MY FATHER CAME TO MY GRADUATION BAREFOOT, HE WAS LAUGHED THERE, BUT WHEN MY NAME WAS CALLED AS A SUMMA CUM LAUDE, EVERYONE SHUT UP AND APPLAUDED

I am Lemuel, the eldest of three siblings and the son of a farmer. My childhood was marked by poverty, sweat, and mud. I grew up working the land alongside my father, Delfin, a man who never had the chance to finish school. His world was rice fields, rain, and the hope that the soil would be kind enough to feed us. Yet, in my eyes, he was the strongest, bravest person I had ever known.

As a boy, I was no stranger to ridicule. My classmates, dressed in clean uniforms and polished shoes, often teased me for being the “farmer’s son.” I carried an old bag my mother had patched together, my clothes smelled of the sun and soil, and my hands bore the marks of work children my age rarely did. Some laughed at me, others looked down on me. But when I felt the sting of their words, I clung tightly to my father’s advice:

“Son, we are poor, but that doesn’t mean you must remain poor. Study hard. Be patient. One day, I don’t want to see you struggling the way your mother and I have.”

Those words became my compass. While others rested after school, I studied under the dim glow of a gas lamp. While my classmates enjoyed sandwiches and hot meals, I made do with boiled sweet potatoes or bananas. While others spent afternoons playing, I counted the hours I owed to the fields before I could even open my books. Hardship became my teacher, and perseverance became my closest friend.

Years passed in this rhythm of labor and learning. Slowly, the seeds my father planted with his words began to bear fruit. I excelled in school, not because I was the smartest, but because I refused to give up. Every test I passed, every lesson I mastered, felt like a step closer to freeing my family from the cycle of poverty.

Then came the day I had dreamed of for years: my college graduation. It wasn’t just my day—it was for my parents, who had sacrificed so much. I wanted them to see with their own eyes that their struggles had meaning, that their sleepless nights and unrelenting labor had not been wasted.

But as the ceremony began, I felt a nervous weight in my chest. Around me, families arrived in their best clothes, mothers in elegant dresses, fathers in crisp shirts and polished shoes. Expensive cars lined the streets outside. Then, I saw my father.

He came barefoot. Not by choice, but because that was what he had always known. Shoes were a luxury he had never afforded himself. He wore a faded polo shirt, his thin frame carrying the marks of years of labor in the fields. He had nothing with him but his pride, his quiet smile, and eyes full of love.

I noticed the whispers, the sidelong glances, the muffled laughter from some in the crowd. “Why did he come like that?” I heard someone murmur. My face burned with shame. For a moment, I wanted to disappear, to be anywhere but there, seeing my father mocked for the simplicity of his life.

And then, the moment arrived. The dean began calling names, one by one, each graduate stepping forward to receive their diploma. The hall was filled with polite applause. Then I heard it—my name.

“Lemuel Santos, Summa Cum Laude.”

The applause changed. It grew louder, fuller, as if the entire hall erupted at once. My hands trembled as I stood, my heart pounding, and I turned to find my father. His eyes were brimming with tears, his smile unshaken, and I realized that in that instant, the laughter had stopped. The same people who mocked him now clapped their hands for him. The barefoot farmer they had looked down upon was revealed to be the father of the top graduate.

As I walked to the stage, tears blurred my vision. The diploma placed in my hands was not just a certificate—it was the embodiment of every sacrifice my father had ever made. I searched for him again in the crowd, and there he was, standing out not because of what he wore, but because he mattered more than anyone else in that room.

After the ceremony, I rushed to him and embraced him tightly. “Dad,” I whispered through my tears, “I wouldn’t have achieved this without you. Thank you.”

He smiled, wiping my cheeks with his rough hands. His reply was simple but carried a weight I will never forget: “Son, it is enough for me to see you standing there. The diploma you hold is the shoe I never had. That success is worth more than anything I could own.”

That day, I understood something profound. A person’s worth is not measured by clothes, shoes, or wealth. True worth is measured in sacrifice, perseverance, and love. My father’s bare feet were not a symbol of shame but of strength—the same strength that carried me through every hardship.

It is easy to laugh at what we don’t understand. But often, what others mock becomes the very reason for the greatest triumphs. My father, with no riches or education, gave me something far more powerful: the foundation of my dreams and the courage to pursue them. His love, humble and unadorned, was greater than any applause, greater than any honor I could ever receive.

That graduation was not just my victory. It was his. It was ours.