Entry XVII: A Crack on the Road
One quiet afternoon, as I was reviewing my notes for an upcoming exam, a message popped up in our COE officers' group chat. It was from Engr. Lim. He posted that there would be an online seminar, and that all Civil Engineering students were required to participate and watch. Curious, and a bit caught off guard, I asked him for the exact date. He responded casually, "It will be on Sunday. The link will be posted on Facebook." It sounded simple and clear, but that also meant we had a full week to go before it would take place.
At that moment, it didn't seem like a big deal. I told myself I would remember it when Sunday came. But little did I know, the coming week would hit like a storm.
Monday arrived with a mountain of tasks. I was responsible for submitting all the requirements in Differential Calculus, and also listing the names of my classmates who participated in the past week's events. It might sound easy on paper, but gathering those submissions, checking them, making sure they're complete, and coordinating with my classmates drained a lot of time and energy.
Tuesday didn't feel any better. We had to prepare for our MMW subject once again. And just like many times before, the task of collecting outputs fell to me. I reminded my classmates, followed up with messages, and extended the collection deadline until 5PM just so everyone could comply.
By Wednesday, Sir Fitz gave me another responsibility: to finalize and double-check the list of sizes for our PATHFIT uniforms. I took it seriously and began messaging my classmates. Some responded quickly, but a lot didn't take it seriously. I kept getting half-hearted answers or none at all. And yet, the deadline remained unchanged.
The rest of the week continued in that chaotic rhythm. Assignments, deadlines, group tasks—it all piled up, especially from Differential Calculus. I found myself constantly switching roles between student, leader, collector, and communicator. Amidst the rush, a question lingered in my mind: "Am I forgetting something?"
But I brushed it off. "Nah, maybe it's nothing," I told myself.
Then Sunday came.
I was excited. That day, I had plans with my girlfriend. We hadn't had time for a proper date in weeks. We decided to meet up, have lunch at a cozy restaurant, and spend some quality time together away from the usual stress. As we sat down and placed our orders, I felt a rare sense of peace.
Then my phone buzzed.
It was a message from our class auditor. He had just sent the link to the online seminar in our gc. The same one I had completely forgotten about. My stomach sank.
I felt guilty. I knew it was my responsibility to share the link with my classmates, especially since I was also an officer. Before I could even respond or explain, the auditor sent another message: "Mayor, you forget to send the link!" But the tone wasn't friendly—it felt snarky, passive-aggressive even.
I felt a heavy mix of embarrassment and disappointment. I apologized to the group, owning up to my mistake, but no one really responded or even acknowledged it. It was like I was talking into a void. That silence stung more than any scolding could have.
As the evening rolled in, I was checking updates regarding possible class suspensions due to the heavy rainfall warning. I knew how important it was to stay informed, especially when students had to prepare for their commutes or shift to online classes. Then I saw Bailey, one of my classmates, post a message implying that classes were not suspended. But there was no official source.
I've seen this kind of thing before—jokes and assumptions taken as facts. And as someone who tries to keep things professional and clear, I felt the need to say something. So I typed, "Please don't share that there will be no class unless there would be a direct message or official statement from the VPAA office or the admin."
Simple. Direct. Clarifying.
But apparently, not everyone took it that way.
Summer, another classmate, reacted to my message with a laughing emoji. At first, I tried to let it go, but I couldn't shake off the feeling of being disrespected. Class suspension announcements aren't a joke. Misinformation—whether intentional or not—can cause confusion, especially to those who rely on such messages for planning their day.
So, I called her out politely but firmly, reminding everyone that spreading misinformation can lead to unnecessary chaos. But before the conversation could be resolved, the class auditor jumped in again. Instead of facilitating a proper discussion or helping mediate, he immediately went on the offensive.
His words weren't just corrective; they were snide and personal. He twisted my intentions and made it seem like I was overreacting or trying to control the conversation. And all this, in front of our entire group chat.
At that point, I felt humiliated. The very people I tried to help were turning against me. And instead of offering support or trying to understand my side, most of them just watched in silence.
I paused. My heart was racing. I could've fought back. I had every reason to defend myself. But instead, I chose to step back.
I typed, "I apologize," even though deep down, I knew I didn't do anything wrong.
I was just trying to be responsible. I was just trying to prevent confusion. And yet, I was made to look like the villain.
But I apologized—not because I was guilty, but because I wanted peace. Because being the bigger person sometimes means swallowing your pride for the sake of unity.
Still, the pain lingered. I couldn't help but reflect. In the first place, it was Summer who reacted inappropriately to my clarification. It was the auditor who twisted my intent and provoked a fight. And yet, there I was—being made the scapegoat.
I realized then that my classmates might not fully understand the weight of responsibility, or the importance of clear communication, especially in an environment that heavily relies on it. Not everyone understands the pressure that comes with leadership, or the toll it takes to constantly be the bridge between authority and peers.
I wasn't perfect. I forgot the seminar. I could've phrased my message better. But were my actions really that grave? Did they deserve that kind of treatment?
Maybe not. But I didn't want to carry resentment.
That night, as I lay in bed, I reminded myself of the reasons I keep taking these responsibilities. Not for recognition, not for control—but because I care. About my classmates. About our department. About doing things right.
And maybe that's enough for now.
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and then Add to home screen.