“Wow, saan ang pasok mo?” my high school friend joked when she noticed my UP lanyard. It was the weekend, and I had just gotten off the train to meet her.
“Pang-student discount lang kasi,” I replied defensively, quickly taking off the ID from my neck.
“Mga taga-UP talaga,” she teased.
I know the newer batches understand how it feels to be the butt of this joke. I still recall the trifling debates between the alumni who swore they could not wait to take off their IDs as soon as they left campus and the freshies who never seemed to take theirs off at all.
I am here to tell you one thing—I do not recall a time I commuted to and from UP without wearing my lanyard. It was mostly because I forgot to take it off. But I admit, sometimes, I also wore it for the sense of pride it gave me.
During weekdays, I lived in my dorm, but weekends meant going home to my province, Cavite, for at least four grueling hours of commuting. Every now and then, a stranger would notice my lanyard—an elderly man, a tired breadwinner heading home, or a mother juggling bags of groceries.
“Sa UP ka, ‘neng?” they would often ask.
I had always assumed people did not care about UP outside the city. But each person I met during my trips had their own connection to the university—some had relatives who studied there, others once dreamed of sending their children but could not, and a few had worked near the campus.
My most memorable conversation happened with Tatay Lito, a man in his 50s, who sat next to me on the bus and requested to take the window seat so he wouldn’t miss his stop. I obliged.
I knew I looked weary, but not as much as he did. So he gave me a grateful smile, seeing that I had given up the sweet spot. He was very fidgety even before the bus started moving. He adjusted the curtains, put on a jacket, wiped his open-toed sandals clean, and offered me candy, all in under a minute.
Then his eyes landed on my lanyard, “College ka ‘neng? Sa UP?”
“Opo,” I replied.
“Matalino ka siguro, ano?” he said playfully as he chewed on his mentos. But before I could answer, he launched into a story. “Panahon ko pa lang, naririnig ko na ‘yan. Kaso, nagtatrabaho na ‘ko noon, kaya ‘di na ‘ko nakapag-college.”
Tatay Lito spoke of UP with reverence. He shared how back in his high school days, representatives from the university visited schools to scout the top students in his class, encouraging them to apply. It left him with the impression that UP was a place meant for the brightest minds.
So he was curious about my life. What could someone from that league of “brightest minds” might be doing? He asked about my age and my degree program. He marveled at how I willingly endured the challenges of studying at UP even if it meant being away from home. I told him I was simply lucky to have the means to do it.
“Tama ‘yan, magsipag at mag-aral ka habang bata ka pa,” he said, looking proud.
His smile was genuine, but despite his best effort to stay optimistic, the sudden pensiveness in his voice has not escaped my ears. I saw his eyes drop with what looked like a prayerful musing.
Or perhaps a pang of regret washing over him.
I wanted to tell him, “No, UP isn’t as great as it seems.” The longer I stayed at the university, the more its flaws became apparent.
I could talk endlessly about the challenges of securing course units, how I had grown used to running on little sleep, or the sheer amount of workload that never seemed to let up. But I knew better than to shatter his image of it.
“Galingan mo,” he said finally.
I got off the bus before Tatay Lito did, but his words clung to me, my lanyard now feeling heavier around my neck.
The UP lanyard might carry an air of “prestige,” but the stories I have heard while wearing it have been nothing short of humbling.
I wear it to make myself feel big. ‘Oo, taga-UP ako,’ I would think. But seeing the weight of Tatay Lito’s admiration made me feel small in comparison.
The lanyard is how people identified me as the Iskolar ng Bayan whom they trust will bring forward the aspirations they could not reach.
So when I say I will give back, they take my word for it—perhaps not entirely out of obligation, but as a way of honoring everything I have been given.
It is frightening.
Because as much as education is a right, the truth is that studying at UP feels like a privilege built on countless sacrifices—by parents who set aside their dreams to fund yours, by strangers who believe in your eventual success, and by an entire nation holding on to the hope that Iskolars ng Bayan can make a difference.
But I have come to realize that the weight of that trust is not a burden. It serves as a reminder that although I have the privilege of studying at UP, the responsibility that comes with it is part of a much larger purpose beyond my own interests.
For most people, though, it is simpler than that. Just seeing you try your best every day is likely enough. Galingan mo, is all people really ask.
When I finally reached home, I found my mom busily sorting the week’s laundry.
“Ma, pasama sa labahan ng lanyard ko,” I said.