More than a homecoming

By Herman M. Lagon

Some homecomings are planned with fanfare, others unfold like stories long overdue. But there are rare ones that feel like stepping back into your own skin. That is what happened on July 27, 2025, at the UP Visayas Little Theater, where scores of educators—some gray-haired, some newly promoted, most somewhere in between—gathered not just to catch up, but to rekindle what it meant to be shaped by the Master of Education program of UPV. It was not nostalgia that drove us there. It was recognition. That in these trying times, coming together is not a luxury, but a responsibility.

I did not enter UP through the traditional gates. As a grade schooler, I already dreamed of it, but I was sent somewhere else—too young, two years younger in my batch, for the quota cut, at least as far as my over protective mom was concerned. Life, as it often does, rerouted me. For decades, I walked alongside UP students and faculty—joining rallies, planning campaigns, sharing meals, and holding space for honest conversations. I stood with them in will, word, work, and worldview, but not yet as someone who truly, organically belonged within those halls.

It was only in 2017, at age 42, that old, that I finally set foot as an official UP student, not for Physics as planned, but for Guidance, a second choice that, according to my daughters, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. What unfolded was not just academic rigor. It was personal excavation. And often, transformation begins when one least expects it—over coffee-fueled weekends, tearful processing circles, and a group chat that seemed more alive than our thesis folders ever were.

Our 2019 MEd Guidance batch was a curious mix. Ten personalities, bound not just by course codes, but by stories. Most were younger, fresh from other UP undergraduate programs. I was the second oldest, a father of two daughters, navigating school admin chores while supporting theirs. Our professors were not just instructors—they were mirrors. In Prof. Alobba’s magic circle, we learned that healing begins with being heard. In Prof. Diaz’s minimalist classroom, stripped of slides and scripts, we learned that thinking is not about memorization, but meaning (or else, you drop the subject). Our share of academic gods and goblins came with their own rituals. There was law and attraction, literal and theoretical. There were weekend marathons of Prof. Jovy’s ShareTea-fueled “tsikahan,” the occasional tear, and a lot of late-night paper-crunching under the spell of caffeine and deadlines.

The beauty of the program was not just in what it taught, but in how it unearthed. Prof. Aileen, Prof. Carla and Prof. ‘Pilosopo Tarso’ made us reflect so deeply, we started socio-culturizing, psychoanalyzing, and philosophizing not just our past but our romantic detours, our career regrets, even our childhood dreams. Prof. Pete made us take personality tests and dissect the results—with permission and a lot of self-awareness unlocked. It was both humbling and hilarious. Then came the board exams. Seven of us flew to Manila, holed up in a B-complex AirBnB—six women and me, the lone Ginoo. No monkeying around, only nerdy and funny review sessions. We passed. All of us. Because when you are formed in UP, you carry not just notes and citations, but the unspoken pact to lift each other up. Up until now, I suppose, the program prides itself of having a perfect passing rate.

But this story is not just about surviving academic hurdles. It is about the quiet vow that followed. UP, for all its public prestige, demands something more inward. It does not simply celebrate brilliance. It expects conscience. It does not parade your letters after your name. It asks, what do you do with them? This was the heart of the homecoming’s theme: “Maroonong Guro ng Bayan.” A clever fusion of “maroon,” the color we wear, and “marunong,” the wisdom we aspire to. But it goes beyond wordplay. It is about living the truths we profess.

In our current educational landscape, this message could not be timelier. The Philippine Institute for Development Studies (PIDS, 2023) reported that teacher burnout has reached record highs, with many educators handling multiple roles beyond teaching. Add to that the lingering effects of the pandemic, the digital divide, and children still grappling with basic literacy and wellness issues. These are not statistics to us. These are our students, our schools, our daily realities. When one principal in Iloilo told me she holds weekend review classes under a mango tree—without electricity, using carton flashcards and a hand-drawn chart—it was not a sob story. It was a portrait of commitment. She said, “This is the promise I made when I graduated from UP.” No mic drop. No drama. Just truth.

It is moments like that which remind us that the impact of UP education is measured not by citations or podiums, but by presence. The kind that shows up on a muddy footpath, with no projector or WiFi, just voice and heart. UP does not create perfect educators. It hopes to create purposeful ones. Educators who ask hard questions, even when there are no easy answers. Those who speak truth to power in the faculty room and hold space for a crying student long after office hours. Those who fix fights, publish research, win grants—and still manage to listen without judgment during a counseling session on a random Tuesday.

The launch of the UPV Master of Education Alumni Association (UPVMEAA), after 45 years of waiting is not just organizational housekeeping. It is a community of conscience. The Constitution, which we ratified that day, was crafted not with bureaucracy in mind, but with shared values—equity, collaboration, mentorship. This is not an alumni group for selfies and reunions, although there were plenty of those. It is for building bridges across batches, across schools, across gaps that policy alone cannot close. It is about giving back not from a place of surplus, but of shared struggle. Because the truth is, many of us still hustle—between deadlines, meetings, emotional labor, and unpaid overtime. But what UP taught us is that you do not wait for perfect conditions to do meaningful work. You just start.

That Sunday, between laughter and logistics, we remembered the professors, staff, and classmates who shaped our lens. Each name, each class, each odd joke and inside story—they all became threads in a tapestry of educators still figuring it out, still committed to figuring it out together.

That is the gift of being formed in a place that do not just teach—but form. Not through grandeur, but through grit. It is in the late nights at the library, in the comical stress of group reports, in the whispered comfort of a batchmate who tells you, “You got this.” It is in the thesis consultations that feel more like therapy. It is in the moments where learning becomes less about the mind and more about meaning. This, more than anything, is what UP stands for. It holds space for the critical, the creative, and the compassionate to converge.

As educators, our power lies not in the size of our classrooms, but in the sincerity of our teaching. Whether in highland barangays, city schools, or alternative learning centers, the need is the same: to show up with competence and conscience. The M.Ed. program, especially in Guidance, has taught us that sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is simply listen well. And sometimes, to love your students enough to hold them accountable.

The UPVMEAA may have just been born, but its heartbeat is already strong. Because it beats in every principal staying late to draft policies no one will praise. It echoes in every counselor who reminds a struggling learner that failure is not final. It breathes in every teacher who teaches not just for the board exam, but for life.

And so we go back—not as former students, but as co-builders of what Philippine education still must become: rooted in reason, anchored in empathy, and courageous enough to demand better. The “maroonong guro ng bayan” is not a hero. But they are not invisible either. They are simply everywhere—quietly holding the line, one learner at a time.

Because in the end, it was never just about UP.

It was about the promises made quietly under mango trees, the lessons passed between batches, the names that live in your phone more than in your diploma. It was about finding your people, your pulse, your place in the mission. And when we stood there, hand on heart, recalling the quake-shaken Compre exams and the manic rush to finish capstones, it became clear: this was not just an event. It was a recommitment. A return not to where we once were—but to who we have always chosen to be.

UP, our home.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.