Last to Leave

October 2008  



In my batch, comprised of more than a thousand graduates, I was the last to leave school. Even those who had to retake some subjects in the summer went ahead of me, for I didn’t bid goodbye until September this year, months after the other guys had scampered away in glee.

I stayed to do the yearbook. In June, while my editing task wasn’t finished yet, I applied as a staff in one of the offices of my school. I was hired without going through the usual rigorous process. And the bonus was, I was given a three-unit teaching load.

Staying—or overstaying—was a decision I don’t regret. I even cherish it. I had a lot of experiences that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Not all of them were joyful but they all gave me valuable lessons. I could even say that the best lessons I learned in college came from that post-graduation stay. The most memorable moments I had inside the classroom happened that time, too.

So every morning, I found myself waking up early, performing the same routine I had been doing for the past four years. This time I was no longer a student, but someone with three roles to play: an office worker, a mission partner, and a subject teacher.

Of the three, being a lowly employee turned out to be the least rewarding. It was an unnerving change for me, since as a student I enjoyed being a leader, a campus journalist, and a self-professed activist. I used to speak and move freely and even had many things my way. I used to steer the ship—I was Captain Jack Sparrow sans the antics. As a staff, I was reduced to a crewman of The Flying Dutchman—fated to do mindless labor for all eternity. That’s a little exaggerated, of course, but it didn’t help that the head of our office wasn’t exactly unlike Davvy Jones. (If you have no idea what I’m talking about, watch the movie Pirates of the Caribbean.)

I felt distrusted and confined in my job. In three short months, I lost a large chunk of the self-confidence that I built for years. My consolation was, I learned a lot about management and inter-personal skills. I now understand better the concerns and needs of subordinates.

On the lighter side, the religious order running the school didn’t consider us personnel mere workers. Which brings us to my second role. As with the other employees, I was to be a lay partner, which meant it was both my duty and privilege to help show God's goodness to the students as well as to the community.

I’ll always remember how we celebrated Mission Partners Day: we went to a Muslim village that had been flooded since February. From the nearest dry land, we had to ride a pump boat for an hour to reach the place and distribute relief goods to its residents, half of whom were officially registered as illiterate. Up to now, I can still see in my mind the faces of the gaunt kids who picked our empty lunchboxes and shared with each other the glob of ketchup that they found there.

Through that exposure, my school reminded me once again that there is so much to be done for others and that an educated person should seek betterment not only for himself. I hope in the future, I could help those people have something sustainable—something much better than a bag of food that would only last for a day or two. For that time, though, I was happy enough with what we had accomplished: we were the first group to reach and extend help to the village, as it was the farthest of the 11 villages ravaged by the flood.

Lastly, my school gave me the opportunity to fulfill one of my dreams: to teach. I never considered that part work. I enjoyed everything about it: explaining a concept, formulating test questions, checking essays word-for-word, and even studying regularly, which wasn’t really my wont while in college.

I could go on and on about how rich an experience teaching was, but let me just say that in general, I learned from my students more than they learned from me. I gave them more knowledge only; what they helped me gain was more wisdom. I instilled in them discipline, they taught me about compassion. If there was one reason I wouldn’t leave, it was them. They made parting, in the words of Shakespeare, “such sweet sorrow.”

I wish I had a more graceful exit. I still wanted to see my students who failed in the midterms pass in the finals. I also wanted to be the one to bring the yearbook dummy to the printing press. But as a friend always likes to say, no one is indispensable. My students can take care of themselves, perhaps better than I can take care of mine. The undergraduate editors can finish the yearbook on their own, without me fussing about deadlines. And I just had to rescue my sanity from the tentacles of Davvy Jones!

At any rate, my school always knew it was only a matter of time before I follow the path my fellow graduates took. In the first place, the main reason they honed me for four years was for me to be ready for the outside world.

I wish the memories I’m bringing with me are all good. But what matters is not what happened but what I make of it. After through it all, anyway, I became wiser, I got to know myself better, and I learned to focus more on the positive side of things. Besides, being the last man leaving is special in itself.

Wait. This parting of ways isn’t really final and forever. The last to leave might just be the first to return. After all, I was elected president of the batch, and I’ll be holding that post till I breathe my last.