9:30 pm. It was my first time to see an ocean of fists undulating to the tempo of an unhurried hymn. Eyes searched the night sky, anticipating the first sparks of fireworks. Everything was orchestrated. After the last note of the hymn, fountains of light glared just behind the crowd. The ocean was pacified, all you could hear was its restless waves. Unknown to the people beside me, I was not looking at the rockets and sprays of light. Nobody noticed I was looking at them. You can see fireworks anytime, I thought. Perhaps even grander than that. But you won’t see that look on their faces for another hundred years.

8:00 pm. I moved away from Quezon Hall. I noticed that it has been a long time since I received messages on my phone. For some reason, the signal seemed to be congested around Quezon Hall. I walked towards AS, reached the parking lot, purchased a cold drink, and emptied the contents of the bottle in one swift swig. As if on cue, a boy rushed towards me, clad in a dusty sando, running with thinning slippers, carrying a huge sack of empty plastic bottles. He asked if he could have my empty bottle. Unceremeniously, I handed it to him. It’s a transaction every UP student knows and conducts routinely. I tried to calculate how many bottles he would need to finish grade school, high school, and college. All the bottles scattered around the campus that night probably won’t even earn him a semester here in UP. I then heard the concert in the distance, followed by a loud applause.

7:00 pm. A hundred year-old Civil Engineering alumnus led a hundred torch bearers, composed of distinguished alumni and student representatives, around the academic oval. The theme song of the centennial celebrations continuously assault the ears through some really large speakers nearby. I met former classmates who claimed to have come straight to UP from work. Most of them have been working in call centers, retorting with a somewhat rehearsed “for the time being” explanation when asked what they were currently doing. A lot of them assumed that I was taking my MA. During that particular moment, I was really glad that the speakers were in full blast. Otherwise, they’d have known that I’m still finishing my undergraduate degree. And they would have retorted with the patronizing “Ok lang ‘yan, nakaka-miss ngang mag-aral eh,” spoken both with resignation and relief. Days spent as a student in UP, apparently, did not prepare them for the frustrating prospects of underemployment.

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