“Nay, I’m not going to graduate on time,” I announced, bracing myself for hours of nagging.

In 2020, my academic life took a sudden detour. The COVID-19 pandemic broke out and it impacted my drive to study. The menial task of writing papers became laborious. My schoolwork piled up. I tried everything I could to salvage it, but my efforts were in vain. I always ended up shooting myself in the foot.

Today, I’ve accepted that my diploma in Sociology won’t arrive this July. Nanay, however, refuses to swallow the truth pill, blaming me for my delayed graduation every time she comes across my batchmates wearing a sablay or posing with their hardbound thesis on Facebook. She would give me the cold shoulder and say, “Bahala ka!“

I was absent from the university for a certain period. But I made the most of my spare time by visiting communities and talking with students about education amid the pandemic. I wanted to understand my predicament in connection with others. It raised many important questions, one of which is rooted in the core lesson of sociology. Is delayed graduation a personal trouble or a public issue? The answer came to me outside of the four walls of the school.

Throughout remote learning, we have been led to believe that delayed graduation is chiefly the student’s fault. We treat it as a personal trouble because we assume that the predicament is triggered by individual failings, such as procrastination. However, when examined on the ground, it is clear that delayed graduation is a social problem, thus a public issue. It is a result of our broken education system, and it affects thousands in the country.

Several of the students I met with in the communities were among those who opted to drop out of school and risk a graduation delay as the pandemic compounded the long-standing education divide they had been experiencing prior to 2020. While the rich were able to adjust to it, the poor were left to figure things out on their own. They failed to keep up with the new modes of learning, particularly the online format, because they lacked the technological essentials for it. I, myself, did not have a laptop when the pandemic began. I relied on prepaid internet alone since we did not have wi-fi at home. In the hopes of improving my situation, I even appealed for student learning assistance. Sadly, it did not go as planned. I could see why they had to quit.

The closure of schools put them in an even worse predicament. They had no choice but to give up education and work. Throughout the second half of 2020, I led a similar life story. My situation had forced me to take on the burden of financially supporting myself and my relatives. By working at an NGO outside of my hometown and returning to work part-time in government, I prioritized earning over learning.

I was anxious the entire time about whether or not I would make it in time for graduation. My newfound responsibilities made it challenging for me to go back to school. But the worry was far greater for the students in low-income households who had committed to this road indefinitely. The longer they were gone from school, the less likely they were to return, resulting in missed learning opportunities.

Despite the fact that schools in the public sector, where I and many others went, intended to offer students with necessary assistance, they were unable to do so effectively because of structural obstacles. Many schools ended up unprepared for remote learning due to underfunding. Productivity fell, and operations slowed down. They accommodated limited resources, which subsequently served as a pretext to delay school reopening.

The absence of a decent learning environment at home further hindered me from completing my semesters, jeopardizing my prospects of graduating on time. It lasted another year before the penny dropped. I realized that with my slow progress, I wouldn’t be able to earn my sablay any time soon.

I spent the rest of my time away from the university protesting on the streets, demanding that the government provide us with a clear roadmap for the safe reopening of schools. Together with the students in the communities, we formed an alliance to monitor the state of education in the region. We organized forums and consultations. To amplify our requests, we circulated petitions and delivered them to government offices.

It wasn’t only my graduation that was at stake. It was also the right of millions of students to receive quality education amid the pandemic. Suffice to say, the problem was beyond personal. It was systemic as it was public.

After two years, I was left with a stack of backlogs, incomplete courses, and dismal grades. I lost my scholarship in May and my lone chance at midyear in June. But, on the plus side, I gained a better understanding of my situation. Our educational system is not a race track. Our purpose is not to race and win. It’s a long, winding asphalt road riddled with defects and potholes. Instead of walking past it or trying to repair it ourselves, we demand the system that built it be fixed. We do it so that future students will have a better road to pave.

In the end, my efforts away from school paid off. My university is now preparing for face-to-face classes in the upcoming academic year. It means I can finally regain my academic life. The road to graduation may be distant, but it is not directionless. It may have been delayed at first, but I am certain it will not be denied in the future. All I need now is my sociology books and my Nanay saying, “I can’t wait to show you off in your sablay on Facebook soon.” – Rappler.com

Phillippe Angelo Hiñosa is a Sociology student at the University of the Philippines Visayas. He writes about family, education, politics, and society based on his personal life. You can reach him at pahinosa@gmail.com.