Years ago, I found myself sitting quietly at a PTA meeting—not for my own child, but for my nephew. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, truth be told. But sometimes, life ushers us into moments we never planned to join, just so we can leave behind something that matters.
That afternoon, the parents were deep in discussion about a noble goal: to raise funds for air-conditioning units in their children’s classrooms. A practical concern, especially given our country’s climate. No one questioned the importance of the cause. But then came the proposal that made me sit up.
To raise the funds, one parent suggested fining students:
₱50 if they spoke in the local dialect instead of English.
₱100 if they failed to wear their school ID or complete uniform.
The logic, they explained, was simple: discipline the students and generate money for the aircon. Two birds with one stone. The room nodded in agreement, almost congratulating itself on such an “innovative” idea.
Then I raised my hand.
I spoke calmly but firmly: “Why stop at ₱100?”
“If we really want to instill discipline, make it ₱500 or even ₱1,000 per violation.
And better yet, don’t let the student return to class until the fine is paid.”
The room went quiet. They weren’t quite sure if I was serious—or out of line. But I continued.
“This is not a public school. Most of us here can afford to give our children generous allowances. If we impose small fines, they’ll just quietly pay from their baon. No lesson learned. No values formed. And worse, parents may never know their children are repeatedly violating school policies.”
“What message are we sending our children? That rules are negotiable if you can afford to break them? That money can cover up irresponsibility?”
“We’re not forming students anymore—we’re pricing their behavior.”
I wasn’t trying to push for higher penalties. I was being sarcastic, hoping to hold up a mirror to the absurdity of the proposal. I wanted the room to feel its own contradiction.
Because discipline isn’t about how much you pay when you break a rule. It’s about what you learn when you do. The goal should never be to punish with money—but to correct with values.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, someone murmured, “Maybe we need to rethink this.” Another agreed.
And just like that, the proposal was shelved. They decided to explore other, more meaningful ways of raising funds—voluntary contributions, partnerships, sponsorships—methods that didn’t turn school violations into income-generating schemes.
Then came the unexpected.
I was nominated. Then elected as PTA President.
I politely accepted, perhaps out of courtesy. But that turned out to be the first and last PTA meeting I ever attended. Why?
Because I didn’t go there to campaign or to lead. I wasn’t a parent, just a concerned uncle. I didn’t speak to be heard again. I spoke because I felt a message needed to be delivered in that moment—about values, about formation, about responsibility.
And once it was said, I felt my part was done.
Sometimes, we are called not to stay, but simply to sow.
My Eureka Moment?
Discipline is never about money—it’s about meaning.
We must teach our children that the true cost of misbehavior isn’t something you pay in pesos. It’s something that touches your integrity, your conscience, your character.
Let us not raise children who can afford to break rules, but who are brave enough to live by them. Let us raise sons and daughters who know that doing what’s right is not about avoiding punishment—but about living with purpose.
As philosopher and educator John Dewey once said:
“Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself.”
And if that is true, then even a PTA meeting—long ago, brief as it was—can become a quiet classroom where adults, too, are reminded of what truly matters.