Yes, we deserve better

By Herman M. Lagon

Childhood teaches an early lesson about responsibility: when you break something, you fix it; you do not ask to be thanked for the attempt. You just fix it, say sorry, and do better next time. So when a celebrity spouse recently suggested—on record—that the public “does not deserve” her husband, an incumbent senator and former action star, and that he has therefore decided not to seek another elective post in 2028, it landed like a line from a telenovela delivered inside a town hall meeting. It was not a private sigh. It was a public framing. A nation of taxpayers, commuters, teachers, and overworked nurses was told, in effect, that public office is a gift we failed to appreciate properly. The collective response was not confusion. It was the kind of laughter that sounds suspiciously like fatigue—then the blunt chorus: we do not “not deserve” him; we deserve better.

Let us be fair before we get funny. Spouses defend spouses. That is human. The problem is not the loyalty; it is the logic. In a democracy, voters do not receive senators the way guests receive party favors. Public office is not a raffle prize handed to the masses, nor a crown the public borrows. It is a job with a salary, staff, privileges, and influence—paid for by citizens who do not get to “opt out” of funding the institution even when the occupant disappoints them. When someone in power is described as an undeserved blessing, that language flips accountability on its head. It subtly turns critique into ingratitude. It makes citizens feel like rude dinner guests for asking what was served. Political scientists have long warned that personality-driven politics—where public roles are treated like extensions of fame and fandom—weaken scrutiny and replace performance evaluation with emotional allegiance (Kahneman et al., 2021). In short: it becomes harder to ask, “What did you do?” because the public is busy being asked, “Why are you so mean?”

The interview itself, of course, tried to soften the framing. The spouse said their lifestyle has not changed—no new car, no new house, no new “katas,” as if frugality is the main metric of public service. It is a respectable point, but it is also a clever detour. The standard is not whether a public official upgraded the garage. The standard is whether the official upgraded governance. Integrity is baseline; competence is the work. A teacher does not deserve a medal for not stealing chalk. A senator does not deserve a halo for not buying a new SUV. The real question is whether the public received what it paid for: legislative seriousness, policy literacy, the ability to follow complex arguments without reducing them to sound bites, committee discipline, and a clear national interest lens—especially when debates involve sovereignty, justice, and constitutional direction.

Measured against those requirements, the public frustration makes sense. Over the course of the term, there has been no defining piece of legislation to point to, no sustained committee leadership to cite, no policy position that reshaped debate or clarified law. Even during moments that demanded clarity and rigor, the interventions rarely moved beyond spectacle or repetition. The record is thin where it needed to be sturdy. Visibility was never the problem; usefulness was. For a chamber meant to refine laws, guard institutions, and slow bad ideas before they become damaging, the contribution remained largely showbiz. That is not malice. It is a dire mismatch. And mismatch, when prolonged, becomes costly.

That is why the “we do not deserve him” line triggered such a sharp reversal online in the coffee shops. It was not just dislike; it was a protest against lowered standards. Many Pinoys—especially teachers and parents—have spent years trying to convince their students and wards that effort and mastery matter more than charm. Imagine telling a Grade 10 learner, “You do not deserve this exam, so I will stop giving quizzes.” The classroom would implode. Yet that is the emotional structure of the statement: the public was scolded for failing to appreciate, so the public will be deprived of the privilege of more candidacy. The satire writes itself: a nation drowning in backlog is told it does not deserve another season of slow-motion governance. Fine. We accept the consequence. Some citizens even said, “Thank you, next”—because the Senate is not a fan meet-and-greet, and lawmaking is not improv comedy where the audience is blamed for not laughing.

There is another layer, and it is where the sarcasm needs to stay disciplined. A lot of online ridicule uses words like “clown,” “payaso,” and “manchild.” Those are harsh, but they are symptoms of something real: a public craving seriousness. When governance becomes performance, people respond with memes because they feel formal channels do not work. In staff rooms, teachers complain about students who want “basta pasado.” In barangay halls, people complain about leaders who want “basta photo-op.” In both places, the damage is the same: process is treated as a nuisance, and competence is treated as optional. The spouse’s comment—intended as devotion—accidentally amplified the perception that the position is being narrated through feelings rather than responsibilities. The public was not asking for perfection. It was asking for a sense that the office is understood as an office, not a stage.

To be clear, not all criticism is clean. Some comments online veer into cruelty, and that should not be given a space in a column. Still, beneath the noise, the critiques are consistent: Filipinos want lawmakers who read bills the way teachers read lesson plans—carefully, repeatedly, with an eye for consequences. They want leaders whose loyalty is to the country, not to a political patriarch, a faction, or a foreign power whose interests repeatedly collide with our own maritime rights and territorial claims. They want public servants who can explain policy without relying on volume, anger, clicks, or vibes. They want fewer “out of context”—even cognitively dissonant—defenses and more context-rich competence. Even the spouse’s explanation that government is “slow” and the senator gets turned off by certain political encouragements was revealing. Government is slow because it is supposed to be cautious with power. If the job is unbearable, stepping away is not martyrdom. It is simply fit.

A sober reader might ask: why do people react so strongly to a single sentence? Because the sentence is not small. “They do not deserve him” is a moral claim. It implies the public is the problem. It implies the official is the victim. It shifts the conversation away from public performance and toward public gratitude. That is dangerous civic math. Elections are not Valentine’s Day. Public office is not a reward for sincerity. Plenty of sincere people are terrible at the job they sincerely want. In education, we call this mismatch. In leadership formation, we call it discernment: noticing when good intentions are real but insufficient, and choosing the more responsible path anyway. The public does not need saints. It needs competent adults who can do the work without demanding emotional worship.

Now for the practical irony: if the official truly wants to help, there are many lanes where help is measurable and immediate. Teach. Sponsor scholarships transparently. Fund legal aid. Support disaster response. Champion fisherfolk rights with actual field consultations. Spend weekends in far-flung public schools and ask teachers what they need besides tarpaulins. Defend West Philippine Sea. You can be a genuine public servant without wearing a Senate barong. The spouse even said she believes her husband is “not a politician” but a “public servant.” That line can be taken seriously in the best way possible: then serve where service fits, not where cameras fit. For educators, this is a familiar lesson: leadership is not a title; it is the ability to carry responsibility without being carried by applause.

Still, skepticism is understandable. Many have seen the “I will not run” script before—said early, repeated softly, then revised loudly when the season changes. Some online commenters already suspect this is theater: a preemptive narrative to soften future backlash or to keep options open. That suspicion exists because trust is thin. Trust thins when officials treat accountability as personal attack, when criticism is dismissed as “haters,” and when governance is narrated like celebrity branding. Behavioral research is blunt here: when systems reward image over process, people learn to game perception (Kahneman et al., 2021). So citizens hedge: “I will believe it when I see it.” That is not cynicism for sport. That is civic self-defense.

If the decision not to run again is true, then here is the most respectful, most apt response I can offer—equal parts gratitude and relief: thank you for finally making a choice that reduces national distraction. Not because the public “does not deserve” him, but because the public deserves a Senate seat occupied by someone whose strongest skill is not being recognizable, but being reliable, wise, and fit. Public roles are not family heirlooms, nor extensions of a love story. They are contracts. Citizens do not owe officials romance. Officials owe citizens results. And if stepping away helps both sides—one side regains private peace, the other regains public oxygen—then that is not tragedy. That is closure. No one is entitled to reapply for a post when the basic requirements were never met. A country owes itself leaders who meet the work, not just the title.

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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.