Toga, Interrupted

By Herman M. Lagon

In the heat of April, under the stifling sun of Antique, something far heavier than the climate settled over a small town graduation—a moment that was supposed to mark pride, turned instead into a public debate, a wave of online outrage, and a national reckoning over what a piece of cloth really means. When students from Col. Ruperto Abellon National High School were ordered to remove their togas just before receiving their diplomas, it did more than disrobe young graduates. It peeled back layers of tension: about leadership, tradition, communication, and the real essence of rites of passage in our schools.

Now, let us be clear: there is nothing inherently sacred about the toga. Neither is the sablay inherently superior. DepEd itself affirms this. These are symbols, optional at that. But like any symbol, their power comes from what they represent to those who wear them. To a parent who worked two jobs to rent that toga, to a student who saw it as the final stitch in a six-year high school struggle, the cloth became more than protocol. It became personal. And that is where this whole thing cracked.

But as easy as it is to point fingers—and certainly, the videos were painful to watch—we also need to take a step back. There are no villains in this story, only humans. Principal Venus Divinia Nietes might have made a deeply unpopular call, but I have been in her shoes before. I have made decisions that angered parents, embarrassed students, offended teachers, and haunted me after the “judgment call” died down. I remember sending out ridiculously long e-memos that probably made inboxes groan, asking teachers to submit research outputs every year like clockwork, insisting classes continue even when the weather outside was howling, or cancelling a much-anticipated school event just to be on the safe side. But back then, I thought I was doing the right thing. Most administrators, at some point, will err in judgment. The true test is what happens after.

This is where the bigger picture must enter. Graduation is not about the toga, the sablay, or even the venue. It is about the transformation from adolescence to adulthood, from guided learning to self-guided life. Whether our students move to college, to a tech-voc course, to entrepreneurship, to work, or to coming of age this is the moment they symbolically shift from following rules to making choices. That is why discernment matters. We should teach our students not just obedience but wise decision-making. That includes standing firm with respect, disagreeing without being disrespectful, and knowing when tradition can bend without breaking values.

When DepEd emphasizes simplicity in ceremonies, it does so to spare families from unnecessary expenses. But simplicity does not mean stripping dignity. The intention to avoid extravagance must never come at the cost of student agency. In truth, many parents in that Antique graduation willingly supported the toga—as affordable, meaningful, and within their reach. This mismatch in perception, not necessarily malice, is what caused the rupture.

Leadership in schools, as in life, is not about never making mistakes. It is about owning them. It is about the kind of humility that allows for learning in public. The fact that DepEd and the SDO Antique are now investigating, listening, and planning psychosocial support is a good start. But what the students need is not just healing. They need assurance that their voices count—not just when they are first honors, but also when they are vulnerable.

There are real-world echoes here. We have all been in spaces where protocol clashes with principle. Think of that time you followed a company rule that made little sense, or a government process that punished initiative. That is what those students, parents, and guardians felt. And that is why the incident resonated so widely. It mirrored something many of us know too well: that being right and doing right are not always the same. What we do next, though, can close that gap.

As a teacher, as a former school head, and now as someone who advocates for education beyond the classroom, I have learned that our most difficult decisions shape our character the most. The best learning sometimes comes from mistakes, whether ours or others’. The goal is not to shame—it is to learn. And hopefully, to change for the better.

The graduates of Antique are already moving on, diplomas or not. But this story is not just about them. It is about every teacher about to make a hard call. Every parent trying to be heard. Every student learning when to speak and when to listen. If this experience can awaken us to the deeper meaning of graduation—not the garments worn but the growth gained—then maybe, just maybe, it was not a failure after all. It was just another painful, but powerful, lesson.

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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.