this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on August 12, 2000.
In my 18 years of existence, perhaps the most important thing that I have learned is never to expect or hope too much from anyone or anything. Doing so often leads to disappointment, and nothing can sear the soul as much as shattered dreams, foiled plans, broken relationships and unfulfilled promises. Yes, disillusionment hurts. Big time.
Several weeks ago, my younger sister arrived from the province to pursue her dream of studying at the University of the Philippines (UP). She looked tired and sleepy when I came to fetch her from the bus terminal, but I could tell she was genuinely excited. Fresh out of high school, she was still absorbing her new world, imagining its endless possibilities and the wonderful surprises lying ahead. I sensed all of these when she insisted that I take her right away to her new school, even though she hadn’t slept a wink, taken a bath and eaten a decent meal for a couple of days. I obliged and she was really happy.
It did not take long, however, before my sister got her first taste of disenchantment. On that same day, fate played a joke on us through the Socialized Tuition and Financial Assistance Program (STFAP). The STFAP is some sort of a scholarship given by UP to deserving students to help defray the costs of tuition and other expenses. Under this scheme, students are divided into nine brackets based on the family income, assets, etc. The well-to-do are placed in bracket nine while those who need assistance are in bracket one.
Bracketed with the rich
Anyway, when we went to see the result of my sister’s application for the STFAP, we saw her name under the most unlikely place: bracket nine. We could not believe it. Bracket nine meant our family was considered rich or at least capable of paying for our college education. It meant my sister and I were in the same category as those students who strut around the campus in original designer clothes and go to school in their own cars. Since our father is an ordinary government employee and our mother is a homemaker, it didn’t make any sense at all.
I was devastated, and so was my sister. “There must be some mistake,” she mumbled to herself repeatedly. I had to drag her away before I could bring myself to ripping up the list into pieces. I wanted to scream, but I had to put up a brave front for her sake.
I told my sister not to worry. There was still something we could do. “This is UP, after all,” I assured her.
The remark brought a hopeful smile to her lips.
The very next day we embarked on setting things right. My sister wrote the letter in the cleanest, clearest and handsomest form her left-handed penmanship allowed.
Bargain
After that we could not postpone the inevitable. We had to call our parents to tell them what happened. This was the hardest part for us, and especially for my sister. We both knew the bargain she had made with father before she left: If we didn’t qualify for the STFAP, one of us would have to give up her studies in Manila. And naturally, that meant my sister since they couldn’t uproot me after two years of studying in the city.
“How do you feel about it?” I asked her as she slowly chewed on her fish ball. She shrugged and said, “I have no choice.”
I felt sad for my sister. I knew how bad it felt when you were facing a dead end. I am no alien to feelings of frustration when one is presented with choices that are no choices at all. Having a real choice means having the luxury of saying no and following what one wants and not settling for the lesser evil. When I was a freshman in the same university, I had to give up the course I wanted to take for practical reasons. Now I am stuck in a course I don’t give a damn about just so my studies won’t be too much of a burden to my family. And every night I wonder how things would have been if I had gone after what I knew I really liked.
Seeing my sister in the same predicament was doubly frustrating for me. More so when I recall that there are people who do not understand how much learning and education mean to some young men and women. I cringe whenever someone says, “Di kayang pag-aralin, nagpupumilit pa rin.” It is quite unnerving to hear some people criticize those who are willing to give their children the best thing they can offer.
In the first place, it should not be very difficult for those who have the talent and the inclination to have a good education. But it is because of the government’s incompetence in promoting the right of every citizen to be educated. And yet some people and sometimes even the government and educational institutions, scoff at the efforts exerted by common folks to send their child to school, which only shows how screwed up the government’s priorities are and how inadequate is our whole educational system. Either that, or some people are just downright stupid.
Resilience
But as they say, we Filipinos are resilient. In the face of adversity we persevere and we grow stronger. We can even laugh at our problems and difficulties. We firmly believe that “after the storm will shine a bright new day.” And even I am forced to see our situation in this light.
The experience was an eye-opener for me and for my sister. From this, we learned to prepare for future setbacks and frustrations, the stuff reality is made of mostly. It taught us that there are times when life takes some crazy spins and turns and puts our world upside down.
In the end, we convinced our parents to let my sister study pending the outcome of her appeal. But I wonder how my parents can afford our tuition and living expenses and at the same time manage to keep themselves alive. I figure they must be having the same thoughts. I can’t help but feel pity for them.
Inside the jeepney we took, I found myself staring at my sister as she took in the bright neon lights and the cars racing on the highway. Before us, the city was alive despite the dust and grime, throbbing with humanity and dispelling the darkness with artificial brightness. I looked at the other passengers: the tired laborer eager to go home after a grueling day under the sun, the office worker who turned her nose away from the fishy smell of the market vendor and the housewife who gazed blankly ahead, probably feeling like she had been robbed after a visit to the supermarket. I looked at my sister and I thought she looked older, sitting there against the background of the urban jungle.
All of a sudden I was struck by mixed emotions-of hopelessness and idealism. Even the foul air coming from the clogged waterways seemed friendlier. I was reminded of what Henry David Thoreau wrote: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
At that moment, I couldn’t agree more.