Lean Alejandro: My secret crush throughout college

The flyers on our dining table caught my work-worn eyes. They weren’t the typical glossy food delivery specials or announcements for home spa treatments. They were one-color bond paper handouts for a photo exhibit in remembrance of Lean Alejandro on the 20th anniversary since his cold-blooded murder.

When I was a sophomore in the University of the Philippines (UP), I had a humongous secret crush on Lean Alejandro. It was in 1979 when I first noticed him — a slightly taller than average beanpole who stood out in a crowd. I wouldn’t rank Lean’s looks alongside the dreamboats in the Arts and Sciences (AS) Lobby who were considered “Crush ng Bayan” (everyone’s object of desire). In fact, he probably would have cringed to be labeled as one.

I liked Lean because he was oozing with confidence, he was so articulate, and he was totally charismatic. He was like a magnet. Even if he was talking ideology, it all made sense to me. I liked Lean because he stirred a restlessness in me; it was as if he spoke directly to me and me alone, even if I was one among hundreds in an AS Lobby sit-in or a UP Oval march. He was daring me to break away from my comfort zone and become a part of the people’s struggle. 

“Yes!” I would mentally answer him when he challenged us and I would chant along with the throng, “Makibaka, huwag matakot!” (Fight! Don’t be afraid!) while clad in my faded jeans and T-shirt, our de rigueur campus attire in the late 1970s.

I liked Lean because I could never be like him but, in admiring him, in listening to him, in just catching a glimpse of his checkered polo shirt, I somehow felt that I was part of the greater cause. Lean was my living conscience in a society repressed and oppressed by a dictator.

And that was as close as I got to Lean Alejandro. He would be on stage or behind a podium while I jostled with fellow marchers who were probably there to just skip class (although back then, our teachers always gave us their blessing to join rallies). Later, I would learn more about Lean — the person — through my friend Claire who was with him in the AS student council.

Lean remained my closet crush throughout college — a fact I kept from my real-life boyfriends at that time. After graduation, the vice chancellor for student affairs, Louie Beltran, recommended me as copy editor for the UP Information Office. This was my first job and it kept me connected to the university.

Lean had not graduated with us and continued on with his role as student leader. Inevitably, I would see him in Quezon Hall, the administration building where I worked. He would either be herding students to form a barricade around the Oblation or being summoned by Louie for one of his fatherly lectures.

Still, I kept a distance from Lean although a few of my coworkers knew that I admired him. And because of my work, there was an opportunity for me to look at photographs of Lean. A few months into my new job, a fire broke out in the dead of night, burning our office along with our file photos. Luckily, I was able to save one of Lean’s. It showed his profile in an unusually casual pose — listening to someone.

This was all happening in mid-1984 when authoritarian rule was fomenting a more vocal populace following the assassination of Ninoy Aquino. Indeed, times were exciting, highly charged and dangerous. One afternoon, in fact, all of Quezon Hall was under a gloomy pall when a student, the son of a revered professor, was shot at a rally.

I, ever the vicarious and cowardly rebel, opted to flee this historic period. By the winter of 1985, I was in the American Midwest teaching college freshmen the rudiments of delivering a perfect speech. No one knew, though, that tucked safely in my little leather address book was the small black and white photo of Lean Alejandro that survived the fire. His image was pressed between my novenas and estampitas.

Shortly after I arrived in the US, news reached me that Lean had been jailed. I received a request for donations for Lean’s release. Despite my meager stipend, I felt strongly that I had to contribute to this fund. I struggled to write out a check for $10 which was equivalent to my food allowance for a week. On the back of the check, I had scribbled “For Lean.” I mailed the check to my friend at the Information Office together with a photo for them to see me in my brand-new winter coat.

A few months passed before I learned from my friend that Lean had been freed. She wrote that she went to see him after his release and personally handed my check to him. Lean did not know me by name (I am absolutely sure of that) so my friend showed him my picture in my new gray winter coat standing in the snow. Lean, she related, had allegedly said, “I will take this (the check) and this (my picture)!” 

When I read about this encounter I was naturally thrilled; but how much of it was fiction, I will never know. Suffice it to say that, for a fleeting moment, I felt connected to Lean.

After his release from prison the political scene in the country continued to change dramatically which I, fortunately, was able to monitor through cable television. CNN became my daily companion. People Power came alive in my dorm room and it was CNN that also delivered the news to me in 1987 that Lean had been killed.

Lean never cashed my $10 check because it probably would have cost more to clear it in a Philippine bank than it was worth. I carried his photo in my handbag even after I had married, through my different jobs, after I returned home, left again and finally settled for good in the country. His picture was my constant reminder to personally strive for social equality and to be politically involved; and that my UP education gave me irreplaceable opportunities to meet people like Lean who live their principles to the fullest.

A few years ago, a bottle of cologne spilled on my address book, smudging all my hand-written entries. It was becoming obsolete anyway, with the advent of cell phones which can hold so much more information. When I stored away that little leather address book, Lean’s photo went with it. After almost 20 years, I thought it was time to let go.

Claire, now a brilliant lawyer based in Los Angeles, came home for a visit and we planned to meet in UP for a nostalgic reunion. It was a rainy Friday morning in September when I reached the campus and I noticed a rally forming in the UP Oval. But unlike the marches that Lean led, this one seemed too organized and the protesters even wore color-coded T-shirts.

As soon as she arrived in a red SUV, Claire and I headed for the AS building to look at Lean’s photo exhibit that had been advertised on those flyers. To our disappointment, it had been dismantled but, perhaps sensing our frustration, a helpful clerk at the Dean’s Office pointed us to the Third World Studies Office.

There on a conference table were three neat stacks of blown-up photos laid face down. One by one, Claire and I turned them over and photos of our Lean emerged. A fiery Lean with a microphone, a defiant Lean marching, a pensive Lean. Quietly, we stared at each photograph until the silence was broken by Claire’s sobs. She was weeping for Lean, her comrade and a person she loved profoundly. 

I teased Claire about her being weepy even when we were still in college but I had a strange feeling that her tears went beyond sadness and nostalgia. In Lean’s death, I think a part of her — and of our generation — had also died.

To submit your own Kwentong Peyups in 1,500 words or less, email to kwentongpeyups@campaignsandgrey.net.

Support the University of the Philippines on its 100th year. Donations can be made to the UP Oblation Fund through the Development Bank of the Philippines (Quezon Ave.)-Savings Account No. 5-01317-460-8; Land Bank of the Philippines (Katipunan Branch, QC) – Peso Acct No. 1461-2220-21 * Dollar Acct: 1464-0032-46 * Dollar Swift Code: TLBPPHMMAXXX.