Mr. Errol A. Merquita at the 2024 University Convocation

 
Back in 1996, I didn't know that UP had a campus in Davao. I wasn't aware of the UPCAT at the time. It was during my first year of college that I discovered UP in Bago Oshiro, just a few kilometers away from our house in Los Amigos. To transfer to UP, I needed a GWA of at least 2.0, but because it's UP, I set a higher standard for myself, aiming for 1.25—which I achieved. After passing a series of interviews, I found myself traveling on the 'hemorrhagic road' leading to UP.

I arrived at UP Mindanao wearing eyeglasses made of thick expectations and even thicker insecurity. Our daily landscape included clingy amorseco, the mooing and droppings of cows, the UP Bus, and the singing of cicadas at the EBL, PCA, and Kanluran campuses. At that time, only four courses were offered: Biology, Applied Math, Social Science, and Creative Writing, with fewer than 300 students across the campus. Many of us, myself included, were striving to meet the university's standard of academic excellence. We wanted to prove that students from Mindanao were just as capable as, if not better than, those from Luzon-centric campuses.

I failed to meet that expectation. Receiving grades of INC, and 5.0 during my first year was difficult to process. Sablay. I failed. I promised myself I would make it to the Dean's List and Chancellor's List, which I did in my third and fourth years. After college, I moved from one company to another, seeking promotions, building my reputation, and leveraging my UP badge to establish my career.

Throughout our formative years, we measure our achievements using certain standards and constructs. It labels us and others, either loudly or silently, as successful, unsuccessful, or mediocre. Some of the constructs most of us were chasing back then were Latin honors, multiple titles, and English eloquence. But after years of pursuing these goals, I feel like I was chasing and running in circles like Sisyphus endlessly pushing his boulder. I found myself wondering, "until when will I chase this? who am I really doing this for?"

In the aftermath of Typhoon Sendong, Pablo, Yolanda, and the Marawi siege, I have seen dead bodies piling up in the streets, buried with their families inside their homes, and floating in the river. I have seen children who barely eat twice a day while their leaders dine in four-star hotels. Many girls in rural areas still believe that getting married is their best option after puberty. Many women with great potential are deprived of proper education simply because they are women. And I asked myself, how have the academic excellence and the corporate ladder I sought for years contributed to establishing meaningful connections with people and reducing the inequalities we see every day?

From these many failures, I realized that excellence and success are not confined to a single construct and can be redefined. When I removed the glasses, I wore when I first arrived here, I was able to see differently. It was uncomfortable to take off the glasses I was so used to wearing, but my vision became wider. In between chasing excellence and meeting failures, I learned some important lessons in life.

Becoming Smart: Today's CEOs call it Merit, Excellence, and Intelligence (MEI). Aristotle believed that achieving academic excellence is crucial for cultivating virtue. Plato envisioned a just society where well-educated individuals contribute to the common good. Yet, 2,400 years later, we have entered the Anthropocene era—a period marked by extensive human impact and the world seems more disconnected than ever. What is the point of being so smart in this world if our own existence is at risk? Who benefits from excellence when there is no real connection to people? My realization didn't lead me to the usual "hemorrhagic road" but instead to a path less traveled— I call "malasakit."

During batch reunions, we can no longer recall the scores from our blue books. Instead, we remember the times when a stranger became an ally through an act of malasakit—how a classmate saved us from hunger when our weekly allowance ran out by Wednesday, how a teacher supported us during tough times, or how a school bus driver patiently waited for us to take the ride. Malasakit is when you treat others regardless of their gender, faith, or economic status.

Acts of malasakit, no matter how small, are remembered. What does malasakit mean exactly? It means embracing values that are just as important as MEI—values like respect, equity, diversity, and inclusion. But malasakit is not charity; it is solidarity. The perception of being charitable can give a sense of arrogance, but solidarity distributes power and resources to those most harmed by an unfair system. While excellence can lead to so-called career advancement, malasakit values can make me happy, when people support me as they also progress as individuals.

The challenge lies in how the academic community can effectively measure 'malasakit,' one of the many intangibles. This challenge is further compounded by the tendency of families and society to glorify traditional measures of success over the values of learning and accountability. Until it is mainstreamed, normalizing the values of malasakit will be difficult. So, I urge to continue practicing these values of respect, equity, diversity, and inclusion. Imagine a campus of students being so intelligent and excellent, yet also diverse and inclusive.

Growing Roots: Climate change initiatives promote trees with longer and stronger roots. They improve stability, support microbial communities, enhance carbon sequestration, and increase water absorption. Growing roots, for me, means recognizing and embracing where I come from—my tribe. As a child and throughout high school, I struggled with stuttering. It was difficult for me to master the rules of English phonetics. I could feel the strain on my tongue, leading to a tendency to repeat words and prolong sounds. Every class recitation or social interaction in English reminded me of deep self-doubt, magnifying my archipelagic insecurity. While many laughed at learners like us, I also learned here at UP that English has been used to intimidate people. I refused to be intimidated by a colonial language. I began harnessing the words my tribe taught me. Binisaya. I wrote balak and sugilanon, which led me to various local and national writing fellowships and earned me some national recognition. I am growing. Nurturing and growing my roots have allowed me to connect deeply with my Mindanawon roots, understand my community's struggles—which are larger than my stuttering—navigate the complex narratives of the Moro, Lumad, and settlers, discover indigenous terminologies that are key to preserving biodiversity and understanding heritage, and forge deeper partnerships with people. This would have been difficult if I had continued chasing English eloquence, as it is not my roots.

As for you, this is the right time to fail. But fail quickly, learn from your mistakes, and find smart solutions. At UP, we take pride in wearing the sablay. Four to five years from now, when you wear your sablay, it won't signify failure. Instead, it will represent your national identity, the UP values, and your commitment to serving our communities as an act of solidarity.

Starting today, we will harness this power to manifest our intentions, and together we say, 'sasablay.'

Errol Merquita.8.19.2024