An Old Poem from My Fourth Year in College | A Little Nostalgia, Rizal, and the Idealism of My Younger Self

Somewhere between surviving nursing school, memorising medical terminology, and trying to convince my brain to retain information from approximately seventeen different subjects, I apparently found the time to become a poet. I say apparently because looking back at my fourth-year college self, I can hardly imagine how I managed to accommodate anything unrelated to examinations, clinical requirements, and the constant possibility of academic humiliation. Yet there I was, sitting in our Rizal class, writing a poem about hope, education, perseverance, and the future of our country. I suppose that is what happens when a young Filipino spends enough time studying José Rizal. One moment, you are listening to discussions about nationalism and social responsibility; the next, you are convinced that a pen, a few rhyming words, and an unreasonable amount of youthful optimism might somehow contribute to changing the Philippines.

I recently came across a poem I wrote during that period, entitled Pinto. Reading it again made me smile, partly because of the earnestness of its message and partly because I could almost recognise the younger version of myself trying desperately to make every line rhyme. There is something wonderfully innocent about revisiting our early attempts at creative writing. We encounter expressions we might phrase differently today, metaphors that seem unusually ambitious, and ideas that reveal how we understood the world at the time. Yet beneath the occasional awkwardness, we also discover thoughts that remain surprisingly familiar. My younger self may have been considerably less experienced in life, but she already cared about education, perseverance, and the possibility that people working together could create a better future.

The title Pinto, meaning door, seemed appropriate for what I wanted the poem to represent. A door suggests the possibility of entering somewhere different, leaving behind familiar limitations, or discovering an opportunity that has not yet become visible. When I wrote the poem, I was thinking about the struggles experienced by ordinary Filipinos and the hope that education, unity, and determination might eventually lead towards better circumstances. I imagined a nation where hardship would not permanently determine a person’s opportunities and where people could contribute to the wellbeing of their communities. It was an ambitious subject for a nursing student who was probably supposed to be concentrating on completing her coursework, but perhaps that ambition was part of what made the poem meaningful to me.

Looking back, I can recognise the influence of our Rizal discussions in its emphasis on knowledge and collective responsibility. Rizal’s writings encouraged generations of Filipinos to consider the relationship between education, national identity, and the conditions shaping society. I was particularly interested in the idea that learning could expand people’s ability to question, understand, and participate in their country’s future. Of course, education alone cannot resolve every social difficulty, and progress requires more than inspiring words. But I still believe knowledge matters, especially when it allows people to understand their circumstances and make informed decisions.

What makes me particularly fond of this little poem is its unmistakable optimism. My younger self imagined people rowing together towards a better future, carrying their hopes through difficult circumstances while refusing to abandon the possibility of change. I find the image rather touching now. At that age, I was still beginning to understand how complicated adulthood could become. I knew about hardship, certainly, and I had already encountered disappointments, but there was much about life, work, and society that I had yet to experience. Perhaps that is why I wrote with such conviction. I wanted to believe that perseverance could lead somewhere meaningful, and that the struggles endured by ordinary people might eventually open doors for those who followed.

Years later, I would discover that the world is considerably more complicated than a college poem can reasonably explain. I would experience the demands of nursing, encounter professional uncertainty, and eventually work with communities whose circumstances reminded me that meaningful progress requires patience, participation, and practical opportunities. But when I read Pinto, I do not feel embarrassed by the idealism of my younger self. I feel rather protective of it. She was trying to express something important with the words available to her, and I think there is value in remembering what we believed before experience made us more cautious about offering simple explanations.

I have decided to preserve the poem as I originally wrote it, including its youthful rhythm and imperfect phrasing. There is something reassuring about allowing our earlier work to remain evidence of who we were, rather than polishing every line until it sounds as though it belongs to the person we have become today. This was written by a fourth-year nursing student during Rizal class, at a time when the future was still largely unknown and the idea of becoming a professional nurse occupied much of my imagination. She did not know exactly where life would take her, but she believed in the value of effort, learning, and hope. I think she deserves to have her words remembered.

PINTO

Pinto ng kasiyahan, ibig masilayan,
Dito sa bayan’ng iniibig ang kaginhawaan;
Dagok ng buhay, maawa kalangitan!
Huwag ipahamak, patnubayan saan man.

Tayo na’t maging matatag Juan,
Isipin ang kabutihan, sabay tayong magsagwan,
Patungo sa daan ni Haring buwan,
‘Pagkat doon makikita ang tunay na kaligayahan.

Dugo’t pawis ating puhunan,
Pagbasa’t pagsulat gawing libro ng kaalaman;
Sapagkat balang araw ang ating inasam-asam,
Kalangita’y magbubukas sa bayan ni Juan.

Reading those lines now, I am particularly drawn to the image of a door waiting to open. I cannot help wondering whether my younger self imagined that adulthood would eventually provide all the answers she was searching for. Perhaps she expected that by the time she had finished college, passed her board examination, and begun working, life would become easier to understand. I suspect she would be rather surprised to discover how many questions remain, even after several years of experience. But I hope she would also be pleased to know that her interest in helping people did not disappear when the realities of work and responsibility became more complicated.

I suppose that is one of the unexpected pleasures of keeping old writing. It allows us to encounter previous versions of ourselves without needing to reconstruct them entirely from memory. We can read what mattered to us, recognise how our thinking has developed, and occasionally laugh at the confidence with which we once attempted to explain the entire human condition in twelve lines. My poem may never receive a literary award, and I doubt José Rizal himself would feel professionally threatened by its existence. Nevertheless, it belongs to an important period of my life, when I was learning about both my chosen profession and the responsibilities of being part of a larger society.

Perhaps I still believe in the door my younger self imagined. I simply understand now that opening it may require more than determination and beautiful words. It may involve education, opportunities, collective effort, good decisions, and the willingness to recognise problems that cannot be resolved through optimism alone. Some doors are difficult to open because of circumstances beyond an individual’s control, and those barriers deserve thoughtful attention rather than easy judgement. But I remain grateful for the young woman who wrote this poem, because she believed that people should continue searching for possibilities beyond the difficulties immediately before them.

If I could speak to her now, I would probably tell her to continue writing, even when nursing school becomes demanding and life eventually introduces responsibilities she cannot yet imagine. I would remind her that not every poem needs to be perfect to deserve preservation, and that sincerity is something worth keeping even as her vocabulary and understanding develop. I would also suggest that she occasionally check her spelling before submitting anything publicly, although I suspect she would respond by reminding me that she was a nursing student rather than a professional poet. Fair enough. I have always possessed an impressive talent for defending myself against criticism, even when the criticism comes from an older version of me.

For now, I am simply pleased to have found this little piece of my college years. It reminds me of crowded classrooms, ambitious conversations, and a younger self who believed that writing could contribute something meaningful to the world. Perhaps it cannot change an entire nation on its own, but words can still encourage people to think, question, remember, and consider possibilities they might otherwise overlook. That seems like a worthwhile reason to continue writing, even when the subject is something as modest as an old poem discovered among the memories of nursing school.

And if the door in my poem ever opens, I hope the young student who wrote about it would be delighted to discover that her words were not entirely forgotten. She may have been occupied with examinations, clinical duties, and the ordinary uncertainties of growing up, but somewhere between those responsibilities, she made room for a little poetry. I think that deserves appreciation, particularly from the older version of herself who now understands just how difficult it can be to find a quiet afternoon for writing.

— Just Anj, RN, once a fourth-year nursing student with a pen, a Rizal class, and enough idealism to imagine an entire nation’s future behind a single door.