Chloe Amara Basbas
When I was younger, my grandmother—whom I fondly called Naynay—and I had a routine. We’d walk toward the gates of a nearby subdivision where “outsiders” weren’t technically allowed. But Naynay had a way with words—and perhaps a legendary level of charm—that could convince the security guard to let us in. We weren’t there to cause trouble; we were there for the blossoms of “White Angel” flowers. We’d spend afternoons picking those small, waxy petals, and I would painstakingly fashion them into rings and necklaces.
During one of these walks, Naynay looked at me and asked the question every child eventually faces: what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t say doctor or engineer. I looked her straight in the eye and said that I wanted to be rich. She laughed, but I was dead serious. To a child, “rich” meant no more worrying about why we couldn’t go past certain gates without permission. It meant comfort. It meant security.
The last time I spoke to her, the conversation was less poetic. She was scolding me about the state of my bed, pointing out how my bed had become a chaotic landscape of papers, books, and pens. In a fit of a child’s wit, I shot back that my bed wasn’t actually messy, but was simply the bed of a straight-A student. Those were the last words I ever said to her. She passed away shortly after. Now, looking at my bed, I realize that being a straight-A student is a much heavier mantle than I initially joked it would be.
Maintaining high grades in a competitive environment is like trying to keep a White Angel flower from wilting in the Philippine heat. It is exhausting. There have been nights where the numbers on my homework blurred into gibberish, and my back—curved by Scoliosis—ached with a dull, persistent reminder of my own physical limits. Managing a medical condition like scoliosis isn’t just a physical burden; it’s a financial one. From the looming possibility of more intensive treatments, the costs add up. In our household, the dynamic is a delicate balance: while my mother works tirelessly to provide for us, my father recently transitioned from his job to stay at home, dedicating himself to ensuring that my brother and I are fully supported and cared for in our daily lives. I see the quiet sacrifices they make—the bills they discuss in hushed tones, the way they prioritize our education over their own comforts. I’ve remained a consistent honor student not out of a desire for vanity, but out of a desperate need to not be a burden. I want to be the student I promised Naynay I was, even when the “A” feels miles away.
Writing is my sanctuary. I’ve been a member of the Campus Integrity Crusaders since Grade 8, and in Grade 9, I took a leap of faith by joining The Electron, our school’s English publication. At the time, I was the only one from my batch brave enough to join so early. As a campus journalist, I’ve learned that the truth isn’t just a concept; it’s a responsibility. As the former Managing Editor and the current Feature Editor, I strive to amplify the voices that are often muffled. This is where my childhood dream of being rich evolved.
In the Philippines, we see the stark divide between those who have and those who struggle. I still want to be rich, but the “why” has shifted. I want wealth not just for the comfort of a private subdivision, but to have the resources to address the systemic issues I write about. I want to be rich in influence to advocate for better healthcare for people with conditions like mine, and rich in capacity to support the truth in an era of misinformation.
This scholarship is the bridge between the girl making flower jewelry and the woman who wants to change her country’s narrative. Most importantly, I am someone who realized that a messy bed is just a sign of a life being lived with purpose. By awarding me this scholarship, you aren’t just funding a student; you are investing in a future where a girl from Quezon City turns her rich ambitions into a wealth of service for others. I’d like to think that if Naynay could see me now, she’d finally stop scolding me about my unmade bed—because she’d see that every crumpled paper and messy corner was just a stepping stone toward the future I promised her.
