I remember only two stories from those books. One was about a boy who liked to play with firecrackers. He was warned by his mother time and time again to be careful, but he was too stubborn. Bored with just lighting the firecrackers in open spaces, he experimented with the effects of the devices on various objects. He paid for his disobedience when a firecracker he lighted in a flowerpot sent shards of pottery flying, blinding him in one eye. The other story was of Jesus’s last meeting with his disciples. He promised them, “I shall be with you all days, even to the end of time.” That I remember these two stories in particular might be symbolic of how we, the Quimpo kids, grew up—between a sense of discipline and obedience, and an expectation of the coming of God’s kingdom.
(Susan)
MY FATHER POSSESSED such an air of authority that I always thought he was a very “large” man with a gruff voice. Actually, he was a mere five feet, four inches and probably weighed less than 120 pounds. One of my life’s earliest lessons was: “Do not do anything to anger your father.” Even at the age of three or four, I was aware of this. In fact, all of us siblings tried very hard to stay away from him. In our household, rules were rules; if you broke them, you’d get severely punished. The boys, in particular, had to learn this the hard way.
Ryan and Jun were the best of friends and the worst of enemies. When they fought, I knew it was best to stay away, lest I get hurt. When they were around nine and seven, they got into a fight, the reason for which I no longer remember. What I remember distinctly, though, was that they did not expect Dad to come home early from work that day. Adequately briefed by Mom on the boys’ latest misdemeanor, Dad whipped out his leather belt and stormed through the house shouting for them. The boys expertly sneaked outdoors and in a flash, Jun climbed up the huge mango tree, discreetly hiding in its thick foliage. Ryan sought to do the same, but with his polio-stricken legs, he could only use his arms to climb the first boughs of our little guava tree that was barely seven feet tall! I can still remember Ryan’s spindly legs sticking out of the clump of guava leaves while I cringed, expecting the worst. Dad, of course, spotted Ryan in no time and yelled for Jun to come out as well. Soon they were both behind closed doors; the thud of the leather belt on their buttocks alternated with incessant crying.
Everything had to be in place. There was no room for excess. Every centavo was accounted for long before my father surrendered his pay envelope. And for my parents, there was no room for leisure. Through it all, Mom held the delicate balance—my father’s stubborn pride, the many children to feed and clothe, the exorbitant tuition, and Ryan’s medical needs. Despite the challenges, Mom made the house at 538 Second Street a home.
It was the home where Lillian had the habit of adopting stray kittens. She nursed them in a shoebox and fed them milk dispensed from an eyedropper. It was also where Lys groomed Duke, a handsome German Shepherd, a gift from a kind monk from San Beda College. Lys would send the dog after street urchins who scaled our fence and wrought-iron gate, coveting the ripe fruit in the trees in the yard. The fruit trees were always a cause for contention. My siblings would spend hours peering at the tree branches in search of a new clump of mangoes or the ripest guavas. They yelled “reserved” or “save” to claim that which was yet beyond reach. Then, when the fruits ripened, they would entice the fruit to fall with sticks and stones, and thereafter resume their fight for ownership.
It was at 538 Second Street where my mother taught her girls to sew—mending rips and holes on my father’s shirt collars and sock heels. She showed me how to stretch the ripped sections over bended knee, and weave the frayed edges into submission with needle and thread.
It was home to our many pets—the turkey and occasional chickens we would fatten before my mother would slit their throats and dip them in hot water to loosen their feathers. It was in this house where our pet turtle disappeared during a typhoon. When the flood waters subsided, we cried, having found the turtle box empty. But Mom assured us that the turtle was fine and living close by, happily enjoying its newfound freedom.
The Lee family, who lived above us, were the best of neighbors. They had a TV set, a car, bikes, skates, and most importantly, a generous nature. Whatever toys our parents could not provide us, the Lees shared with us. The Lee children were the same ages as some of my siblings, and ties were quickly cemented. One of the highlights of living on Second Street was the wedding of one of the Lee daughters. The entire neighborhood gawked in disbelief when the groom’s parents brought TV sets, a refrigerator, and a complete set of bedroom and living room furniture as dowry. We thought the Lees were the richest people on earth.
At home in Second Street are Ryan (left) and Jan (rear), with Lys and Susan (1964).
It was soon after that wedding that the Lees announced they were moving. After they left, the second floor of the house remained unoccupied. Our landlord refused to lease it to someone else. In fact, he regretfully told my mother that we also had to leave. It was too costly to try to maintain the old house, he said, and he was trying to sell it. He generously allowed us to stay while my mother searched for another abode.
IT TURNED OUT to be a long search since my parents could not afford to pay higher rent. We could not move farther from my siblings’ schools—without a car, it would be difficult to take Ryan to San Beda. The best Mom could find was a cramped two-bedroom apartment on a neighboring street called Concepción Aguila.
The old wooden house on 538 Second Street was demolished soon after we left. The new owner ordered the fruit trees felled, and the wrought-iron gate and fence were replaced by a high cement wall. Then a small building was erected, maximizing the space within the walls, leaving no room for a yard or a vegetable patch. We heard that the new owner earned a lot of money renting out rooms to students who attended San Beda and Holy Ghost College. I would often walk by Second Street, reminiscing about the fruit trees and the big yard and wondering how the turtle we lost in the big flood was faring.
PART II
WINDS OF CHANGE
The First Activist in the Family
4
NORMAN F. QUIMPO
I REMEMBER MY BROTHER JAN best from his late high school and early college days. Jan (Ronald to people outside the family) came to live with my wife, Bernardita (Bernie) Azurin, and me in our Albany Street apartment in Quezon City’s Cubao district. He had just dropped out of school to become a full-time activist and had nowhere else to go. Strangely enough, the events that made Jan decide to leave school were the same ones that had led us to move to that apartment.
UP students barricade the main road to the campus at the start of the Diliman Commune, February 1971. (Photo from the Lopez Memorial Museum Collection)
Bernie and I were married in 1968 and spent the first two years of our married life on a side road off Kamias Street, also in Quezon City. Number 101-A, K-10 Street, was perfect for a newly married couple. The neighborhood was quiet, the apartment was new, with two bedrooms nicely paneled with narra, and it cost us only P150 a month. I had my first job (and, as it would turn out, my last because I would never move) teaching mathematics at Ateneo de Manila University, which earned me a monthly salary of P450. Bernie was working at Tri-Media News (the cluster made up of dzHP radio, Channel 13 TV, and the Philippines Herald newspaper) and earning more than P300 a month. For us, those were fabulous sums. After setting aside money for monthly expenses, we still had a tidy amount left over. The cozy Kamias apartment was the symbol of a secure beginning to our married life. So why did we abandon that apartment for a walled-in though larger dwelling in a busy city center?
We moved out of our Kamias apartment in 1970. That fateful year, our hopes for a prosperous future began to look like escapist fantasies. Marcos’s reelection and the explosion of student demonstrations conjured up a picture