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I am a Martial Law baby. Of all the memories of growing up during the Marcos dictatorship --the good (much credit to my parents), the bad and the bloody--there are three definitive ones and to this day reverberate in me when I mull on what it's like to be a Filipino and woman of the 21st century.

One is on the day Ninoy Aquino was assassinated in 1983: Lunchtime, high noon, the sun bright white and hot through the screens of our dining room window. My father and mother talk in angry tones I have never heard before--restrained and piercing. Our transistor blares AM radio political editorials that sounded as upset as they are. It is that day that I first became aware of such a thing as unrest.

Two is during the the snap presidential election between Marcos and the widowed Cory Aquino. That is when at age 10, I first felt the pang of moral outrage when I became the center of classroom mockery and got called a communist by kids (lead on by a pro-Marcos teacher) whose parents happen to have bought into the smear epithets of the Marcos campaign against Ninoy's widow: She is not fit to be President because she is a woman. Women are weak. Women are soft. It is not a woman's place to run the highest office in the land. She is a mere housewife. Yes, there is also Imelda calling on her lack of qualifications based on her lack of make-up and a manicure.

Three, is one very late February night in '86. My parents are listening in vigil to their radio on what was happening over in Manila, while my sister, Pinky is reading and answering crosswords, stationed in front of our rundown AM/FM cassette player by the window out on the hall. I feign sleep, staring out my open bedroom door at the lighted hallway of our old BISCOM home, attuned in to it all. Then my mother, excitement in her voice, comes out to tell my sister to switch stations. "Aw-right!" my sister exclaims as she caught the breaking news of the Marcoses leaving the presidential palace. Soon both my parents mill out of their room and into mine. I pretend to be awakened as they gave me and my sister a hug and a kiss. On the radio we can hear reports filter in of a whole country rejoice in freedom while my mother offers to make me glass of milk.

Last August 1, 2009, twenty days before the death anniversary of her beloved Ninoy, a nation has lost it's icon, mother figure and treasure in Corazon C. Aquino. Today August 5, 2009 we bury her beside her husband, the only other person of our time to equal her in charisma, virtue and fortitude. What a day it is. What is left to say that hasn't been said. What greatness. What legacy--all in a sea of yellow.

The Flower Boy and the Three-Day Revolution

“The tanks are coming!” howled a teenager from his lookout on top of a lamp post

A while ago, I was in a children’s party in the streets of EDSA. I helped blow candles with the birthday boy who I just met today along with his Mama.

EDSA on normal days, was jammed with cars, buses and jeepneys. They had been replaced by nuns, priest, students, teachers and families. Dressed in an old T-shirt, shorts and rubber sandals, I rushed here with my grandparents. We came because of the Cardinal’s message on the radio to give support to the rebel soldiers in Camp Crame who protested the widespread cheating during the recent election for president.

“ Isaac, apo, President Marcos will have them arrested if we don’t help,” Lolo Mikoy , said,“Twenty years of injustice is enough.”

Lolo Mikoy’s brow furrowed like it would when he and Lola Mansay talked about the bad happenings in our country. How I wished I could take away those worried looks on their faces. It made me so sad but, what could I do? I was only a boy.

In EDSA, guitars strummed and people sang, danced and prayed. Packed lunches, sandwiches, juices and birthday cake were passed around. Even with the barricades of sandbags and barbed wire, it was like a fiesta.

The tanks came and, shook the ground like metal monsters carrying soldiers with armalite rifles. Grenades hung from their pockets and bullet belts looped around their bodies from head to foot. Lola pulled me between her and Lolo. I tried not to cry for their sake.

The nuns and priest lead us to kneel in prayer. The soldiers drew closer. The singing and chanting grew louder. Arm in arm, people stood in the tanks’ path.

“ We are unarmed. We want only peace!” voices exclaimed. ”We are all Filipinos! We are all God’s children!”

The machines halted. Soldiers jumped off and stood before us without a word. Their general blared from his megaphone, “Back off !“

No one budged.

I glanced at the sunflower in my hand that a nun had handed me earlier. It was now or never. I walked towards a soldier whose gun was taller than I was. My legs felt like stones with every step. I did not hear my grandparents call after me. My heart thumped louder and faster then suddenly, stopped. For that second, I forgot to be afraid. I raised up the yellow blossom and said,“Peace be with you, sir.”

"Thank you son,” a deep voice said under the helmet. He pointed his gun down and leaned over to ruffle my hair as he accepted the flower .

“My Lola made my favorite chicken-pork adobo on rice. Do you want some? Are you hungry?” I said. "There's cake too cause it's my friend's birthday!"

The tanks left with the soldiers wearing garlands around their necks, flowers on their guns, food in their tummies and people’s cheers in their ears. That night, I huddled with other children on mats spread on the sidewalk while grownups lit candles and kept vigil.

The next day, we went to Camp Crame. From my grandfather’s shoulders, I spied dark spots in the sky. Helicopters! Their guns were pointed our way. They blotted the morning sun as they flew close. People crouched down sobbing and praying. Giant blades brought loud winds that nearly blew us away. I wiggled from underneath my grandparents to put my arms over their shoulders, when I spied a white flag waving from one of the chopper. Look everyone!

The helicopters landed. Soldiers wearing yellow ribbons around their arms spilled out and were met with tearful hugs and cheers .

When night came, I spotted a familiar lady dressed in yellow with kind eyes singing Ave Maria from across the crowd that had swollen day by day. She smiled warmly at me as I tried not to fall asleep.

The third day, went like a blur. In the evening, I was awakened by loud rejoicing from the crowd. News swept of Marcos leaving the country. Cory Aquino, the lady in yellow, was to be the new president. Tired and sleepy in Lolo’s arms, I listened to people sing, Bayan Ko (My Country).

“Pugad ng luha at dalita, aking adhika makita kang sakdal laya (Cradle of my tears and poverty, I’ll aspire to see you truly free).”

In my dreams, I could still hear the words mingle with Lolo and Lola’s laughter.