The Day I Walked Home

    I was 9 years old and too tender, perhaps, for the following events that I'll be narrating to you. This happened in the year 1969 when Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin  and Michael Collins had journeyed through the outer space and had conquered the moon.  On July 20, 1969, Armstrong and Aldrin stepped on the moon by making that famous "giant leap for mankind" a reality.  It was also during this time that the First Quarter Storm which was a series of civil protest actions against the US-Marcos regime was brewing and had culminated in January 30, 1970 where 50,000 students and laborers stormed the Malacanang Palace but were later repulsed and dispersed by the Philippine Constabulary through volley of gunshots and teargas grenades leaving 4 people dead and scores from both sides were injured.  Such events would eventually led to Marcos' declaration of Martial Law on September 11, 1972. A dictatorship that would last for almost 14 years until it was toppled by people power's revolution in February 20 - 24, 1986.

    I  was studying at Apolinario Mabini Elementary School in Quiapo, Manila when I experienced growing up a few inches taller in matter of hours. One day, our school had a field trip to different historical places such as the Fort Santiago where our national hero Jose Rizal was incarcerated in 1896 by the Spanish regime at the time we were still a colony of Spain.  I was awed examining items actually used and touched by Rizal during his lifetime which included his pen and the lamp he used while writing "Mi Ultimo Adios" (My Last Farewell) at his cell the night before he was shot by firing squad.  A copy of his book "Noli Me Tangere" (Touch Me Not) which triggered the Philippine revolution against Spain in 1898 was also prominently displayed in a glass box.  I was so engrossed marveling on Rizal's greatness that I didn't notice I lost my wallet until we were back at the school.

  Without any money I was faced with the prospect of walking home which was a good nine kilometer walk from Quiapo to San Francisco del Monte in Quezon City! Should I borrow money from my classmates or my teachers? But I was to shy to ask and was afraid of being turned down. What would young Jose Rizal do in situation like this, I mused. I decided I would take my chance with the bus driver. I walked to the bus stop at Plaza Miranda in front of  Quiapo Church, where people were bustling everywhere, plying their wares of herbal medicines, roots for abortion, sweepstakes tickets and some fortune tellers haggling for the price of fortunes they could foretell from their tarot cards. There were some who were entering the church, down on their knees going to the altar of the Black Nazarene begging for some favors and probably forgiveness of their sins. Every time a bus would stop, I would look at the driver's face searching for clues if he was the kind to give a free ride to some hapless kid but none of them passed my criterion.  After awhile, I told myself boldly, "Well, if I can't get a ride home, I am going to walk home."

    I knew it was not going to be a walk in the park.  Although I knew the route by heart, it was from the bus vantage point and so when I reached the underpass leading to Espana Boulevard I had to find another way since no pedestrians were allowed. Instead, I passed through the university belt along Claro M Recto Avenue and then turned to Morayta Street passing through the Far Eastern University down to Espana Blvd. Every now and then I would noticed several groups of riot police holding shields in one hand and truncheons on the other hand standing by waiting for some actions.  The media were buzzing about holding interviews and pointing their cameras here and there.  Several fire trucks were placed block the road leading to Mendiola Bridge which was the gateway to the Malacanang Palace.  I trudged along, passing through the University of Santo Tomas up to the Welcome circle which is the boundary between Manila and Quezon City. It was in Espana where I met hundreds of college students and workers who were marching toward Mendiola where they would stage their protest rally.  They were shouting and carrying placards with slogans like "Down with US Imperialism" and "Marcos: Puppet of the US".  I merrily watched their parade and wondered why they were carrying a red flag and why they were shouting angrily which unnerved me a bit.

    I continued walking down Quezon Avenue and there were several instances that cars would suddenly screech to a stop to avoid hitting me especially at intersections.  Once in a while I would stop to drink for I was perspiring and I would get really thirsty. Good thing, my mom put sandwiches and extra juice in my backpack that morning before I left for the field trip. After few minutes of rest I would continue walking down the road.  It took me almost two hours before I reached home and my mom who was anxiously waiting at the front gate of our house was so glad to see me.  I told her the whole story of how I lost my money and that I could not take a bus ride and that I had to walk all the way home.  So as not to alleviate her concern, I made no mention of the protest rally and the riot squads I had seen along the way.  My mom who was relieved to see that I have no scratches and that I’m all right looked me in the eyes and advised me not to be shy in asking someone for help.  She told me that I should have asked those bus drivers and they would surely allow me to hitch a ride.  Maybe, they would have, I thought, but I was glad I walked for I was able to go home and at that moment I was standing tall.

    After dinner, at the early evening news, right there on the TV screen I saw the group of students and workers being violently dispersed by the riot police squad wielding truncheons and shooting water cannons from the fire truck.  The protesters fighting back throwing stones, pill box and Molotov cocktail bombs to the police.  It was a battle zone out there and I felt a chill running down my spine and suddenly I didn't feel that tall anymore.