I’VE lived the last three decades of my life with memories of terror. These were the days when I was a freshman student at UP Law and had to contend with Haydee Yorac as my professor in what was then called Persons and Family Relations.

For a freshman law student, brimming with overconfidence for having passed the LAE (I didn’t have to go through an interview but will not say why lest I be accused of boasting), Haydee Yorac was the perfect antidote – the professor with frizzy hair who comes to class with just her room keys and who will call you for recitation for the whole class period – yes, just you – and every time you give her an answer all she will do is stare at you and ask “Really?”

It was like twisting in the wind and all your classmates could just stare at you and thank the dear Lord it is you and not them.

Those were the days when, if you were prayerful, you’d pray that Death come and get you now, “And please make it quick.”

It has taken me three decades to get over that trauma – Post Yorac Stress Disorder, if I may call it that. Finally the nightmares no longer come, and night sweats with them.
I never knew something could be worse.

A week ago, I received a cute email from Bettina Dela Peña Ballesteros, all two months old, asking me if I would be a godfather at her Christening on March 24. Of course, I said yes. How could you say no especially if the 2-month-old baby took the effort to email you? Bettina, aka Nena, is the (third) daughter of Atty. Francis of PHILEX (one of my best friends in the mining industry) and his wife Atty. Mary Ann, and the baptism was extra special to me because it was to be at the Immaculate Conception Cathedral in Lantana, Cubao – where I too was baptized many worm moons ago.

So I was there, dutifully, at 10 a.m. With me were fellow ninongs Kaycee Crisostomo of TVI and Rocky Dimaculangan of the Chamber of Mines.

At 10:10 I felt that I was back at Law School.

First up – what I called the “front act” to the baptism – was a young lady in her 20s who began by welcoming everyone (there were six children to be baptized). Then her welcome turned into a recitation! Of the Catholic catechism! All of a sudden sheer terror enveloped me. It became worse when she started walking up and down the aisle thrusting the microphone into people’s’ faces. And there I was sitting on the second pew right next to the aisle! “Why are we all here,” she asked.
“What’s baptism? Why do we do this?” And “how many sacraments are there in the Catholic faith?”
And “Kasalanan ba ang hindi Magsimba?” Before I could answer “Hindi,” Kaycee beat me to it – but he got a nudge from his wife.

We were going to go through Sunday school! Without prior warning! And I had zero units of religion in all my school years at UP!

For the second time in my life I found myself praying to God: Let it be swift and let it be now.
A counter-thought struck me: Nearby was an Iglesia church... maybe we could just walk over there and have Nena baptized there? But I dropped that idea as swiftly as I held it.

Actually, I was one of those into whose face the microphone was thrust. I didn’t know what to say, so all I did was mumble “Hindi pa ako nabibinyagan!” (“Why couldn’t it be swift immediate” were my thoughts to myself.)

When she was done I heaved a sigh of relief. But the relief was not to last long. She was soon replaced by a second, even more tyrannical Sunday school teacher who wanted us to practice the rites and we had to go through the readings and the responses and she wanted us to respond with fervor.

When we weren’t answering loud enough to satisfy her, whether it was “Blessed be God” or “Amen” or “Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ” (accompanied by signs of the cross across the forehead, lips and chest) she barked into the microphone “I won’t have your children baptized if that’s how you answer!” At that moment I felt I was transported to the time of the Inquisition, and because we were going to be burned at the stake in alphabetical order I would go ahead of Crisostomo and Dimaculangan.

“Let it stop. Dear Jesus please let it stop.” I could hear the voices in my head.

Mercifully the Deacon finally appeared, and the actual service began at about 11:15, after a full 65 minutes of terror. Was this worse than my Yorac experience? You bet it was. Because in Yorac’s case all I feared was her and getting a 5 on my class card. This time I could see Christ on the cross behind the two terror teachers and I was fearing Eternal Damnation.

Thank God I survived, and when we were celebrating at lunch we could already smile at the experience. But I know the nightmares will come. The horrifying images of the two young ladies terrorizing me into confessing my sinful ways and memorizing John 3:15 (or is it 3:16?) will cause me to wake up at 3am with my bed soaked in my sweat.

I hope Nena realizes what I went through just for her. Because she was worth it.

But I think hers will be the last baptism I will agree to be a ninong to. Another one like that and I will go Buddhist.

PS: I pray that Nena never forgets what I whispered to her as I made the sign of the cross on her forehand: “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.”