One More Time

It was time to go, but I was still lazying on my bed.

And for valid reasons, I daresay. For one, as with some of my contemporaries, my priorities have shifted, making current endeavors more pressing than attending socials. But more importantly, a tinge of embarrassment always cracks my otherwise generally confident self, despite having attended this gathering for several years: It was, once again, time for the bi-decade grand alumni homecoming of our university student publication, and unlike most others, I did not finish my stay until I graduated from college.

I’ve always dreamed of becoming part of the most prestigious campus paper in the country. I took pride in being one of the only four first years (in a 30,000 strong student population at that) to be admitted to the publication---something that the paper has never done before. I basked in the glory of being recognized as one of the best, of being part of a new history.

But writing for the paper was not a walk in the park. I experienced chasing news riding a police mobile with intimidating law enforcers and law offenders, chasing evasive school officials for an investigative report I was writing on the university’s seemingly irregular spend on power and utility expenses, chasing big names in the world of journalism and literature for a feature article…. The work I needed to pour into the paper meant sacrificing time with my classmates and, more concerningly, with my grades barely making it to the passing mark, compromising my dream to enter graduate school and be an expert in my field.

And so, after a year of writing for the paper (six months of which spent on sabbatical), I made a decision. I gathered the courage to speak with my editor-in-chief and filed for my resignation.

For this reason, it always feels I do not deserve to converge in a room of esteemed journalists, media personalities and National Artists whenever I attend our grand alumni homecoming. Unlike most others, I feel like I do not deserve to be celebrated as a writer, as an Amihan*.

Yet, I made a commitment to reconnect with with old friends with whom I shared the same passion as college students. Finally, I got up, raced to put on my bowtie, and traversed the Saturday Manila traffic jam.

A myriad of memories and emotions flooded in the moment I stepped foot onto once I called home for four remarkable years. Restaurants that my student budget would not have afforded seemed to have become commonplace; no heads turned despite walking in gray tuxedo in a sea of uniform-clad students (an unlikely scene versus a decade back!); old buildings glowed in fresh paint; and new infrastructures have either surfaced or are undergoing renovation.

So much has changed over the last ten years, and the college student in me longed for something familiar, something I can claim my own.

Gladly, some things did not---and perhaps, will never---change. My college building still stood proud and strong at the center of the campus, majestic as ever. Architecture and Fine Arts students still flocked the gazebos, rushing to finish their plates. The cobbled Plaza Mayor still felt pleasantly rough to my feet. The nighttime breeze still blew cool and soft on my skin.

My heart took comfort on these little snippets of familiarity. You are home, my doubting self encouragingly whispered, as I gazed onto the façade of the newly erected edifice that housed the grand gathering.

The self-doubt weighing against my chest eased. “Let’s do this one more time,” I breathed, and finally crossed the foyer to the grand alumni homecoming.



*Amihan - Like the cool northeastern wind, alumni writers of the Varsitarian come back home, once every five years, to celebrate the struggle and the glory of being part of the country's premiere campus newspaper.