10 February 1959 – 19 July 1981

(I cannot remember who wrote this tribute. Ikaw ba Juni?)

One day five summers ago, it rained. The pelting raindrops glistened as they clung to our unruly hairs while we marched in our poor imitation of a military formation. There were one hundred and forty-two of us then, proud young men and out of cadence. The early Baguio fog obscured our vision as we trudged into destination uncertainty did in no way douse the wildest dreams in the highest ambitions that were nurtured by our young minds. Truly, dreams and ambitions were the common denominators of that day. They were what brought us together in the first place, only to be separated later as we went our own way in the pursuit of their fulfillment. Thus was the beginning of the PMA class of 1980.

Of the one hundred forty two young men, only sixty-four made it. You were among the original motley group, a very young boy of barely seventeen summers old doing his share of the marching and executing it one more like a horsy gait than anything else. You were taller than the others, well tanned and lanky and allowed your long legs not your usual big strides in order to keep into equal footing with the other hopefuls in your line. Like all of us then, you locked your stare at the imposing façade of Melchor Hall as it loomed into view. You visually feasted upon its upon its magnificence, and like birds looking for a place to roost, you anchored all your ambitions there and having done so, you commence becoming the somebody you wanted to be.

Summer camp passed swiftly by. Although we breezed through it likes turtles with monkeys on our backs, before we could even breath, it was all over. Maybe it was because we though it would take the whole of eternity of it to end.

Bronson. We Didin’t  tag you that name for nothing.

To others you may be Jose or Jun, but for us, you are Bronson. For Starters, we named you Brion but soon later, we all ended up calling you Bronson. We felt more comfortable that way. A lot of people are Jose and there are Juns in every corner, but who’s the other Bronson anyway? Perhaps it was because we have tried to described you, but all words fell short of being able to do so. So we took the liberty of conjuring a noun and using it as a name to best described the way we know you: Bronson

You were different, Bronson, very different. And yet you were like us in so many ways. We shared the same aspirations and goals but we diferred  in approaches, We shared the same happiness but we differed in attaining it. We shared the same capacity for anger but we differed in showing it.

You were the younger in our Class. But only  our records could attest to that. Your behavior could not. While we attended to some of our endeavors with a childhood flair, all your undertakings had a touch of seriousness in it. While we clung to the vestigers of our lost youths, you went ahead and grappled the stark realities of maturity. You were never caught horseplaying in the hallway, simply because you never did so. While we engaged in silly banters during study period you attacked your books with gusto. We had always admired your determination and having coupled it with your intellectual ability, you showed us the proper combination of success by making the youngest become the number three our class.

There were actually a thousand and one reasons that lay being cadetship.. But seldom now do we find yours, among them, Bronson. You actually wanted to become soldier and from the start you have been very professional about it. While others basked in the glory of grandeur of cadetship, you treated it as a mere stepping stone towards a more glorified career. We felt that you actually loved what you have been doing. And when you did things, you really did things. You have poured every single ounce of yourself onto what you were, and chose the harder tasks and made them all seem it easy. When you were chosen to present your company in our marathon competition, we were very glad to have you as our opponent.

We felt you were so easy to beat for you looked like you couldn’t even run the distance. But when you emerged the winner and later on broke tracks records one after the other, we were all awed by such dazzling display of determination and stamina and dedication to overcome all odds.

You were bereft of all the other mundane obsessions in life. Girls were not magical to you, and neither did you smoke nor drink. You were as straight as straight can be. Your main source of pleasure was the pride and love of your family friends, and the satisfaction you derived from your profession. Indeed, the military was your first love. You loved the challenges it hurled on you and savored the triumph. You loved the hard life and treated it as a cursory love affairs. You were very professional in every respect and because of this, you were very much respected. You unabashed affection for the military far encompasses most that have been offered a lady. The military was your life for it was your love. Your every breath for the service was your sigh of passion and your every effort was an act of making love.

They say there are but two instances when a man lies completely still: after making love and after life. You have just made love, Bronson.

Only, you have been swept in its consuming ecstacy.