A Letter to Sintang Paaralan: Don’t Let Our Last Memory Be Another Letdown

Written by: Roselyn Mariano

“May balat sa puwet.” They call us the cursed batch. 

We’re the ones who started college not in classrooms, but in cramped corners of our homes—navigating unstable internet, background noise, and the eerie silence of breakout rooms. The ones who tried to make sense of college life while storms raged outside and Zoom fatigue wore us down inside. The batch that missed out on in-person orientations and full face-to-face classes. And now, as we near the finish line, we’re also the batch whose graduation has once again been caught in the tide of changes—initially delayed, only to later be retained to its original schedule, but in a different, downsized venue.

The university has confirmed it: our Year-End Commencement Exercises will not be held at the Philippine International Convention Center (PICC), as past traditions promised, but at the PUP Gymnasium from September 16–20, 2025. The Graduate School will follow on October 9. This announcement was made around July 17. The reason? The PICC is undergoing renovation, and we are told that all other venues are unavailable. This decision has left many students disheartened. After everything this batch has endured, we deserve a venue that reflects the weight of our journey—not one chosen merely out of convenience.

But here’s what truly stings: this wasn’t a last-minute curveball. The renovation of the PICC has been underway for months. The university knew. They had time. And yet, instead of offering a proactive and inclusive solution, we were handed a fallback—no consultations, no thorough explanation of explored alternatives, just a final announcement and the expectation that we, once again, adjust.

We are not ungrateful. We are not asking for extravagance. What we are asking for is dignity. Recognition. A send-off that reflects the weight of our journey—not a decision made out of convenience, but one grounded in genuine regard for what this moment means to us.

It’s been more than two decades since the PICC last underwent major renovations. After weathering storms, hosting global summits, and witnessing thousands of academic milestones, it’s almost poetic—if not cruel—that just as our batch finally steps into the spotlight, that stage fades to black. We would laugh at the timing—if only it didn’t ache so much.

We understand the limitations of scheduling, budgeting, and logistics. But what we cannot understand—nor accept—is the lack of accountability. Why weren’t students involved in the conversation? Why was a decision with such emotional and symbolic weight made in silence, behind closed doors?

While the administration cites limited venue availability as a constraint, we must ask: how did other universities in similar situations manage to find better alternatives? In 2025 alone, Emilio Aguinaldo College and De La Salle–College of Saint Benilde held their graduation ceremonies at the SMX Convention Center. Pamantasan ng Lungsod ng Muntinlupa, despite having a smaller student population, secured a venue more fitting than a school gym. Even senior high schools like National University–Dasmariñas and Far Eastern University–High School went the extra mile to ensure their graduates were properly honored in decent venues.

Pamantasan ng Lungsod ng Maynila, another public university, is also set to hold their graduation this October at SMX—the same venue they’ve consistently used alongside the PICC. And while the PICC may be larger, SMX remains far more appropriate, accessible, and dignified than the PUP Gymnasium—especially for a university of this size, reputation, and national standing.

To be fair, SMX Convention Center is far from an inadequate choice. With over 17,000 square meters of event space, modern facilities, and the capacity to accommodate thousands of guests, it remains a top venue for large-scale academic events. Its 7,100-square-meter function hall is equivalent to more than ten basketball courts—an ideal space to properly honor a batch that has endured so much. If others can secure it, why can’t we?

Let’s be honest: the PUP Gymnasium is not the most fitting venue for a ceremony of this scale and significance. It’s hot, crowded, and notoriously difficult to navigate during major events. For many families—some traveling from provinces or even abroad, others filing leaves from work just to witness this once-in-a-lifetime milestone—this day carries deep emotional weight. After everything we’ve been through, we hoped for a send-off that feels just as meaningful. We’re not asking for grandeur—just something better.

As a graduating student, graduation is supposed to be the light at the end of a long, grueling tunnel. I still remember my first day at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines—nervous, uncertain, but hopeful. Like many of my peers, I clung to one vision: walking across a grand stage, diploma in hand, my parents beaming with pride. Not just for me—but for every sacrifice, every sleepless night, and every hardship that brought us here.

And that’s why this isn’t merely about a venue change. It’s about the meaning attached to this moment. A culmination of everything we’ve endured—pandemic anxieties, academic pressure, missed opportunities. This is the moment that’s supposed to tie it all together. And yet, once again, we’re being told to settle.

We are not asking for luxury. We are asking for respect—for the kind of farewell our parents, who stood by us through every breakdown and breakthrough, can attend with comfort and pride. Not in an overcrowded, poorly ventilated gymnasium, but in a space worthy of the journey it honors.

At this point, it feels like a story left mid-sentence—cruel and unfinished. After four years of relentless adjustments, we’re being asked to yield once more. And yes, we know life isn’t always fair. But does that mean we’re not allowed to feel disappointed? Does questioning, “Why weren’t we heard?” make us any less grateful?

The university claims the gymnasium is the most “timely, practical, and cost-considerate” option. Maybe that’s true. But the pain isn’t just in the decision—it’s in the process. It’s in how the decision was made for us, not with us.

What makes it more disheartening is that we tried. We voiced our concerns across social media. We poured out our frustrations. A sensing form was even disseminated by the student body to collect feedback and amplify our voices. But despite all this—despite the rising chorus of discontent—the response we received was silence. And silence, in many ways, is the loudest form of dismissal.

This isn’t just about logistics. This is about being seen. Being heard. Being valued. The university’s refusal to engage in genuine, transparent dialogue with its students reflects more than a misstep—it reveals a widening disconnect. We have filled out forms and made our voices known. 

And yet, despite it all, we continue to hope. We’ve had to be strong too many times. We’ve been respectful, patient, and cooperative. But we are tired. We are not asking for perfection. We are asking for recognition—of everything we’ve endured, everything we’ve lost, and everything we’ve fought for just to get here. We are asking for empathy.

If the university truly wants to become the National Polytechnic University, it must begin by prioritizing student welfare—not just in words, but in practice. How can it lead nationally when it overlooks its own students at such a pivotal time? The very essence of the NPU Bill is to enhance institutional autonomy, academic excellence, and student-centered services. But none of these goals will matter if our voices continue to fall on deaf ears.

The NPU Bill is more than just a rebranding. It is a promise from the government to improve PUP by giving it more institutional and financial independence, making its academic standards higher, and creating student-centered services that are worthy of national recognition. But these high goals won’t mean anything if the university can’t do anything about the problems and concerns of its own community.

You cannot claim national status while ignoring the voices of your students. You cannot ask to lead while failing to listen. If the university truly wants the bill to succeed—and to earn the trust and support of the public—it must begin by aligning its actions with the very principles the bill stands for. That starts with decisions grounded in empathy, transparency, and accountability.

Hence, to our Sintang Paaralan: we carried your name with pride, even when things were hard. Even when the Wi-Fi cut out, the floods came in, and the weight of uncertainty loomed large. We represented this institution through every hardship, never letting go of the belief that one day, we would walk into a venue not as struggling students, but as proud graduates.

Please, don’t let our send-off be another hardship. Let it be a memory we look back on with pride, not regret. Let it be the moment that reminds us that even the “cursed” batch deserves a blessing at the end. That in a sea of setbacks, we were still seen. Still valued. Still worth celebrating—fully, and without compromise.