It's just... odd.
It was eight in the morning. I called the office of the Associate Dean for Academic Affairs (ADAA). My heart was beating like crazy, as if it was about to burst off my chest the worst possible way. The feeling was very unique. No, that cold stare into nothingness as you “answer” a math long test with a clean, blank, white coupon bond is different. No, that “acceptance” of a failed long test for the nth time is different.
Heck, it's even life-threateningly different. I got into a vehicular accident back in April '01. I eventually found out I fractured my left clavicle. The feeling when I got out of that trike—an intense pain, the gravity of which is more than I have ever felt in my life—that's different too.
[non-verbatim]
“Ah, appeal? Sandali lang ha.”
“Sige po.”
...
“Tawag ka ulit mamayang 9—hinihintay lang namin si Father. Di pa kasi dumarating e.”
!@#$%^^%$#. Isang oras pa?! Seryoso?!
Anyway, I didn't know who “Father” was. I actually didn't care. Maybe he’s part of the Standards Committee that will decide on my fate, maybe he wasn’t. At the time, it didn’t really matter anymore.
I walked around the living room like a madman. I wanted to take a bath to refresh myself, but there's this overwhelming feeling that I needed to know what the hell their decision is before taking said bath.
I changed radio stations like I was searching a song that fit my situation. Nothing did. Nothing can stop this anxiety. The numbers shuffle like random sequences from the hundred-thousandth digits of pi: 101.9, 99.5, 93.1, 89.9, 90.7, 97.9, 96.3. Eventually I just turned it off in disgust.
But I realize, in retrospect: What if the wait was to let me calm down? What would have happened had I received the news when my heart was bursting out of my chest?
I don't know, and sadly, I don't want to think about it. It could have been life-threatening, the physical way—you know, the emergency room, doctors coming from all over like in TV shows. It could’ve been intense rejoicing as well, a type of effusive delight that can only be physically-manifested through speechlessness and buckets of tears from years of underuse.
Minutes passed nine. “The servers are busy; please try your call later.” It repeats as I a few more times. “The servers are—” BAM. Put down the damn phone.
I try ad infinitum, though. No harm in trying. Try, as uncharacteristic as that term is relative to what I did in the past. Try, probably because I needed the decision para tapos na. Or try, out of desperation? Regardless, I find myself indulging my curiosity more these days. “Sige, try ko na nga. Wala namang masama e.”
“Welcome to the Aten—”. HERE WE GO. I hurriedly hit the local numbers like I memorized them from a lifetime of practice. One of the most awkward over-the-phone dead airs just unfolded. Oh, God.
“Sorry, the extension 5-0-1-1 is currently in use.” GODDAMMIT. As the machine spouts out some more gibberish, I type out the other extension. “Sorry, the extensio—”. Oh, now I know the drill. I'm not letting myself put this damn phone down without an answer—be it the worst news of my life. I try some more...
“Academic Affairs.”
“Uhm *clears throat*. May results na po ba yung appeal?”
“Ah, sandali lang ah. ... Anong pangalan mo?”
“Marck San Juan po.”
...
“Marck Darryl?”
“Opo.”
...
“Approved.”
BAM. Never imagined it to be like this. This is the first time na pinangunahan ko ang sarili ko with regards to a major turning point in my life—from the heart-breaking, painstakingly difficult to the easiest, best-case scenario. I never thought it would be so anticlimactic. I was just there, phone on my left ear. Speechless, and almost deluding myself into thinking I did not properly hear what the lady on the other end of the line said.
What's striking is that I resigned myself to the fact that I'm a goner. I'm done. I conditioned myself the past few weeks that when I get the news, this is what I'm going to do: I'm going to write a personalized Facebook note to each of my friends. I'll pour everything in my heart and soul out there. I'll reminisce at the small things, at the good times; that I never call people my “friends” because I don't know what their reaction is going to be. “Will they despise me for presuming on our friendship?” “Am I FC for doing that?” I would wish for the rest of my friends to disregard grades and get the best kind of education possible, because the opportunity is right there. One of the most concrete sentences in my head: “Be a Dacanay baby. Take Bobby Guev. Take Ambeth Ocampo. Take Padre Ferriols.”
And I already know how to end the thing: Despite every type of flak I got that I rightly deserve, life is good. My mom has been to a disturbing number of wakes the past few weeks (to people who died from freak accidents to those who succumbed to good ol' Time), and after the recent pasyon I participated in, every request was for God to help their relative recover from this disease or that ailment. My dim career prospects seemed like nothing compared to all of those. And I thought, you know what, yeah, it's actually nothing. If you just had your third stroke, anything about your career goes out the window. You're (i.e., your body/health) the most important, anyway.
And life is good, because I don't hang around fastfood places to search for leftovers that will be sent to makeshift homes beside the railroad tracks, given to the wife that will cook it up for delicious pagpag to be served the next day. That in terms of education, my best bet isn't a mobile bookshelf a la Efren Peñaflorida. Even if I get the worst news of my life, I'll have other universities that may admit me.
Speaking of which, I had an inclination to attach myself, in a way, to every school that I see—even in adverts. One particular institution I was looking forward to go to was STI. The southbound highway gave me a firsthand look at “STI College” and its campus. I don't have a concrete plan; the only concreteness I promised myself is that, if Ateneo denies me readmission, I will do everything to get out of the institution I'll go to as valedictorian. No excuses. If that makes me grade-conscious, so be it. My parents deserve nothing less than that, after that kind of disaster. (Though yeah, I also think the “next school” will shape me in another way—e.g., I'll meet some new friends that will transform me in a way that I can't tell.)
To the lady on the other end of the line, maybe I had her repeat what she just said. Whatever. The onus is on me to do what I would wish upon my friends and continue on. I was not as ecstatic as I had imagined, as I just paused for a couple seconds and asked about what'll happen logistics-wise.
And a chance to continue on and actually finish as an Atenista.
“Try, as uncharacteristic as that term is relative to what I did in the past.”
I never did “try” in my first two years of my Ateneo education—much less try my best. I discarded the immense advantages of my high school education and bummed out. I coasted and rested on my laurels. I joined orgs but were never active in them; I made use of my talents in countless blogs that I made and remade, designed and redesigned, and then ultimately discarded, and read voraciously in forums like reddit and in sites like Brain Pickings, Mental Floss, and my never-ending News Feed.
Now? I still read Brain Pickings and Mental Floss, and my mouse wheel is very well-acquainted with my middle finger for I still scroll my News Feed endlessly.
The difference? I’m now reading philosophers, walking around campus and talking to my friends, joining orgs and applied for positions for those which I stuck with.
The future is looking good.
_______________________________________________________________
Marckie San Juan is a fourth year philosophy major. He likes to read interesting blog posts in the Internet and to talk with friends over milk tea.
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