A Day in the Life of a High School Senior at Holy Cross of Mintal

The sun was already bright when we turned into the road leading to Holy Cross of Mintal. Being a high school senior felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and a playground at the same time. I walked with the usual crew, Rodel Garsuta, Dante Plete, and John Elmer Capricho, trading small talk and half-serious jokes as if the future weren’t pressing in from every direction.

Gatekeepers in fatigue uniforms

Before we could even think of classrooms and blackboards, we had to pass through the first checkpoint: the school gate. There, in full command presence, was Rowena Carbona, the CAT Commanding Officer of the day, with deputies Mitzi Espellarga and Romeo Caintoy flanking her. In neatly pressed fatigued uniforms and shiny scabbards and belt buckles, they functioned less like students and more like human turnstiles.

Standard white uniforms had to be neatly worn, no lazy untucked shirts allowed for boys. Girls’ socks needed to be plain and proper; colored ones were an instant mark for a warning. School ID’s had to hang visibly on our chests, not buried in bags.

We knew the drill. It was a quiet understanding that this strictness was part of the school’s religious upbringin and culture. We also knew, though no one said it outright, that this routine saved the school from hiring guards with shotguns. Discipline and security were outsourced to teenagers in fatigue uniforms and whistle lanyards. Somehow, it worked. The gate felt as safe as any guarded entrance, and there was a strange pride in knowing we were policing ourselves while preserving the school’s bottomline.

Benches, last‑minute homework, and TV talk

Once through, another kind of waiting began. It wasn’t time for classes yet. The rooms stayed locked until the morning rites were finished, so students collected at benches and in patches of shade. That early, you could see who’d done their homework and who was scrambling to copy answers. Notebooks passed from hand to hand like contraband. At the same time, someone would bring up last night’s TV episode of Maalaala Mo Kaya or some random show, and a small circle would form around the storyteller.

Morning prayer, flag ceremony, and Sister Elnora’s mic

By 7:30 a.m., the easy chatter dissolved as everyone arranged themselves for the morning ceremony: one line for boys and another for girls, right in front of our classrooms. The sequence was familiar: opening prayer, flag ceremony, then whatever Sister Elnora Taparan, our school director, had prepared or improvised for the day. I like her leadership. She was a presence you couldn’t ignore; part spiritual leader, part disciplinarian, and occasionally, stand-up comic.

Her talks could swing quickly from light to heavy. On some days she’d share a small joke that rippled through the lines; on others she would fire scathing commentary at students she’d heard were smoking outside campus.

And then there were the legendary stories: the time she wondered aloud how hard someone’s kidney stones were supposed to be, that they allegedly broke the toilet bowl in the boys’ comfort room. We never knew how much was exaggerated, but the message was clear — she apparently saw everything, or at least her spies extended her vision. I was the intelligence officer but admit to relaying no information of such nature to her office.

The announcement that broke my heart and moving on

That morning, her announcement hit me like a bucket of cold water. The school, she said, would not be participating in the Division Schools Press Conference. Just like that. No buildup, no long justification. For most students, it was just another item in a long list of announcements. For me, it was a quiet heartbreak.

Holy Cross had done well in creative writing and news writing in past years. I had looked forward to our chance this time, especially after reading the latest edition of The Crossroads last year. I had imagined myself in that world—scribbling leads, editing copy, seeing my name in print alongside my classmates. Now the door was closed. I stood in line, face blank, while inside, my disappointment was doing laps.

But if there’s one thing adolescence trains you for, it’s pretending. By the time the ceremony ended and we were dismissed to our classrooms, I’d already redirected my energy. If we couldn’t join the Division Schools Press Conference, I’d make sure our own paper lived. That year, I resolved to push out the first and only issue of The Crossroads.

The banner story practically wrote itself: the conquest of Holy Cross of Mintal over Philippine Science High School in a friendly basketball game. It felt like more than just a sports result. Four years earlier I had quietly resented missing the chance to study there, because its Mindanao campus was established just as I finished grade school and Mintal Elementary School was never notified or invited to send its graduates to take the exam. Our victory on the court felt, in a small way, like settling an old score.

Around that main story, I imagined sprinkling a series of trivia—little sparks to catch a reader’s eye and maybe make them pause between classes.

Did you know Nolan Ryan holds the Major League Baseball record for the most strikeouts?
Did you know hearing is the last sense to remain before death?
Did you know an estimated 85 billion people have ever lived on Earth?

I took pride later on when I heard that Ms. Stephanie Gimena—then a teacher and the future school director—was discussing the school paper with her freshman class of St. Bernadette. She supposedly pointed at me in the corridor and introduced me as the editor in chief who helped compose the six-page issue. For a boy who once just wanted to join the Division Schools Press Conference, that recognition, even secondhand, felt like its own quiet award.

Not all of Sister Elnora’s announcements carried disappointment. Some days she would read out the honor roll, then ceremoniously hand over report cards: white for first honors, red for second, and other colors cascading down the hierarchy. Then, with a final wave of her hand, she dismissed us all to our respective rooms.

Ma’am Recla’s trash can sermon

Inside the classroom, another kind of sermon awaited us. Mrs Gumersinda Recla, our class adviser, had an eye for both theatrics and principle. One morning she dragged the trash bin and parked it right on the adviser’s table. It was a visual statement, and she delivered the speech to match. He lamented how, for supposed grown-up teenagers and honor students, we couldn’t be bothered to take responsibility for something as simple as emptying the bin.

The class had the presumptive valedictorian and a handful of other top performers, but Ma’am Recla’s point was as sharp as the tone of her voice: excellence in grades didn’t automatically translate to leadership in chores. The moment stung, but it stuck.

The rest of the morning unfolded in the usual rhythm of subjects and short breaks, layered over with the invisible weight of our futures. It was the season for university visits. Representatives from colleges came to our campus, dropping into senior classrooms to promote their courses. Today, a visitor from the University of Mindanao was making the rounds, stepping into each of the three senior sections.

Their talks were familiar: carefully rehearsed lines about business, education, engineering, nursing, and a dozen paths we had only the vaguest images of. What struck me most was how few of us actually knew what we wanted. We listened, took brochures, nodded politely, and yet walked away with the same question marks floating above our heads.

There were no aptitude tests to plot our strengths against our interests in any scientific way. What we had were grades, anecdotes, family advice, and whatever we happened to be good at in class. My CSAT result was a perfect example. I had scored in the 99+ percentile in Mathematics, something that looked impressive on paper and sounded even better when whispered among relatives. But a high percentile rank doesn’t whisper back what you should be.

Should I go into medicine because everyone knows doctors are respected? Should I pursue engineering because math came easily? The numbers labeled ability; they didn’t guarantee direction in college life.

“Moon River” and Mother Rivier

We had other visitors too. That UM visitor, probably a dean from an engineering program, walked into our room with a casual air that clashed with the seriousness of our routine. At one point, it seemed he might light a cigar right there in the classroom, and we weren’t sure if we should be scandalized or amused. He looked at the board where our section name, “Mother Rivier,” was written and asked what it meant. We explained she was the founder of the Presentation of Mary, the congregation running our school. He nodded, then without warning, broke into a short rendition of “Moon River.”

Half the class chuckled. I stood there in disbelief. To have a visitor turn it into a punchline felt oddly disrespectful. Maybe he meant no harm. Maybe this was his idea of humor. But in that moment, I caught a glimpse of how casually adults could treat symbols that meant something deeper to us.

UPCAT excitement at Davao City High

Beyond those visits, there was the quiet, individual battle of entrance exams. For the UPCAT, I think it was only Warlito and I who went to take the exam at Davao City High School a few months earlier. I remember that day clearly. At the time, I had to take excuse from one of our NCEE review sessions with Mr Felix Reconalla, as he jokingly told a classmate, “Borgs” (Bernardo Caparoso), aren’t you taking your UPDOG exams today?”

I spotted Ray, a former first-year classmate who was now studying at SPED. Inside the room, I found myself seated next to Ma. Theresa Yulo from Philippine Women’s College and Harold Daron, who would later become my classmate at UIC and who, sadly, has recently passed away.

One of the questions on the test came straight out of a “Laughter, The Best Medicine” joke from Reader’s Digest — something I had read from my father’s old collection. The moment I recognized it, a quiet confidence washed over me. That, at least, I was sure I got right, and maybe it was a sign I punched my card into the country’s premier educational institution.

Later, near the Principal’s office, the future appeared again, but this time, in ink. Sheets of paper listing results from various universities were pinned up on the bulletin board. Among them was the list from the University of the Philippines for those who took the UPCAT at Davao City High School. There weren’t so many of us who took the exam so as I approached the “C”s. And then I saw it, my name, next to “Chemical Engineering, UP Los Baños.”

For a few seconds, the noise around me dulled. I read it again to be sure there wasn’t another student with the same surname. There wasn’t. It was me. I had passed. A strange mix of thrill and disbelief flooded in. I imagined telling my family, seeing their faces, and the conversations that would follow: about leaving Mintal, about costs, about what it meant to study in UP. For now, I kept the news in my chest like a pocket of warm air.

Classes, daydreams, and drifting attention

Despite all that, the day still had to be lived period by period. Advanced Algebra demanded concentration, even if some of the topics felt like familiar territory after the CSAT. Social Studies transported us into history, geography, and civic structures that felt distant from the very immediate question of “so what course will I actually take?” Physics with Mrs Evangline Macaresa tied formulas to reality, hinting again that perhaps engineering wouldn’t be such a bad fit, if only the rest of my life would agree.

Values Education with Geoffrey Carmelotes was supposed to be the subject where we confronted our moral dilemmas and future responsibilities. He spoke earnestly about character, faith, and the kind of adults we ought to become. But I have to admit that during some of those classes, my mind often drifted out the window and down the street to a girl in St. Bernadette who also lived on our road.

While Sir Carmelotes talked about values and vocation, I was busy constructing daydream scenes in my head, where chance encounters after school turned into conversations, and conversations turned into something more. It was an odd mix: lofty talk about life purpose in front of me, and teenage infatuation playing in the background of my thoughts.

Recess at the canteen gauntlet

Recess was a different kind of test altogether. There was no organized line at the canteen—only a loose, chaotic crowd pressing toward the counter. The working students who manned the window were the true gatekeepers of mid-morning survival. Whoever managed to catch their attention first got served first. My usual order was simple: isa ka ice candy ug duha ka pan de mongo. That was recess, a small luxury in the middle of a long day.

Getting to that small feast, however, meant battling your way past a restless mass of bodies, especially the pesky freshmen who thought nothing of inserting themselves between the upperclassman patiently waiting ahead and the galvanized chainwire that separated humanity from the answer to our hunger. You learned to guard your spot, raise your voice, and stretch your arm far enough to pass your coins to the server. When the ice candy finally landed in your hand, it felt like victory.

One‑hour lunch and different distances from home

By midday, the sun had climbed high and lunch break freed us from the classroom. We had a full hour, which for those of us living nearby meant a precious trip home for hot meals. I’d walk back through familiar streets, eat with family, and pretend that the world outside our dining table wasn’t changing so rapidly. For classmates from Tagakpan, Catalunan Pequeño, or Tugbok, home wasn’t reachable in that window. They opened lunchboxes or headed to Atanacio eatery for quick, affordable meals. Different foods, same clock. Mind you, there were no microwave ovens then, so imagine eating cold dishes for lunch.

The walk back to school after lunch always felt shorter, as if the day were accelerating. Rodel, Dante, John Elmer, and I would talk again, though the conversations were brief and quickly cut short as we neared the gate. Whatever gossip or stories we exchanged dissolved once classrooms came into view and the afternoon subjects reclaimed us.

Afternoons carried their own energy—slower, sometimes sleepier, but punctuated by moments of mischief. There were the small things, like Dante writing on Aldrin’s red backpack, or Rodel’s fascination with Warlito Aledon’s bag that had locks on it. What was inside? Why did it need guarding? Speculation became entertainment. Thankfully, nobody bothered my grey Felix the Cat tote bag. These were tiny rebellions against the weight of looming exams and decisions. In between lectures and note‑taking, they reminded us we were still teenagers.

Hauling chairs for the NCEE

One of the heaviest tasks of that period, though, had nothing to do with formulas or essays. We were scheduled to haul armchairs to Mintal Elementary School, where the National College Entrance Examination (NCEE) would be held. It was a chore passed down like a ritual: lift, carry, walk under the punishing sun without the help of any motor or carabao-drawn carriage.

Stories surrounded the NCEE like fog. We’d heard of class topnotchers who still failed the exam, as if it were a beast that ignored report cards. Preparing for it felt daunting. The physical act of bringing chairs for our own exam only made it more real. What made it stranger was the memory from the previous year: when we were in third year, we had hauled chairs for the seniors, partly to spare them the extra exhaustion. There was a small pride in helping them; it felt right that the younger batch would support the older one.

Now, we were doing it for ourselves. The Department of Education was rumored to be moving toward removing the NCEE as a requirement. There were whispers that by the time the law passed, our successors might be spared. Maybe this would be the last batch, some said. But “maybe” never turned into “now.” The law didn’t change in time for us. We still had to carry the chairs and face the test.

Closing ceremony and the cleaners’ refrain

Eventually, the day wound toward its closing ceremony. Final subjects wrapped up, teachers delivered last reminders about assignments, exam dates, and what we should bring tomorrow. In the afternoon, there would be another assembly, another flag ritual, and final announcements.

At dismissal time, the principal would give her standard line: “Except for the cleaners, the rest you may go home now.” It was so predictable that many of us mouthed it along with her under our breath, a chorus she never appreciated. For the cleaners, the day wasn’t over yet. They stayed to sweep the floors, arrange the armchairs, erase the green board, and empty the trash. It was a routine that had followed us from grade school: student labor in exchange for a sense of ownership and, practically, to save the school from hiring cleaners. Like the CAT officers at the gate, the cleaners were another quiet piece of the machinery that kept Holy Cross running on student shoulders.

Walking home, cold drinks, and chorizo isda

When my turn as cleaner was done, we’d finally walk out of the campus. The late afternoon light made everything look softer. My feet were tired, my shirt sticky, my mind crowded with equations, English paragraphs, entrance tests, and a bulletin board in the Principal’s office with my name next to “UP Los Baños.”

The walk home was never just about getting from school to house. It was a debriefing ritual. Rodel and John Elmer often treated me a cold drink from a nearby store as my tiny school allowance drifted away in that midmorning scrum, a small generosity that felt huge after a long, hot day. We’d share the beverage, passing it around, and somewhere along the way someone would bring up “chorizo isda.” The phrase alone could trigger a round of laughter.

That “Chorizo isda” sign at a corner sho sounded like a culinary paradox to us then. Chorizo, but fish? We dissected it with the kind of seriousness only hungry teenagers can give to food. Was it really fish? Why call it chorizo? Was it pretending to be something else? The more we talked, the more absurd it became, and soon we were howling in laughter in the middle of the road, our worries about NCEE, UPCAT, and the rest of our future temporarily drowned out by jokes about a humble sausage.

By the time I reached home, the sun was lower, the uniform clung to my back, and the day had folded into a stack of small scenes: the CAT officers at dawn, Sister Elnora’s stories and announcements, Ma’am Recla’s trash bin protest, the casual dean singing “Moon River,” the sheet from UP, the chairs at Mintal Elementary, and the shared drink as we argued about “chorizo isda.” It was all so ordinary then. Only later would I realize how these small, interlocking moments formed the scaffolding of who I was becoming a teenager, trying to find his place in a world that was already waiting.

Tomorrow’s story surely has a different script written over it.