“The hearing to decide on your appeal for your suspension [from] the College of Humanities and Social Sciences will be held tomorrow, 9 a.m., at the CHSS auditorium. Your presence is required.”
My heart sank. Even as I responded with, “Is there any possibility to reschedule the appeal, ma’am?”
I knew. I knew that rescheduling was not a possibility. I knew I didn’t have the money for a last-minute flight. I knew that even if I had that money, I would rather use it somewhere else.
I knew that pleading for the nth time that I have been working to help support my family, that I am determined to graduate, that I will now do everything they tell me to do to finish my degree, was a half-hearted promise.
Half-hearted, not because I didn’t want to devote myself to this last stretch to finally graduate. Half-hearted, because I knew that I didn’t have the strength anymore to fight so many battles at once.
For the first time in four years, I had to admit defeat.
I could not work and study at the same time. I have tried, and I have failed repeatedly.
I could not stop working. Sustaining myself was the least I could do for my family.
In the span of a few seconds, as a trailing ellipsis drummed out my wait for the verdict, I made the decision to finally stop school.
In a few seconds, the consequences flashed before my eyes.
It was my ninth year at UP. I had a ridiculous record of good marks followed by four unsuccessful years of trying to finish my thesis. I steeled myself as the words rang clear in my mind: You will, most likely, never graduate from UP.
You will, most likely, never graduate college. Unbidden, the thought slipped to center stage inside my head.
With the evidence before me, it was now a solid fact that I am not the kind of person who could study and work at the same time.
To graduate, I would need to find myself in a situation where I don’t need to earn, where all I need to do is study. It will take a year, or four. Will another UP campus, or another school entirely, accept me and the credits I have earned?
As I mapped out life ahead of me, as I fought hard to focus on logical outcomes, I knew that at 25, I am asking for a miracle. Four years of privilege to study again. I had to either win this privilege with hard work, or somebody in my life would be able to send me to school again.
Either way, this would mean that I might have to put my career on hold for four years, and hope to find that it is still willing to accept me when I finish.
You will never graduate from UP. You will never graduate.
I took a deep breath, looked to the heavens, gray from Manila’s smog and the January weather, and decided that I shall accept this.
My inbox pinged. We cannot reschedule because your hearing is on the agenda of the college committee hearing…
I took care to plant my feet on the ground firmly as I responded. I willed my fingers not to betray me. I forced myself to keep my devastation at bay with logic. I looked over my message, ensuring that it was respectful, that it was decisive enough so that the college secretary would not argue with me any longer, before I hit send.
It was done. I was on a sidewalk on Taft Avenue, Jan. 2. It was one in the afternoon. The rain was starting to fall heavily. I had to move, now.
I lost. And yet, somehow, also — I felt free.
For the first time in years, I was not scared or overwhelmed. I was always afraid of surviving the day and of what people would say, of being a cautionary tale.
I was always overwhelmed with juggling two lives at the same time — studying and working. Now, I felt that I did not need to spread myself thinly any further.
As I tramped through the rainy street and finally made it indoors, my mind snapped into clear focus with a new decision. I will graduate. I will get a degree, no matter what. For myself. For my parents. For my career. For my children, to know that I fought for it, and that there is no reason not to.
Whether it be in my late 20s or my 30s, or even in my 60s, I will come back to school. I will finish that degree. It may be another university. It may be a local college. Someday, I will carry that degree in my hands.
I will not let my lack of degree define my salary, my work ethic, or my career trajectory. As I have once, I will not let an employer take advantage of my quality of work. But I will still earn that degree, because I know my worth and that diploma is worth my name on it.
I smiled as peace, humility and determination found their way into my heart. My pulse settled, and I regained the feeling in my limbs.
That was one year ago.
* * *
Kit Iris Frias, 26, is based in Davao City.