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different schools, Jan among them, expressed their indignation at the death of Sontillano and announced another rally to protest.

      When Dad and Mom finally got to see Jan, he admitted that he had been at the rally where Sontillano was killed. But he didn’t tell them what a close call he had had. Their entreaties could not dissuade Jan from attending the indignation rally. He had to be there, not least because he was one of those who had recruited Sontillano into the Malayang Katipunan ng Kabataan (MKK). Norman recalls having tucked away in a book somewhere the MKK application form that Sontillano had filled out. As his reason for joining MKK, Sontillano had written: “To help the country.”

      After Sontillano’s death, virtually the entire student population of PSHS boycotted their classes. Boycotts were already common at PSHS in 1970, not only related to national issues but also because of the abominable physical conditions at the school and its dorm. This latest boycott stretched for days and weeks, with no end in sight. Instead of going to school, the students participated in rally after rally, march after march, at UP, at Plaza Miranda, in the University Belt. As the classrooms stayed empty, scores of PSHS activists became instant full-timers, giving up school to concentrate on the radical movement. Jan was among them.

      IN THE WEEK leading up to the anniversary of the First Quarter Storm, rumors spread that violence was likely to erupt at the commemorative rally slated for January 25. A few days before the rally, Dad and Mom drove over to Cervini Hall in Dad’s dilapidated Ensign for their regular weekend visit, bringing with them my weekly allowance, my laundry, and some snacks. Since it was already late and they still had to visit Jan at his boarding house, we talked in the parking lot of Cervini. They quickly brought up the January 25 rally. I sensed that the moment I dreaded had come.

      “Are you thinking of going to the rally?” Dad asked.

      “Yes,” I said.

      “It isn’t safe for you to go,” Mom said, “There’s going to be violence again.” Just the week before, four demonstrators had been killed at a rally protesting the increase of oil prices at Plaza Miranda.

      “You had better not go,” Dad declared emphatically. It wasn’t a suggestion. He was forbidding me from attending the rally.

      I found myself arguing with Dad in a virtual reenactment of Jan’s exchanges with him. Like Jan, I assured them that I could take care of myself, but they were unconvinced. When Dad told me to focus on my studies, I answered, “But I’m doing all right in my studies. I’m on the dean’s list. I’ve always been able to keep a good balance between my academics and my extracurricular activities.”

      “Demonstrations and rallies—you call those extracurricular? Pretty soon you’ll be neglecting your studies and you’ll lose your scholarship. You could even be kicked out of school. Look at Jan. He may not even finish high school!” We continued to argue without getting anywhere. Hoping to end the discussion, I said, “Dad, I still intend to go to the rally.”

      “Why are you so stubborn?”

      I refused to give in and just stopped talking. Dad continued lecturing me for a while. Finally, as I still kept silent, he warned, “If you go, you will never set foot in the house again.” With that parting shot, he got in the car and drove off with Mom. She had tears in her eyes. So did I.

      Afterwards, I felt scared. What if Dad really meant what he said? The modest two-bedroom apartment on Concepción Aguila Street was a cramped dwelling for a large family like ours, but it was home. I would not know where else to go and how to support myself. My roommates Bogs, Pedro, and Kiko tried to console me.

      The rally was peaceful. I saw Jan there. As I suspected, he too had been warned that he would not be allowed to go home again if he went to the rally. He wasn’t as worried as I was. He was already a full-timer, but I wasn’t prepared to become one.

      A WEEK LATER, Mom came to Cervini alone, commuting by bus and jeepney, to bring my allowance, laundry, and snacks. Ryan, who knew more about her preparations for these visits, observed that for these solo trips she would wait until Dad left for work, rush out to see Jan and me, and then hurry back to prepare lunch for Dad at home. This time she carried two shopping bags—one filled with my things, the other with Jan’s. We didn’t talk about the rally or about activism. “Your dad is still quite angry,” she said, “but he’ll come around.” She had a worried look on her face. After visiting me, she went to see Jan at his boarding house.

      Mom came to visit me again after the tumultuous week of the jeepney strike, the Diliman Commune, and the barricade across Katipunan Avenue at Ateneo’s Gate 3. Again she had two shopping bags with her. We talked about the Diliman Commune—she had read a lot about it in the papers, especially about the killing of the freshman, Pastor Mesina. I assumed that, together with other PSHS students, Jan had taken an active part in the Diliman Commune. I suddenly recalled having read in the papers that Mesina was a 1970 PSHS graduate. Jan must have known him personally. I tried to imagine how Jan and other PSHS students would have reacted to the news. The slaying of Mesina, coming just two months after the killing of Sontillano, must have further stoked their anger.

      Perhaps Mom wanted me to say something about Jan’s activities at the Diliman Commune. I told her, truthfully, that I hadn’t seen him or talked with him since the January 25 rally.

      When Mom asked what I had been doing during the week, I told her about our barricade across Katipunan, sparing her the details. “Take care,” she said. She didn’t try to dissuade me from further involvement in activism; perhaps she realized that it was useless to do so.

      The following weekend, Dad was with her. Perhaps he had found out (as Ryan suggests) about Mom’s secret visits and did not want her to suffer any more. Dad was silent most of the time. Jan and I were able to go home again afterwards and a bit of normalcy returned to Concepción Aguila.

      THE LAST TWO weeks of August 1971 were hectic and tense, with the Ateneo workers’ strike, the Plaza Miranda bombing, Marcos’s suspension of the writ of habeas corpus, and my arrest and overnight detention in Marikina jail together with three others. I had not told Dad of my arrest. As far as I knew, no one in the family had ever been arrested before, not even for the slightest misdemeanor. However, in early September, just two days after the end of the workers’ strike, he learned about it in perhaps the worst possible way.

      I had just returned to Cervini Hall from class when I was called to the office of Fr. Pio de Castro, the dean of resident students. You have a visitor, I was told. Since it was a weekday, I sensed something was wrong. Upon arriving at the office, my heart sank. Dad was there, seated across from Fr. Pio.

      “Pack up your things,” Dad ordered me. “All your things. You won’t be coming back here.”

      It immediately became clear that I was being evicted from Cervini. I knew my dormitory scholarship could have been in jeopardy, but I thought I would at least have the chance to defend myself. But the decision had been made.

      As I packed up my things, I prepared myself for a dressing down—or worse. The drive home took less than an hour, but it seemed much longer. Dad was quiet throughout the trip, but he was smoldering inside. Perhaps he was reserving the upbraiding for later when we reached home. Would he send me out of the house? Where would I go?

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