Entry XXIII: Passing the Torch
Friday arrived faster than expected, and yet it couldn't have moved any slower. The weight of the reelection loomed in my mind like an unshakable shadow. It was just Friday, a half-day for all of us in school, and I should have been relieved, excited even, for the early dismissal. But no—my heart was heavy with dread. The thought of reelection tormented me, clawing at the edges of my peace. My thoughts were restless, bouncing between resignation and denial.
In the quiet of the afternoon, I found myself unable to concentrate. My mind kept replaying the upcoming transition. I was caught in a whirlwind of what-ifs and if-onlys. And in that whirlwind, I clung to the voices that had once grounded me—Maxwell, Adam, and most importantly, my mother. I remembered their advice, their words laced with wisdom and patience. They told me that leadership is a choice, but sometimes it's also a calling. I realized that maybe this choice wasn't mine anymore. The class had already decided. It wasn't that I didn't have options—it's that I was being led to the option I never wanted to accept.
I retreated into the sanctuary of my room. There, I sat, gazing at the blank ceiling as if it could offer answers. A question bubbled from within: What lies ahead if I will not be Class Mayor anymore? What benefits will it bring? For the first time in what felt like ages, I allowed myself to truly reflect.
At first, trivial memories flooded in. I thought about the mayoral events I used to attend—the free lunches, the name tags, the recognition. But really, those meals were just local food, nothing extravagant. What had mattered more was the sense of purpose I felt. I remembered the sleepless nights spent finalizing class reports, the endless chats about logistics, the times I took hits for decisions that weren't entirely mine. I remembered defending classmates, organizing meetings, filling in for others, and sacrificing my own rest to ensure things moved forward.
And yet, despite it all, I was being pushed aside. Replaced. Forgotten. My good deeds were no longer enough to keep the tide from turning.
Feeling a growing emptiness, I stepped outside my room, needing air or maybe a sign—anything. And then I saw Him. El Santo Cristo Milagroso, the Black Nazarene, hanging solemnly on the cross near our doorway. I stared at the sculpture, a chill washing over me. My heart softened.
In that moment, I remembered the ecumenical chapel. I remembered the verse: No one is higher than God. It struck me deep. How pride had started to take root in my heart. How I had come to define myself entirely through this title. I had almost forgotten the very one who gave me the strength to lead in the first place.
I looked at my own reflection in the glass window. I was getting thinner. Paler. The stress was visible on my face, and yet, I had ignored it. I was a shell of who I once was when I first took this position.
That was the final sign.
I returned to my room and closed the door behind me. My hands trembled slightly as I opened my drawer and took out a pen and a piece of parchment. In my own quiet ceremony, I wrote it down: Effective today, I resign as Class Mayor. I signed it with a heavy heart, folded the paper, and set it on my desk. No announcement. No broadcast. This moment was mine and mine alone.
Then, I opened my speaker and played the Philippine National Anthem. As the music filled my room, I stood tall, back straight, eyes closed. I remembered every flag ceremony I had presided over, every time I led the class with pride. This time, it was my own farewell ceremony.
And then, with all the emotion that swelled inside me, I began to speak.
"My fellow classmates, my friends, my companions in this challenging journey,
It has been an honor and a great privilege to serve you as your Class Mayor. From the very first day of our freshman year, when we were all strangers trying to find our place in these unfamiliar halls, to the days we stood together, solving problems and building memories—I was there not because I had to be, but because I chose to be.
I am proud to say that I am the longest-serving Class Mayor of our first year, and though that may sound like a title, it is not one that I carry with pride for myself alone. It is a testament to all of us—to the resilience we built together, to the laughter we shared during tough days, to the disagreements we turned into solutions.
I have tried my best. I stayed up late to answer your concerns, I carried your voices to the teachers, I made sacrifices even when no one was looking. I did not always succeed, and I made my fair share of mistakes, but my service was always from the heart.
Today, I accept and if you want me to, I will step down and I will pass the torch to the next Class Mayor of BSCE 1-Roebling. Not because I have stopped caring, not because I am giving up—but because I believe that a new chapter is needed. For me. For all of us.
Thank you for letting me lead you. Thank you for trusting me, even just for a while. Thank you for the chance to serve, to learn, to grow.
Even if my time as Class Mayor ends, my support for this class does not. I may not stand at the front anymore, but I will always walk beside you."
I let out a shaky breath and wiped the tears from my eyes. I hit pause. Then, I played the flag retreat song.
The room was silent when it ended.
To release the weight I had just carried, I turned to one person I knew I could trust—Carl. I opened our chat, typed out a short message, and said, "Carl, this is my farewell speech. I recorded it. Please don't share it with anyone. I just needed to share it with someone."
He replied quickly, a digital warmth behind his words. "Of course. I won't send it to anyone. I promise."
It was enough.
Then Monday came, and the reelection began.
Jeffrey presided over the meeting. The class was buzzing with energy and whispers. I sat at the back, unnoticed, quiet. When it was time to call for nominees for the new Class Mayor, it was Alvis' faction that moved first. They nominated Bella. I nodded slightly. It was expected. She had their support.
But then, something happened.
Kayla raised her hand.
"I nominate..." She paused, her eyes scanning the room. "I nominate him."
All eyes turned to me.
In that fleeting moment, I felt it. That bliss. That light. They hadn't forgotten. Maybe I wasn't entirely in vain after all.
But the voting began, and I watched as hand after hand went up for Bella. Majority ruled. Bella was declared the new Class Mayor.
Still, they called for nominations for Vice Mayor. Again, my name was raised. I didn't win that either. Nor did I secure the spot for Secretary. But then came Assistant Secretary.
They voted. And I won.
It wasn't the same as Class Mayor, but it was something. It was a message. That even if I wasn't leading from the front, I was still part of the team. I was still needed.
Later that evening, I gathered all the class records, the compiled reports, and the master list. I handed them to Bella. She received them with a small smile and a quiet "Thank you."
And just like that, the burden lifted from my shoulders.
It was bittersweet. There was disappointment, yes. But above all, there was peace.
I had served.
Let's see how this new administration will move.
Let's see where our class will go from here.
And in the background of it all, I remain.
Still standing.
Still serving.
In my own way.
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