Entry VII: Permission-Submission
7 days again had arrived, and with it came another wave of responsibilities that seemed to multiply rather than settle. As Class Mayor, I was already used to the routine: taking attendance, handling excuses, and coordinating announcements. Yet no matter how accustomed I thought I was, each new week still managed to surprise me.
Every day, my classmates approached me—some in person, most through private message—reporting their absences. It had become a cycle. I would relay the information to our teachers, and they would respond in a familiar pattern. Some were very strict, insisting on a proper excuse letter and a valid medical certificate, while others barely glanced at the letter before accepting it. I tried not to be frustrated, knowing that each teacher had their own standards. Still, being the middleman between both parties was mentally taxing.
Then came Saturday.
We had just finished our NSTP session with our assigned instructor, Mr. Alban, when a wave of new announcements poured in from our subject group chats. I could feel the pressure beginning to build in my chest. It felt like a storm of academic tasks was about to crash down on us all at once.
For CE 101, our first plate was due. Thankfully, this was announced the previous Wednesday, and I had already finished mine earlier in the week. At least I had one thing out of the way. Then, for Engineering Drawings and Plans, we were also tasked to submit our first plate, which was basic lettering. That had been announced on Tuesday, and although I managed to complete mine the same night, I knew several of my classmates were already struggling with theirs.
As if those weren't enough, our Environmental Science teacher gave us an interesting yet burdensome task. We were instructed to create a solution plan to improve the back area of the College of Engineering (COE) building. It was to be a group project, and the incentive was great: whichever group presented the best plan would be exempted from the midterm exam. The assignment was announced Monday, and many groups had immediately begun brainstorming. Still, I could sense the mounting anxiety among my classmates.
Lastly, an assignment for Differential Calculus was announced on Friday, due this week as well. The amount of academic pressure packed into one weekend was staggering.
Once again, the burden of collection fell upon me. Every teacher, without exception, tasked me to gather the submissions for their subjects. I took it in stride, not because I wanted to—but because I had to.
I began the week as efficiently as I could. I maintained a checklist for each subject, ticking off names one by one as I received their plates and assignments. I sorted them neatly by subject and labeled everything accordingly. As I collected, I encountered the usual problems: missing submissions, incomplete work, and those who didn't follow instructions.
To those who hadn't submitted yet, I sent reminders and encouraged them to hand in their work before the deadline. For those with incomplete or improperly done assignments, I messaged them one by one, pointing out what they missed and suggesting that they speak with the teacher directly if they had any concerns.
When the time came to finally submit the compiled assignments to the teachers, I made sure everything was in order. I had grouped the works properly, secured them with paper clips, and attached lists indicating who had and hadn't submitted. Some teachers were understanding, saying I could collect the remaining works until the next meeting. Others simply took what I had and told me to let the rest deal with the consequences.
Differential Calculus, however, was a special case. Mr. Valerio, our teacher, didn't meet us that week but sent me a message instructing me to collect everyone's submissions and bring them to him at the faculty office. Only two or three students hadn't submitted, and I noted their names down.
I made my way to the faculty room, a place that always felt intimidating no matter how many times I entered. Mr. Valerio had already given me verbal permission earlier, so I walked in confidently, clutching the folders with the submissions.
The faculty room was alive with the buzz of conversations and the rustling of paperwork. I approached the nearest teacher and politely asked where Mr. Valerio's desk was. He pointed to the farthest corner, so I began to make my way there.
Just as I passed by another desk, an old professor stopped me abruptly.
"Why are you here?" he asked in a strict tone that sliced right through my nerves. I froze on the spot, startled and suddenly unsure of myself.
"I'm here to submit my classmates' plates for Differential Calculus to Sir Valerio," I explained quickly, trying to steady my voice. "He gave me permission to enter."
The professor's expression didn't change. "You are not allowed to be here unless you have permission," he barked. I could feel my heart thumping wildly in my chest, and for a second, I feared I might embarrass myself even more by shaking or stammering.
"I do, sir. He told me earlier," I repeated, trying to sound more confident. Other teachers nearby had turned their attention to us. The tension was building, and I could feel my face heating up.
Just then, relief came swinging, a breathe of relief indeed, Mr. Valerio entered from the other door and walked directly to his desk. The strict professor saw him, and the tension immediately deflated. I quickly greeted Mr. Valerio and handed over the submissions.
"These are from the class, sir. Only two or three weren't able to submit yet," I informed him.
He nodded calmly. "That's fine. Just tell them to bring theirs directly to the faculty. I'll accept them but they'll have deductions."
Relieved, I thanked him and exited the room, my heart finally slowing down to a normal pace.
As I walked back to our building, I reflected on how exhausting this role had become. It wasn't just the physical tasks of collecting and submitting. It was the emotional labor—dealing with pressure, teachers' different expectations, and classmates' various personalities. Some of them respected me and followed instructions without a fuss. Others saw me as just another classmate, not realizing the pressure I was carrying behind the scenes.
But still, I carried on. I had committed to this position, and I had to live up to it. No matter how tiring or frustrating it got, I reminded myself that this wasn't forever. These experiences, no matter how chaotic, would shape me into a better leader, a more organized person, and hopefully, a better student.
So as the week ended, I let out a long breath and prepared myself for the next one. Because in this role, there's never truly a pause—only moments to breathe before another wave of responsibility crashes in again.
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