To my BSEd Math Major graduates,
You made it. And truly, I am happy for you—not just because you completed the requirements, but because you endured. You pushed through when things became chaotic, frustrating, overwhelming, and at times, painfully dramatic. Analytic geometry, differential calculus, integral calculus, mathematical investigation, problem solving, mathematical modeling, research, and thesis writing—none of these were easy for you under me. And if we are being honest, neither was I.
I was not the easiest math and research teacher to have—I know that. I did not always offer the softest words, nor did I speak in the calmest tone. As many of my students over the past 24 years would probably agree, I was never quite the picture of that endlessly gentle teacher we all looked up to growing up. Perhaps, I was closer to a father figure dishing out tough love—one who pushed hard not to break you, but to build you. But I hope you now see that every hard, open-ended question, every uncomfortable silence, every flipped task, every “what have you learned” prompt, every reminder post, every demand for a quick mental answer, every awkward confrontation—all of it came from a place of wanting to help you grow. Not just into someone who can solve math or physics problems, but into someone who can teach math and life with authenticity, competence, relevance, rigor, and depth.
In fact, many of our toughest moments came not just from lectures but from late nights, long days, and loud lunches of convos together, either face to face or online, synchronous or asynchronous. Recently, I was your adviser in your thesis writing. And I assume you still remember that late-night online training session we held—tired but determined—only to pull off the unexpected and take home first runner-up in the regional research presentation at WVSU, competing against top schools from across Panay and Negros. That victory—including the most recent publication of which in a peer reviewed and referred international journal—was not just about research; it was about grit and grace.
Remember the times we cracked our heads trying to understand the inverse dynamics between differential and integral calculus, fueled by barbecue sticks, cassava tubes, pancit canton, lollipops kopiko candies, popcorns, and beng-beng chocolates. Remember the flipped classroom tasks—those stacks of yellow pads filled with your solutions and scribbles, slowly but surely making you better. Remember our lowly 3×5 white board where you had to squat just to graph the different conic sections, solve calculus problems, and defend your math investigations like your life depended on it.
And how could we forget the hours spent navigating Desmos, GeoGebra, Jamovi, and yes—even ChatGPT—not as shortcuts, but as companions in understanding your graphs, checking your thinking process, and challenging your solutions in analytic geometry, calculus, and research? Remember the YouTube videos we referred to, dissected, and critiqued together to better grasp the lesson behind the identifies, theories, theorems, principles, and conjectures?
You see, if at any point you felt hesitant, intimidated, pressured, annoyed, or unsure around me—or any of your mentors—remember that not to judge the past, but to appreciate the process and how far you have come. And I am not gaslighting, I assure you. Just think back to who you were when you first entered your math and research classes—uncertain, overwhelmed, maybe even afraid. And now, look at you—confidently defending your research, explaining its statistics and themes without a single note, and standing tall in your own scholastic masterpiece. That growth was never just because of us. It came from your choice to stay, to struggle, and to rise—even when things were unclear and the work felt too much to the fringe of quitting.
Even if you once threw shade or silently questioned my methods—fair enough. I might have done the same. But I hope you now understand that it was never about making life harder for you just because we could. It was about showing you what grit and magis, that endless desire to do greater things for the greater good, really look like, especially in mathematics and research—not the loud, dramatic kind, but the quiet, persistent type that gets things done even on the hardest days. And yes, I tried—though imperfectly—to pair that grit with empathy. Not the sweet, flattering kind used to win positive student evaluation, but the kind that says, “I believe in you enough to expect more.”
Now it is your turn to teach. And I hope you carry not only your skills but your soul into the classroom. Be firm when needed, kind when it counts. Push your students—but never so far that they forget their why. Walk with them, even if it means slowing down and savoring the necessary hardships. Hold them accountable—while also hold space for them to learn, unlearn, and relearn.
Teach math, yes. But teach with presence and pertinence. With courage and pursuit of social justice. With the balance you learned through every flipped task, every group defense, every solved board. The kind of balance that says, “I will not make this easy for you—because learning with grit means finding your own way through, with a deeper sense of ownership and purpose.”
Because life is not easy. And that is why a diploma earned with integrity, grit, magis—whether or not it comes with honors—is one of the most meaningful things you can hold.
Padayon. Teach with purpose. And always remember where you started—and who you are doing this for.
Sir H
