Tomorrow, the 30^th of November, will be the day I'll be turning a year older.  It will be a good time for reminiscing sweet memories of the year before, of musing of all things which have been left undone, of reflecting on friends who, in all my years of existence, have remained faithful and never changing and most importantly a time of facing a new chapter of my life.

             Tomorrow is also the birthday of a brave, noble and distinct Filipino who roamed this land a century ago, who fought for our independence and became one of the country's heroes.

             He is Andres Bonifacio, my hero.  Turning more than a century old tomorrow (had he lived on), his dreams and aspirations of one day seeing and living a cheerful dawn of freedom and national unity have come true.  Dreams all hidden in his eyes, in his heart and soul.  Had he not shed blood and tears and led an uprising against the Spanish government along with other revolutionaries, I would have been deprived of the feeling a century of freedom could offer.

            At a young age of ten, I remember asking mom the very same question a little boy asked me recently, while I was busy running through the pages of a book about my hero, "Who is he?"  I answered him the way mom answered me then, I looked at his eyes and said what I only hoped he could truly understand: "He died for our country, he is our hero".  He looked at me with a twisted smile and ran away. 

            I did not show my usual sarcastic grin when mom told me he is a hero.  My Social Studies teacher defined the word so sufficiently that I didn't find the time to ask myself what it really meant for me.  All I care about then was that I was incidentally born on a hero's day and was very proud of it.

            There was always a celebration at home on my meaningful day.  Usually, mom would prepare his favorite roasted chicken plus the ever-present spaghetti for a salo-salo later in the evening, all for the family.  We would not miss having ice cream or Lolo Nayongs favorite recipe, Humba.  The night would not be complete without the karaoke blaring out music from yesteryears.  A night of multiplex and minus-one tapes, of grandpa's and grandma's singing voices, of the Salas' family talents, of giggles and joys-- all were meant as a thanksgiving for an added year.

            A red day means a holiday for all.  Unlike most of my grade school classmates who celebrated their birthdays on schooldays (except of course if it happens to fall on weekends), I always had mine at home.  I could only wonder what memorable feelings my friends had back then when in the middle of the class our adviser would unexpectedly sing a birthday song.       I seldom went out on a no-class day, even if it was my birthday.  I just stayed at home with my books and the TV.  Aside from going to mass, I would only be out of the house when my mother would send me to an important errand.  That's why not too many could greet me on time.  Some who were too observant on birthdays would give their greetings in advance while the remaining few, perhaps because its Bonifacio's day, would have forgotten my special day.

            I was suppose to be named Eric Andres or Ariel Andres, in honor of my hero.  But as to why I was baptized Eric Ariel instead, that I still have to ask mom.  Some friends would call me Andres, which never embarrassed me though.

            My parents told me how Andres grew up as a kid.  That at a young age of 14, he had to stop schooling so he could take care of his family.  He helped sustained their daily needs by selling paper fans and rattan canes.  He sacrificed his future for the benefit and welfare of his brothers and sisters.  That was how he lived his lifediligent, persevering and steadfast.

            I was happy to learn from my mom about Andres share of notable talents and skills, of his inclinations similar to mine.  Inclined to writing, he had written short stories of about anything that inspired him.  He was also fond of reading books, mostly about uprisings in foreign lands. 

            All these made me admired my hero more.  He was an outstanding leader.  Brought up with good values, strengthened by determination and courage, braced with the idea of peace and liberation, he founded the Katipunan, and led a revolt against the Spanish government.

            My hero died more than a century ago.  He was one of the great men moved by consciousness towards a great concept and vision.  He had to endure pain just to see a dream fulfilled, that of becoming free.  He handed a heritage that I can truly be proud of. 

            Lately I saw an image of him, cast in bronze and cut into stone, standing in one of the plazas.  It reminded me of the story of a life that perished, of the sufferings needed for the liberation, of blood and tears that flowed over a hundred of years ago.  It reminded me of the challenge I and the rest of the Filipino race might take up.

            Andres would have turned 135 years old tomorrow, and I will be on my early 20s.  There will be a celebration again at home for an added year.  There will be fun and festivity.  Most of all, tomorrow I will be very satisfied, not just that I was born on a hero's day, but for what Andres taught me: I don't have to shed blood to prove that I can be a hero.  Heroism dwells in the heart of one who dreams.          

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