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In high school, a night that I soon would never forget, a simple celebration in the backdrop of poverty. It was the first time, that I really knew the plight of the poor, as it hit close to home.

I remember that night when a cousin and I went out and decided to go to a local bar. We met a friend of my cousins, and the friend turned out to be a distant relative of ours as well.

He was a tricycle driver (not motorized), and he was at the bar after a long days work, but still waiting for a few customers as well. He was at a table by himself, drinking some beer and watching a few drunk individuals make a fool of themselves at the karaoke.

We were also watching the same drunk fools, when we noticed our relative (we’ll call him Pedro) and called him over to our table.

After a few drinks, Pedro decided to invite us to his house. We got into his tricycle, and he drove (peddled) us to his house.

I vividly remember, stopping by the corner of the street, Pedro parking his tricycle with a few other tricycles, all in a row, then he signaled us to come with him.

He guided us to this narrow alley, between a few poorly made houses. The kind of houses where there were some brick, bamboo, wood, and aluminum sidings.

As we moved past the houses, and came behind them, there in front of us, was the actual side of a mountain, and we started to walk a pathway of dirt and stones, uphill, no lights, and the voices of people to our sides who lived in that area…

We must’ve traveled a good 150 meters up this hill, through this dark trail, with some semblance of light, because every few meters or so, we would encounter a house with some candles lit up, and this is all that was lighting this area of town. And I couldn’t see even one house that had electricity.

It wasn’t a good trail either, every odd step or so, you’d encounter a few stones, but that was it. The trail was mostly dirt, and it was slippery too, because it had just rained a few days back.

I remember, not wanting to go, but my cousin told me that it would’ve been rude of us to decline the offer. But seeing that the time was around 11:30 pm in the evening, I really, and honestly did not want to go. It’s really kind of amazing how forthright a high school student can be, even when he doesn’t want to do something.

Anyway, getting back to the walk. We finally arrived at his house, and like every other house in that area, it didn’t have any electricity. He called out to his wife that he was home, and that he had brought some company for dinner — that was us. To my surprise, she was all smile, and excited too. He had told her to set up some plates.

Now, the place wasn’t big either. You could probably fit 4 or 5 single beds side by side and it would be about the same area. They had one daughter, she was around 3 years old.

Pedro bought some rice and some corned beef, and we celebrated… If I remember correctly, it was the Argentina brand of corned beef, because it was the more costly of the corned beefs that were selling at the time.

It was a simple meal, and yet I couldn’t get rid of the fact that this meal was a special celebration for this man and his family, catering to someone who was a so-called “Amerikano”, and I couldn’t eat happily, because it was the knowledge, that on any other day, they would probably be eating some dried fish, or some noodles, eggs… the food of the poor, I guess.

So, here we are, on the floor, they had no tables, and we were sharing two cans of corned beef, some eggs, and some rice. All five of us, sitting by candlelight. It was one of those self made candles. I used to make ‘em all the time too. You fill up an old Nescafe glass coffee container with some rock salt, then pour some oil into it, stick a Q-tip in the middle, with the cotton facing upwards. The Q-tip would be just above the oil.

As the candle was casting some light on the faces of my distant relatives that night, I saw happiness, a closeness that was heartwarming. The little girl hugging at the arms of her mother, and the mother feeding the girl with her own hands. It was a beautiful moment and a sad one at the same time. I couldn’t figure out why, every minute that I was there, my heart sank even deeper. Sorrow started to creep up, until it filled my body, as if it wanted to overflow.

It was one of the worst meals I’ve ever had, because it was a sad moment, a realization that the poor, is not some person in your neighborhood, sometimes, it can be someone in your family tree.

How I could have such a diversity of emotions all at the same time, was new to me.

Pedro was lucky because he had a livelihood, but what about those who aren’t so lucky, if you can even call this kind of life… lucky.

I’ve never been the same person since. Nor should anyone be the same person, when they finally come to the realization, that even though, there has been progress, it is still a signal for any of us, to push forward even greater.

I’m not telling anyone who winds up reading this that they should drop everything out of their daily lives. Because in order to spark change, and start working towards a brighter tomorrow, you must first work on yourself. The world does not need a leader that cannot help himself. But know this, that your goals as a Filipino, must always include the nation that brought you into this world.

And as my cousin and I walked down with Pedro, he offered to take us to the station where we would head home. I was actually full, but then again, I had been eating since we were in the bar. Pedro dropped us off at the station, and I offered Pedro some money for the hospitality, but he refused.

As we sat in the mini cab, waiting for it to fill up with passengers, we told Pedro to take it easy going home. He smiled and looked back at us… “I’m not going home yet, there’s still some passengers that I could probably find” (In our dialect)… No doubt, he probably needed some money to gain back all that he had spent that night…

The word “probably” kept replaying in my mind as we headed home — the cool breeze hitting my cheeks.

I hope he found some more passengers for that night, and that goes for every other night as well.

I never saw Pedro again. I haven’t gone back to the province in two years. But, Pedro stays in my prayers, his wife, and his daughter.

They are my inspiration, as I try to make a difference, when I write this.

Tears are finally rolling down, the memory of Pedro, is so vivid.