I AM running out of excuses to skip eating lunch out with my friends. As much as I hate to miss the scene, the price of being left behind is often cheaper than most meals in Katipunan.
Small struggles like this remind me how difficult it was to find my footing in Ateneo. As proud as I am about my public high school background and lower-middle class upbringing, I rarely wore the hat of a scholar when making new friends.
I left that part of myself visible only to my closest friends and to the scholar community, as if it were a separate identity. While these social circles welcomed me with a familiar warmth, exploring other facets of the Ateneo felt like treading uncharted waters.
Ironically, icebreakers that were supposed to build rapport only widened the gap between me and my more well-off peers. When asked about our favorite song or lunch spot, our differing responses stripped me of the pride I once had in naming my go-to fast-food restaurants or blurting out my favorite OPM lyrics. Instead, I found myself rehearsing fake answers, just to avoid awkward exchanges and forced chuckles.
It was not long before I noticed how my manner of speech stood out in certain circles. On several occasions, I caught myself deliberately speaking conyo, as my strong, vernacular Tagalog felt too noticeable and out of place. Perhaps this intentional dismantling of my mother tongue was my way of suggesting that I, too, studied in an international school or regularly traveled abroad.
On some days, even casual conversations have felt like reminders of what I do not have: a driver to take me home every weekend, an iPhone to receive photos via AirDrop, a high-end camera for my coverages—and the list goes on. While I am grateful for what I have, it becomes a big ask to avoid comparison when images of affluence are so incorporated into my everyday life.
As someone who relies on three scholarships just to stay in Ateneo, one would think I’d be numb to cost-cutting and cultural disparity. Yet, it is this quiet cost of belonging that bugs me the most.
It isn’t even about exclusion. Most of my friends temper their expectations and extend mindfulness for me. Still, there is an invisible price tag attached to every social circle I am part of–some, admittedly, more costly than others.
Yet in every search for community, I have consistently arrived at one truth: the scholar’s seemingly unfitting presence in the Ateneo completes the larger student community.
As scholars, we bring unique stories and perspectives that privilege cannot afford. Our experiences in navigating systemic barriers have honed our problem-solving skills, creativity, resourcefulness, and character—qualities that are truly our own.
Perhaps my abundance lies not in material wealth, but in my story itself. My tastes are rooted in Filipino culture as it is on the ground. My language is rich because it is born from conversations with the masses. My wealth is defined by faulty gadgets, cramped jeepney rides to campus, and packs of instant food that I so apathetically consume.
I hope that the next time I sit at the lunch table with my fellow Ateneans—sulit meal in hand—I carry this same confidence, remembering that it is the voices of my fellow scholars and I that need to be heard the most.
Patrick is a fourth-year Environmental Science student and scholar at Ateneo de Manila University. He hopes to apply his education in the natural sciences and experience in visual storytelling to promote socio-environmental resilience in marginalized communities.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
