SSG: Students Still Growing

| Jaime De Leon

The campus has a soundtrack for each of its early mornings. It is the shuffling of shoes, the heavy thud of backpacks being adjusted, and the frantic rustle of students preparing their IDs for entry. But through the morning haze, another constant is the authoritative blast of student leaders monitoring the morning rush.

Standing at the front line of this absolute chaos are the officers of the Supreme Student Government (SSG).

To the passing crowd, they look like people of order. With their ID lanyards resting neatly on their ironed uniforms, they are the voices anchoring the microphones during events, the hands drafting campus agenda, and the models that the campus points to and watches from a distance.

But leadership on a high school campus is an illusion. Once the flag ceremony concludes with the morning sun climbing higher, the hallways empty out into the classrooms. The smile that was carefully cultivated amidst all the excitement hides a completely different world—a world of exhaustion, solitude, battles unnamed.

To truly understand the campus student government, one must step down from the pedestal of the titles they have earned and look through the human story.

Summer Bautista (President): Her Midnight Choice

Every major school event leaves behind a ghost town. The moment the main lights of the dome turn off, and all that is left of students’ applause dissipates into thin air, it is then that the clean-up crew finally takes over. But for SSG President Summer Bautista, the end of a good project does not provide her with a sense of relief afterward.

Based on DepEd memorandum and student bylaws, the SSG is not only a planning committee for school events. It is also the leading co-curricular organization that has the mandate to serve and protect its students, upholding discipline throughout the entirety of the campus.

When its officers are in the hallways maintaining peace or making sure students are wearing the correct uniform, they are doing it to ensure that the school regulations are maintained and that everyone is safe. For Summer, interpreting these guidelines and making the students cooperate without going through a massive ordeal was difficult and started way before she expected so.

Her leadership journey dates back to 6th grade, a period that should have been one of indulging in all the fun of playing and growing up. Instead, that was the first initiation of Summer into the field of student politics. By the time she reached her higher years, the relentless demands of presidency triggered a metamorphosis—but it came with a very steep price.

Following the simultaneous school-wide programs, the pressure of workload introduced itself during summer vacation. While her peers were out enjoying the golden sun, food expeditions, and banter in group chats, Summer’s world shrank to the four corners of her bedroom.

The title that students happily placed over her head transformed into an iron prison that distanced her from everyone.

The role of the SSG president and an introvert appear to be contradictory at first glance. Throughout her life, Summer was not one of the loudest, chattiest people, and she preferred to keep her silence most of the time.

But becoming a president made her realize that her attitude of being an introvert does not equal the absence of participation in school life, but only means that she is limited by her social energy. To cope with her presidential duties, she had to learn how to use her energy wisely, protect her silent zone, and voluntarily enter the public space, since it was what a community needed from a leader.

Balancing the picture-perfect administrative machinery of a student government alongside a heavy, crushing workload of Performance Tasks and academic requirements was a high wire a few students are built to handle.

There were times when Summer sat under the dim light of her desk lamp, looking at a blank page in her notebook, overwhelmed with intense waves of insecurity. At this time, she felt that every single speech she gave, policy she introduced, and every step on campus was watched by thousands of eyes ready to criticize any mistake she would make.

At her absolute breaking point, a resignation letter was already issued inside her head. “Naisip ko kung kaya ko ba o kung dapat na lang ba akong mag-quit,” she confesses, a raw honesty cutting through her usual poised demeanor.

However, her turning point came clear at a youth camp, with the ultimatum: “Now or Never.” In an atmosphere free from titles and badges, the camp’s words washed over her, slowly rekindling a reminder she was built for. She realized that the wounds, sleepless nights, and obstacles were not a sign of failure—but integral parts of a deeper purpose.

Returning to school with a clear mind and sense of faith, she faced the council once again and met their gaze, delivering a line with deep conviction: “We’re already here. And we’ve been given this role. Are we going to back out? We wouldn’t be in this position if we didn’t have a purpose.”

Shantelle Mique (Vice President): Dismantling the Pedestal

As seen in the academic portfolio of the vice president, Shantelle Mique, leadership is not an event; rather, it is a way of life. From a very young age, while still in elementary school, her name would regularly grace ballot papers in class. She knew how to conduct herself in meetings, how to delegate tasks, and how to assert herself in a room full of noisy colleagues.

However, beneath her impressive credentials and the list of leadership awards that she holds dear lies a highly personal story that she chooses not to hide; for many years, her dedication was not about the children but rather her own resume.

With refreshing candor, Shantelle describes her younger self as a “Selfish leader”. As a newcomer to the council, she only seized the opportunity for her future success. All the time spent organizing papers, coordinating events, and maintaining top-tier grades was not fueled by a desire to ease the burden off her fellow students, but by her desire to have impeccable credentials in the future.

That polished fortress came crashing down during the final months of Grade 8.

The atmosphere in the classroom was highly stressful since there was a quarterly exam approaching soon. Shantelle was busy preparing for it, sitting at her desk surrounded by piles of reviewers and textbooks to make sure that her next grade would be another perfect one. However, when taking a brief break, she found herself looking into the eyes of a crying classmate in the back of the classroom.

A foreign time in Shantelle’s life, she chose not to sit back buried under her notes. She capped her pen, left her desk, and chose to simply sit next to her peer, offering nothing but an empathetic ear.

It was a very powerful realization on her part that this spontaneous action of hers turned out to be an effective way of waking up to some important truths of life. This moment made her realize that these students were not just faceless individuals who were supposed to legitimize her authority but were rather struggling souls in need of compassion.

She decided then and there that it was time to abandon the corporate way of pursuing success and adopt the Christ-like servant leader approach to wielding her power. She no longer holds herself above others by dint of her designation and would go all out to help others out even if it involves doing menial jobs of administration.

“Because there are people who believe in me,” Shantelle explains, “And I want to give back their fulfillment, their trust in me. So, I want to continue serving.”

Jerianne Panganiban (Secretary): Leap of Faith

To watch SSG Secretary Jerianne Panganiban anchor a school-wide event is to watch a masterclass in natural charisma. She moves across with exploding energy, injecting humor and positivity into the environment. To the average observer, she is a stereotypical extrovert.

In reality, Jerianne is the living exception to those who have stage fear. When she stepped into the first year of high school, her wide-ranging stage fright turned the stage into a solid shrine of horror for her. Her public speaking and intense stage fright were characterized by her hands freezing and her thoughts being abducted by an intense cloud of anxiety—out of fear, she hid her personality in the darkest corners.

Jerianne’s foray into the council was purely coincidental—she stumbled into a completely abrupt grade-level campaign. While her adviser sought volunteers, the students that he asked to come forward all resolutely focused on their desks. Witnessing the wait that had overtaken the room, Jerianne began to feel an uncomfortable pair of competing feelings bubbling within her. She could hear the loud voice telling her that she was not good enough, but she raised her hand anyway to seize the opportunity that was slipping away.

The first steps were hard, but stepping into the bright lights of the stage, Jerianne was determined to channel her frustration into her sincere concern for her fellow students. She turned her nervousness into an engaging talking style.

“To aspiring leaders,” Jerianne reflects, “pray for it, wait for it, do it. Fight for it. Lead right.”

The Real Mechanics of the Council Room

If you are to visit the SSG headquarters on a night when the council is in session, you may see a sight not that different from a rowdy teenage sleepover. Treasurer Mark Castillo and Auditor Ioanes Ligaray, the two embodiments of nonchalance, are as easygoing as ever, unfazed by the gravity of handling the finances of their peers. The only difference is that their laid-back attitude comes with a sense of duty and responsibility whenever their peers call upon them to do the necessary cross-referencing logs, balancing of funds, or ensuring movie nights.

If you take a glance at Grade 7 representative Psalm Castillo and Grade 8 reps Kristoffer Lumanog, you’re in for an even livelier scene. While the latter is quick to shrink at the start of the meeting, the former is all energy and enthusiasm all the time.

The council room has always had its fair share of drama, and one particular vacancy is enough to prove that. The missing Grade 9 representative continues to be the main topic of discussion as the others laugh at their predicament, all the while hoping that the seat will be filled by the time they reach the next meeting.

Fortunately for everyone’s sanity, the ever-efficient Grade 10 rep Ghermaine Racasa is more than ready to take charge of the day’s matters. With a clever mind and a quick wit, Ghermaine can keep all tasks on track, regardless of how much fun they are willing to let the council members have. From these differences in energy comes the same goal of getting every single thing crossed out of the council’s to-do list.

The Panopticon and the Stigma of the ID

The ID that lets officers flaunt their title across the campus comes with a price, in the form of the student body’s hyperbolic expectations. The weight the young supervisors feel is most often made up of the unspoken campus etiquette discouraging them from being just average students like everyone else.

As soon as an officer commits a seemingly minuscule mistake, such as being seen slipping out of the school through the Exit Only gate during passing period, the corridor grows deathly silent. Muted murmurs of disappointment echo off the tiled walls, carrying with them the phrase, “Sila pa naman ang SSG, tapos sila ang hindi sumusunod.”

The officers learn to hold their tongues and shoulders back, for the next time their fellow peers see them commit even a small slip of the tongue, they will surely find themselves face to face with the silent judgment of the student body. “If the mistake is too small, they’ll be like, you’re an SSG, why are you acting like that?” one officer shares. “So, it’s a lot of conviction. It’s hard.”

Outside the classroom lies the quiet ache of social isolation. As the final dismissal bell rings, most students file out of the building in packs, the halls emptying rapidly as everyone makes a beeline for the parking lot. The few who remain are found in little clusters, huddled around cellphones and ready to call a food delivery before the gate is sealed for the day. The officers, however, have to run down the empty hallways as their planning sessions begin in earnest. Listening to their friends talk across the parking lot as they settle into a group of chattering teenagers leaves the officers with a sudden, heavy sense of loss. They can’t help but feel as if they are losing the most precious parts of their adolescence for the sake of the school’s future.

Regardless of the piercing gazes from campus, the long, tiring hours spent on the officers’ many duties, and the social pressures keeping these students from their peers, the council members continue to serve. As the sky darkens with the oncoming dusk, the officers click open fresh pages in their binders, ready to write. They do so not because they think they are better for wearing the lanyard but because, underneath everything, they hold a deep and abiding devotion to the school.

Next time you pass by the front gate on a cloudy morning, take a good look at those in front of the building, lanyard around the neck and logbook held close. Take note of the subtle, heart-aching sacrifices they make on the school’s behalf and look past the institutional armor.

They don’t think they’re better than anyone. They are not perfect figures nor flawless robots; In truth, they’re just teenagers who have been struggling under the same Performance Task as you. And yet, they stand by the gate, sacrificing their morning sleep and afternoon rest to give every student in the school a better experience.