U.P. my beloved

Yes, I still remember 67-17677, my class number at the University of the Philippines. U.P. remains my beloved because what I am today and how I turned out to be, I owe largely to UP.

I was born, grew up and stayed within the confines of parochial Binondo until I got married. I was a product of the bastions of conservatism and ethnocentrism in my elementary and high school years. In grade school then, we still sang the Taiwan national anthem and in high school we were required to sing the “San Min Chu I” (Sun Yat Sen’s Three Principles of the People) in all school activities. Thus, it is a nightmare to imagine what if I had not gone to UP for my university education.

The three humble words “UP ang galing mo,” blared over and over again at the ceremonial kickoff to start the celebration of 100 years of UP last Jan. 8, evoked deep memories of how this academic institution has honed me into what I am.

The first two years of culture shock and identity crisis were traumatic! My Pinoy classmates were more intelligent, sophisticated, articulate and well off than those I knew in high school. The clash between my largely Binondo-Chinese upbringing and the very Filipino UP environment brought not a few anxieties. The students were very open, they could argue and openly make demands with the teachers and school authorities and wear anything they like. Except for P.E. classes, I had never worn shoes, only sandals and slippers, in my four years at UP – what a relief!

I was the only one among my high school classmates who entered UP who did not have to go through remedial classes in English. But, trained largely in rote memorization in high school, recitation in class was agonizing and I almost failed my speech class. Graduating from a Chinese school also did not prepare us for the rigors of reading, comprehending and writing coherently and clearly. This is why I remember my English classes above all because there was so much to learn and unlearn. Being a diligent student, I unlearned fast what was the wrong way of writing. Prof. Lilia Realubit, my English 5 teacher, brought us to Krus na Ligas to interview the indigent families and write essays about the experience. We held classes and discussions on the grass beside the small pool leading to Pavillion IV. We opened our eyes to the environment and the issues around us and were able to write relevant English expositions.

The third and fourth years were better. By then, I was the only Tsinoy in my political science classes. Clarita Reyes (now Carlos and past president of the National Defense College) taught the first subject, Introduction to Political Science, which was fortunate because it affirmed that my second choice for my course was right. (My first choice was medicine, which I know I could not afford and the scientific part of my brain cells were poorly developed). Reyes challenged us with difficult exams but her lectures were interesting, so she made up for the other “terror” teachers.

I recall Dodong Nemenzo (UP’s immediate past president) and his lectures on political theories. We listened mesmerized as he expounded on Marx and Lenin, often extending class hours until the students in the next class, impatiently waiting at the door, called his attention. He could tie up Plato’s Republic to Machiavelli and Mao Tze Tung’s People’s Republic. Had the military attended our classes then, all of us ardent students would have received the dreaded ASSO papers.

I recall Zeus Salazar bellowing in his deep bass: “History is being made outside. What are you doing inside the classroom?” It was my last year in UP, 1970-71, the height of student activism, first quarter storm, Diliman Commune. In short, the prelude to martial law. We didn’t have exams or papers then under Salazar ’because there were hardly any classes. Rallies, teach-ins, marches were the norm. Our only project in Salazar’s class was to translate the thick book,’“History of European Civilization,” into Filipino, type the pages in stencil and mimeograph them so that the textbook in Filipino could be used for the next school year.

I recall that the only reason I passed my final exam in Physics was the 20-point bonus the professor gave if we answered the test in Filipino. We labored hard to find the appropriate terms for laws of gravity, physical change, momentum and others which I don’t recall now. I so hated the subject.

Remigio Agpalo made us volunteer in the campaign headquarters of presidential candidates for our political science class and used William Golding’s Lord of the Flies as an introduction to our subject on interest groups and governance. Next to my main course in Political Science, all my cognates were in Anthropology and I enjoyed the field trips organized by Ponciano Bennagen and the readings in social anthropology assigned by Celia Antonio. I didn’t know then that I was destined to meet and marry an anthropologist.

Surviving UP was difficult, especially since I was a working student who had to tutor daily from six to nine in the evening. This meant that I got to do my own school work only after 10 pm. Despite the limited time to study, I had to maintain high grades to continue receiving the scholarship grant from the American Association of College Women, which paid for tuition and books. My father died when I was just 12 and there were 11 of us to raise so all of us older children were self-supporting in college. Many of my classmates did not believe then that I could not afford to give cash contributions to the cause, no matter how meaningful. What I earned from my part time job was sufficient to pay for transportation and food. Fortunately, there were no malls yet for “gimmicks” and Quiapo-Ilalim sufficed to provide our shopping needs.

I had to commute daily from Binondo to Diliman. Traffic was a breeze then and we could calculate travel time precisely – 15 minutes from Binondo to Quiapo by jeepney and another 45 minutes by bus from Quiapo to Diliman, early morning. Coming home took 10 to 15 minutes longer, but there were a lot of choices for bus rides: The JD, MD, and Yujuico buses plied the Quiapo-to-Diliman route regularly. I also learned the art of falling asleep as soon as I sat on the bus. It was my only chance to make up for the lack of sleep. The bus route was end to end so there was no problem whenever I fell asleep.

I learned about time management and strict study habits, apportioning time for the different subjects, for research, and for reports and papers. I saved time by eating my sandwiches in front of books, pad papers and index cards. The banana-cue stand behind the library was often my lunch counter. All the break time I had were spent at the library due to the volume of readings and papers we had to churn out for all subjects.

The most crucial lessons I learned came not just from the textbooks but from being exposed to discussions, colloquiums, teach-ins and lectures on burning social issues. We were the idealistic youth whose social consciousness was being jolted daily. It became our fervent desire to change society, the country, the world. We were desperate and impatient because change was slow in coming, but we had bright hopes for the future. The radical students among us were ready to take up arms and take the violent road to change. I recall the impassioned speeches of Ericson Baculinao who was later forced to hibernate in China because he was a most wanted student leader during martial law. I often wondered if he ever learned much from the People’s Communes there. Those were the days when we shouted ourselves hoarse: “Imperialismo ibagsak, pasismo ibagsak” and “Kung hindi ngayon, kailan? Kung hindi tayo, sino?”

I recall a female classmate and I running to intercept our male classmates who were armed only with molotov cocktails and pillboxes, ready to confront the military raiding party armed with machine guns. We cried as we urged them, “You have no chance. Withdraw now and live for another day, another fight.” I do not remember who those classmates were and what happened to them. A few of us used the Balara back exit to avoid the military trucks entering the front gates.

Going back to UP last Jan. 8 for the centennial kickoff brought these reminiscences of an era gone. Where is the fire of idealism now? Where is the change that we fought for? Many despair that it is energy and enthusiasm wasted for we are worse off today than yesterday. But, seeing my two children now, I can say that between my late husband (a professor at U.P. before he passed away) and me, we have rubbed off the right ideals on them. My eldest daughter, with her degree in education from Lesley University in Cambridge, Massachusetts, gave up higher pay in a private university and opted to teach part time at a public university and spend a lot of time training teachers and day care workers from obscure barrios, even up in farflung bundoks. She and her friends do much more in rocking the Philippines through education (www.rocked.Philippines) than some of our paid public servants. My son thanked me for sending him to UP even if most of his Xavier School barkada went to Ateneo. He teaches college Chemistry in UP, starting right after he graduated.

With the two of them as examples of our youth now, I can find some solace and hope that the fire in the centennial cauldron could kindle anew the fire in our hearts – that UP will remain steadfast in its role as the repository of the nation’s conscience and idealism.

The author is founding president of Kaisa Para sa Kaunlaran and president of the Kaisa Heritage Foundation.