in Binangonan, Rizal. I was in my teens when we moved from Cubao, Quezon City to Rizal.

Binangonan used to be part of the larger administrative area known as the Distrito Politico-Militar de Morong during the Spanish colonial period. Binangonan has a unique geography, being both lakeside and partly mountainous. The Binangonan hills are part of the Sierra Madre mountain range. Its early inhabitants were fishermen and inland dwellers who focused more on agriculture and raising farm animals.

Construction of our future home in Barangay Tayuman began in the early 80s. We didn’t own a car, so the jeepney ride from Cubao to Tayuman took about 45 minutes. It was a breezy drive along a seemingly endless highways, lined with tall shrubs and, now and then, piles of gravel, sand, and hollow blocks marking future subdivisions along Cainta and Taytay. The cool breeze against your face was a welcome relief from the humid city air.

The Manila East Road overlooks Laguna de Bay, and I loved watching the lake as the jeepney passed by into Tayuman. In the early '80s, jeepneys and mini buses were the only public utility vehicles making trips from Cubao, Pasig, and Mandaluyong. Tricycles could take you to nearby Angono, where the closest public market, church, and schools were located. By the early '90s, RRCG buses started operating, and by the late '90s, P2P vans began servicing routes to SM Megamall, and Makati CBD via what would later become Bonifacio Global City. I saw the pre-BGC area of Taguig being dredged to make way for skyscrapers and commercial establishments.

We moved to Rizal in summer of 1987. The contrast between rural life and the city didn’t unsettle me, though it was far from our urban life in Cubao.

I recall that in the early 80s, the road called Barrio Road, which led to our home at the C.O.D. Compound, was dusty and rocky during dry seasons, and muddy—and nearly impassable—during rainy months. Electricity was just starting to reach a few households, and chlorinated water and telephone lines were unheard of. By the late '80s, a deep well station was installed within the compound, which was fortunately for us, 20 meters away from our house. PLDT reached Tayuman in the early '90s, as population growth made installing phone lines viable. Internet and cable TV arrived in the early 2000s.

The nearest store was at least 100 meters from our house. We had only a few neighbors, and most were hidden by tall cogon shrubs. Our house was built along the perimeter of the compound, with a vast stretch of uninhabited land and a small duck farm behind it. A cluster of nipa huts sat in the middle of the land, looking more like a farm than a neighborhood. Life in the countryside was slow, simple, and far removed from the luxuries of the city—but it was home, and a place my parents could finally call their own. A mango tree grew in our backyard in the early 90s and this tree continue to give gifts until this very day.

During the pre-internet summers, children played siato, flew giant paper kites, joined bingo games (winning ₱1 for a blackout!), played taguan under the full moon, and enjoyed volleyball matches. I tried joining these games, but I was never good at any of them! Summer also meant community basketball tournaments for teenage boys and fathers.

Before sunset, my brother and I took turns fetching and storing water from the community well, watering plants, and preparing dinner. Life was simple—sometimes boring, even uneventful.

Every New Year’s Eve, the community would gather at the plaza for a potluck party. There were games and programs. I was in college when I started helping organize these events. Looking back, the once-shy girl in me finally broke out of her shell, learned to take charge, and found her voice.

As I got busier with college, then graduated and started working in Makati, my involvement in the community waned. After I got married, I continued to visit my parents and witnessed how our sleepy neighborhood gradually transformed. Subdivisions and townhouses lined Barrio Road, and convenience stores and two-story commercial buildings stood where idle fields used to be.

With both my sisters now living oversees, I’m the only one who saw these transformations firsthand.

I still visit Ma and Dada as often as I can. They’re now in the twilight of their lives but living comfortably and debt-free in the house they can proudly call their own. These days, when I’m home in Rizal, I wistfully look at the porch—once just an open patch of soil and gravel—where I used to sit under the stars, patiently writing my literary pieces during summer nights.

When I look out, I still see remnant memories of our old community—the people I grew up with, the quiet, uneventful but deeply satisfying life we once had, the luxury of open space and time on your hands. 

And just like the old times, the inspiration to write has returned. And so, here we are.

View of Binangonan's Talim Island from CALAX

Our Home.
The view of the mountain range has now been obscured
by the trees and houses.

On a clear day, the view of lakeside Rizal
is visible from Bicutan leading to C6 road.

View of the Laguna de Bay and Binangonan mainland
from the top of the lakeside hills. 

 

A Tribute for My Mother

 My mother began working at 17 when grandfather died unexpectedly in his early 40s, leaving behind my grandmother and seven children. My lola does not work and due to hard times, my mother was unable to finish school. She took on the responsibility of earning a living to help support the entire family.

She started as a salesclerk in a famous department store in Cubao and, through hard work, rose to become a Section Head. I spent much of my childhood in that place too.

I grew up knowing that my mother is the working mom type.  At the same time, she managed our household with stay-in helpers in our early years. But as time passed, it became harder to find reliable help. By my teenage years, when we moved to the rural countryside, my mother and I managed the household ourselves. 

 In the early 1990s, she took early retirement and, together with my father, focused on growing their small-scale, home-based business making nursery and children’s bags.

 During summer vacations, I would accompany her to Divisoria to buy raw materials. Without a private vehicle, we endured long, hot commutes, carrying heavy loads. We used to have lunch at Jollibee with an extra treat of chocolate sundae and that will be the highlight of my hot, dusty day.

 I have never seen my mother back down from any challenge life threw at her. With limited means, she worked tirelessly to give her children a better life and not endure the same hardships she went through due to limited opportunities. She ensured we attended private schools and completed our college education at reputable universities. Beyond our family, she also played an active role in our small community.

 Even after retiring completely from managing the home-based business, she remained active—both physically and mentally. She continued to be present in our lives.

 Now, in her mid-70s, she still handles her banking, manages household expenses, and even embraces technology. She used Facebook Marketplace to declutter the house, sold items she no longer needed. She enjoys tending to her garden and has taken in orphaned cats, all despite having had knee surgery several years ago.

 I have watched my mother live through and overcome frustrations and sadness with unwavering strength—just like her favorite basketball team’s motto: "Never say die."

 Looking back on her life and the many stories I have had the privilege of knowing as the eldest child, I know that my sisters and I grew into the strong, resilient women we are today because of her. Strength is in our DNA, passed down through our mother, the life she has lived, the battles she won and showed us how.

 Thank you, Ma. I know this isn’t nearly enough.

 I choose to honor you now, while you’re here to see it—not someday, when my words can only drift into emptiness.

 Thank you for all that you have sacrificed and done for us, Ma.