Tale of a graduating law student
One weird flex: I already knew the concepts of guaranty and interests even before I entered law school in 2018.
“Guarantor mo naman ako kay mare” was a common line in our neighborhood when I was young. “Naku, 5-6 ’yan,” some would retort, referring to the predatory practice of loan sharks in imposing a whopping 20-percent interest per month. That was how life would go in our neighborhood. We needed to make ends meet. One way was to borrow money, hoping we can pay at the end of the month. The presence of a guarantor and the imposition of high-interest rates increase our chances of securing loans.
Basic knowledge of the law would have saved our neighborhood from these predatory agreements. For instance, I would later learn that a contract of guaranty not reduced in writing would render the agreement unenforceable. The same is true for the collection of interest. The same must be in writing, otherwise, no interest may be collected.
Unfortunately, law is political. At the entrance of Malcolm Hall, which houses the University of the Philippines (UP) College of Law, the words of United States Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. are inscribed: “The business of law school is … to teach law in a grand manner.” I guess that is where the problem begins: Legal education in the Philippines is a business. If you want access to quality knowledge of law, you need to pay.
One time, I visited a law school friend’s house on his birthday. “What does your father do?” his father asked. “Nagta-taxi driver po,” I answered. “You’re kidding me, right?” he responded, as if children of cab drivers have no right to go to law school in the Philippines. Looking back, he may be right.
Students flaunting their Hermès bags have since become a fixture at UP Law, supposedly a public law school with the statutory duty to enhance access for disadvantaged students (See Section 9 of the UP Charter). And where are the poor students? Outside law school, striving hard to meet the needs of their families. Going to law school, even if under a scholarship, has become a privilege for the poor. It means depriving their family of the support they are traditionally expected to extend after graduating from college.
And so the vicious cycle of poverty continues. The gap between the rich and poor also widens. A simple check of Malcolm Hall’s parking lot says a lot about the UP College of Law demography. UP Law education has become a business for the elites. As I graduate from this institution, I try to look back at the many times I had considered leaving it due to lack of funds. Going to law school felt like depriving my family of the support traditionally expected of me. “Kung hindi ka nag-law school, nailaan pa ’yang pera na ’yan sa iba” was the most painful but honest line I’ve heard.
And that, despite my being a recipient of a UP College of Law scholarship after passing the law aptitude exam, a merit-based admission test. The reality is that sheer meritocracy is prejudiced against the poor. For how can a poor student compete with richer students, whose brains have been pumped with the needed vitamins and nutrients since birth?
It is true that UP Law has to maintain academic excellence. But the maintenance of academic excellence through the conduct of merit-based examinations is simply anti-poor. Limiting admission to academically excellent students also shifts the burden to maintain academic excellence on the students themselves. UP Law needs to do more. It may begin, for instance, by considering the financial standing of students in its admission process, possibly setting aside more slots for poor students. It may also broaden its evening program, which accommodates working students, and reduce the number of slots for day students. After all, the other law school in Rockwell, Makati, is sure to welcome affluent students.
Rejinel G. Valencia graduated as juris doctor at the UP College of Law on Aug. 2, the same day he took the UP College Admission Test years ago.
