I had never heard of a document called a “certificate of no objection” until I attempted to resurrect a dream I had neatly shelved half a century ago—taking up a master’s degree.

Apparently, before I am allowed to pursue higher education, the past must first be consulted. And the past, as it turns out, requires paperwork.

This elusive certificate must come from a university where I briefly enrolled in an MA in Creative Writing sometime after graduating from college in 1974—a youthful experiment that was swiftly abandoned in favor of employment, groceries, and other long-term commitments like electricity bills.

But bureaucracies, like elephants, never forget.

Without this certificate, the university where I earned my Mass Communications degree cannot release my transcript of records. No transcript, no enrollment. No enrollment, no intellectual comeback story.

All of this would be mildly inconvenient—if I weren’t on a tight schedule in Bacolod City, and if I weren’t, inconveniently, a senior citizen. Campuses, I discovered, are designed for brisk walking, not reflective strolling with orthopedic considerations.

The first hurdle was a clearance form requiring signatures from several departments to certify that I had committed no outstanding offenses—financial, academic, or possibly moral—52 years ago.

“Do you expect a senior citizen like me to walk around the campus for that?” I blurted out, inadvertently waking up the students dozing in line.

The young woman at the desk apologized and disappeared. She returned with a revised version of the form—trimmed down to three offices, presumably because my capacity for wrongdoing in 1974 was deemed limited, or at least already forgiven by history.

The graduate office was conveniently next door. The staff member’s face shifted—somewhere between admiration and disbelief—when I answered her question.

“What year did you take this course?”

“1974 to 1975.”

That answer produced a smile that said, “Wow, history,” and a look that said, “Are you serious?” To them, that era lives in textbooks. And here I was, freshly resurrected from it, requesting official documents.

At the finance office, I joined a line that appeared to function as a test of endurance. The heat was oppressive, the process meticulous, and every student ahead of me seemed to have a financial record requiring archaeological excavation.

At some point, I quietly pulled a chair into the line and sat down. If the system would not adjust to me, I would adjust the furniture.

When my turn came, the staff member searched for any unpaid balance I might have left behind in the mid-1970s. For a moment, we both waited—she for data, I for judgment.

The computer responded. I was financially innocent.

She signed my clearance and directed me to another window, where a more observant employee pointed me toward the senior citizen lane. Bureaucracy, it seems, has its moments of compassion—brief, but memorable.

The final signature came from the library, located on the second floor of a newer building. Access was via a long, elegant, curving staircase—the kind you see in old mansions, designed more for dramatic entrances than practical use. Certainly not for senior citizens or PWDs.

I climbed slowly, relying on my balance and a banister that seemed more decorative than functional. Near the top, a kind student offered to carry my bag, which contained essentials: a sewing project, a mini fan, a water flask, a phone, a power bank, and a wallet. (My Metro Manila survival instincts remain fully operational, even in Bacolod.)

Inside, the library stood as a monument to printed knowledge—rows of books, dignified and patient. I wondered how long they would remain relevant, when most students now consult screens instead of shelves. Perhaps in the future, clearance from the library will be replaced by proof that one has remembered a password.

Miraculously, I completed all required signatures without further incident. I returned to the Registrar’s Office, handed over my clearance, and received in exchange a small slip of paper.

I was to return for the certificate of no objection on April 15. It was April 7.

Since the certificate must be submitted to University of St. La Salle, where I earned my degree, I called ahead. A kind staff member assured me she would release my transcript to my brother for mailing to Manila.

Then, almost cheerfully, she added that the university where I plan to enroll will most likely require yet another document: an honorable dismissal from every institution I have ever attended.

Even if that attendance occurred when disco was new.

So here I am, attempting a return to academia, only to discover that the real entrance exam is not intellectual—it is bureaucratic. One must prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that one has properly exited every academic door before being allowed to knock on a new one.

Too old to go back to school?

Not at all.

But be prepared: before you can move forward, you must first secure official confirmation—from multiple offices—that no one objects to your existence in the past. ([email protected])