Congrads!

Last month most of us must have congratulated a new graduate, whether from elementary, high school or college. We would have had a young relation reaching that landmark, or known someone who had.

For me, Saturday, March 27 was a special day, as I had a son march in March, as part of commencement exercises for the second time in his life. It transpired on the very same covered courts, too, at the Ateneo High School, where four years ago he had also filed along in the processional thence recessional.

This time there were four large video screens for the benefit of those seated up front — the VIP section, the rows of college graduates of the Loyola Schools of Humanities and Social Studies, the faculty and parents, as well as for the General Admission area that extended all the way to the back, a dozen or so basketball courts away — and from where the activities onstage seemed as minuscule as when you sat in the nosebleed rafters at the Big Dome during a Blue Eagles game.

That’s where I took my seat, eschewing the Faculty section, since I’m prone to nosebleeds. Besides, from the back I could easily slip out and head towards the trees overlooking Marikina Valley, enjoy the view when the proceedings got too tedious, as well as a smoke. 

But before it all began, as the new grads in their dark blue togas assembled in a grassy quadrangle for the start of the processional, I made my way with cell phone cam on the ready — to snap up any of my former students who had pleaded for A’s just so they could rectify their QPIs. A bunch caught up with me instead, caught up in giddy elation too as they asked for a group photo op.

Then I finally spotted the guy with the inverted South Africa cap that he’s worn even in his sleep for the last three years, or since I performed rap poetry in Jo-burg and Durban and came home with it. It’s to keep his voluminous hair in place, even when it’s tied up in a ponytail. I knew better than to tell him of my hope that he’d leave the cap on his seat when he climbed onstage for the diploma hand-off from beloved Fr. Ben.

That would be a moment of great import, a breakthrough. It would be the first college diploma to adorn a wall at home, since his old man never got one, and an older bro of his turned out to be another feckless artist who had also sought diploma-tic immunity.

I took his picture as the clear-out alarm sounded: Alaric Riam M. Yuson by the sign that read Bachelor of Arts, Major in Philosophy: Pre-Divinity Track. Oops, we were one sign off, but it made for a funnier pic.

A couple of his batchmates came into the picture, too. Rather, I called ’em in: Marie La Viña who as a Philippine High School for the Arts senior had come to our place every other Sunday for a schoolyear in an arranged mentorship that led to her first prose poetry book (and now she was the recipient of the Mulry Award!); and Agno Almario, son of our buddy the National Artist and premier poet Rio, whom I used to see as a kid, playing videogames with my own (and now he was taller than most local point guards). Now here they were, three Philo grads being sent out to the world. Click.

I ran into Dr. Eddieboy Calasanz, legendary Ateneo prof and himself a poet, grinning ear to ear as he offered a congratulatory high five. We guffawed together as I asked: What’s next for Philosophy graduates not on the pre-Divinity track, what they do now, where do they go? And he said, “Oh, a lot of things, they can do a lot of things!” I suspected that he was as happy for me as I was for myself. And the boy.

And so I took my seat in time for the start of the Processionale, which had played in my head for days of keening anticipation. My heart stirred to the upbeat march as the kids in dark blue robes filed in with a collective spring to their steps. The valedictorian spoke, quite lengthily as they always seem to do. He was barely understandable at the back, what with a less than cutting-edge sound system.

I stepped out for a puff and a double-view: Marikina below and behind me when I faced the extreme end of the covered courts that resembled a large plane hangar, except that it was filled with thousands of parents and well-wishers on this special day, all seated on monobloc chairs. 

The notable success story for an alumnus that’s MVP or Manny V. Pangilinan was awarded an honoris causa doctorate in humanities, to much applause. As commencement speaker, he spiritedly delivered his speech, which seemed more audible when he turned to Filipino, raising laughter and cheers as he announced something. Had he promised employment at PLDT or Smart or ABC-5 to all the Atenean grads that would come to file applications for employment? Maybe he’d even take in young philosophers. Now that would elate me further.

But as I indulged in a lifetime of reveries on a long bench under the trees, washed over by a constant breeze — before all those names were called — for a while I wished I were MVP, and that I was the one speaking on that stage. And I imagined that this would be what I would say:

Congrats, grads! Y’all made the grade. Yo!

I’m not a politician, and thus am exempt from any ban on delivering commencement rite speeches during a political campaign season. Well and good, But I’ll still take you through the intricacies of the moment, even as we lurch towards another important day.

Most of you will have celebratory dinners with your families and relations tonight. You will be hugged, toasted, and lauded for hurdling life’s prime challenge that is a formal education. Well done, you will be told. And rightly so. And then maybe an uncle will offer or suggest a job, or the hoary advice that you get into the corporate life soon, maybe right after Holy Week.

I know that most of you would rather sleep late and wake up late for a long spell, and congratulate yourself every time you rise on how you’ve gone ahead and done it, finally weathered the long trial of tradition and racked up your 16 or 17 years of enforced education. And that this summer vacation will be eminently enjoyable, as it won’t be just that, since there’s no more going back to books and teachers’ dirty looks.

And maybe those of you with enough cheek, or vantaged with some inches of reach over your dads’, will announce to your parents that you now intend to take a break, and then retire. That’s okay. That’s a good initial plan. But if you want to do some heavy dating on your own in the near future, you’ll really have to think of joining the breadwinners’ ranks at some point.

You could join GMA’s legions of call center operators, and help the country raise our GDP. Remember that she claims credit for all that, and that she was, after all, an economics prof in this   exalted university. Remember that she married a lawyer who is also an Atenean, and boy, how successful is he, so that you could also pursue that path. Remember that as he lies, recuperating, the finest doctors attend to him, and that you could follow their path, as we already have a medical school on Ortigas.

So many options are open to you. Remember that like another Atenean, albeit he couldn’t stay long enough to get any sheepskin, you could become a movie actor, run for mayor, senator, vice president, and president. And become one, and be hauled off for plunder. But be pardoned, and you can run again, while hoping your oldest son will also be president one day, whether or not your second bid turns A-okay. Why, you too could be like him, and even have many women.

Yet another mayor turned senator started out as a cheerleader in these vaunted groves of academe. He too is taking a shot at it: to be the leader of a country you’ve only thus far immersed yourself in on occasion, when you were practically forced to go down “from the hill.” Or those of you with economics degrees can simply live cleanly and bide your time, until destiny calls on you to provide a good choice other than that one personified by another idealist of a rival, in more ways than one, since he’s a La Sallian.

Oh, never mind the prayerful ones and the tall lady of the manor and that guy who used to plant organic veggies on the fields of our neighbor, good old UP. But if you’re thinking of getting into real estate development and banking, you should know what to avoid, so you remain a man for others, and not someone who hoodwinks so many others.

You have a beloved school’s reputation to uphold. You can try your darndest to get as close as you can to being like Jose Rizal. Or you could try to compensate for the mythical Jose Velardes and Jose Pidals, and help elect the right Atenean for the job.  

You know what I’m saying. It’s getting close, that other great moment in your lives, when you will vote for a Philippine President for the first time. And I tell you now: it is a crucial, critical time. This won’t be just another Final Four appearance in the UAAP, or a best-of-three championship against our blood rivals, our own brothers from that school on Taft.

 Babes, bros, this may be for all the marbles in our country’s future. Think of that first job later and focus on this. Forget Boracay when May 10 is just around the corner. Vote wisely, vote as Fr. Horacio de la Costa would have voted. Or all the other thinking Ateneans who are your proud predecessors. This is for Fabilioh! for your near-term future, as well as that of your kids and grand-kids.     

Heck and shoot, we just gotta help as much we can in delivering hope for, and actual, change — no small one, but a biggie! You have to do right by yourselves and help right this country we love — for its Starbucks and 7-11 and Jollibee and National Book Store outlets, for its Mag:nets and Greenbelts and taho and balut vendors and flower shops called Petal Attraction, for our great good humor and strong kinship and ability to sing our anthem any which way as long as we sing! — this country we love for all our kapuso and kapamilya with whom we shared our islands’ sustenance of bright joy! We have to turn it around, and that time is now na!

You get my drift, Ateneans. You get my message. Once again, congrads! Now go out there and just do it. The yellow ballers you need will be distributed outside.