“She Was Laughed at When the Janitor Sat in Class—But She Was the Loudest to Clap at the End”

Lucia is quiet. She doesn’t speak English well, but she is skilled in hard work and sacrifice.

She cleans Westhill University every night. While others study for their dreams, she erases their footprints and removes stains from under their desks. She rarely sleeps. Sometimes she doesn’t eat just to make sure her daughter Isela is full before she goes to school.

The university seems like a different world—not for her. But on calm nights, it seems like hers. Every break, she peeks into the empty classrooms. Reads the letters left on the whiteboard. Once, she copies a quote:

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”

She doesn’t know who Aristotle is. But she felt the weight of what it meant.

One night, a professor caught her sitting in the back of the classroom, quietly listening.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said coldly. “This is not your place.”

She left quietly. No complaints.

But not everyone was like that.

Dr. Miles, an elderly professor, noticed that she was always there. She didn’t ask for anything—she just listened. He was allowed to stay.

But some students began to whisper:

“Why is the janitor here?”

“Does she understand this?”

“Maybe she’s just cleaning.”

Another student laughed out loud when Lucia dropped her old notebook.

She blushed. Her hands trembled. But she didn’t leave.

Instead, she studied harder. She copied what she was reading, studied at night after work. She found old books in the library that others had left behind.

Until one day, Dr. Miles called him into the office.

Part 2 — “Where the Light Comes From”

When the confetti fell from the auditorium ceiling, it was like a shower of light she had been waiting for. Isela was the first to run, hugging a diploma that was almost bigger than her. Not far away, Dr. Miles stood, waving—not like a professor to a student, but like a grandfather to a favorite grandchild. Lucia also saw the student who had once laughed at her—sitting, hunched over, as if wondering how what she had once mocked had suddenly become true.

But before that night of applause, there were nights spent in silence and courage.

Nights of Endurance

Every two in the morning, the cold in the hallways of Westhill University intensified. The wind caressed the damp floor; the tiles gleamed with each stroke of Lucia’s mop. In the pocket of her apron, a small notebook was tucked away—the one she had thrown away before, replaced with a thicker one with more lines and words.

“Mom, go to sleep,” Isela whispered once, on the phone, wrapped in a blanket in their rented small room next to the market.

“I’ll go to sleep too, my child,” Lucia replied as she copied out long sentences in English and wrote in Tagalog next to it, matching her own explanation. Sometimes, she felt the tip of her pen as if she were feeling strong. On each page, there were stains of coffee, sweat, and not just tears—but decisions.

Even though she was not comfortable in English, she trained her tongue to its sound. Every break, she would sneak into the empty room. Her heartbeat matched the roar of the projector. When students entered, she would step back and quietly leave. But when Dr. Miles was the teacher, his feet returning again as if he had his own memory of where to step.

“Stay,” Dr. Miles said once, pointing to the last seat. “Learning isn’t a room with a lock; it’s a door that wants to be opened.”

Not everyone was in favor. Once, he came across a piece of paper taped to the door: “STAFF ONLY. NO JANITORS DURING CLASS HOURS.” There was no name, but the reference was clear. He tore it up—not out of anger, but out of fear that he might believe what was written.

The First War

In his second year as a scholar, a rumor spread: someone was allegedly cheating in the essay contest. In the faculty room, Lucia was summoned.

“Ms. De la Cruz,” the department Chair’s voice was serious, “someone is referring to you. Some paragraphs of your essay are identical to an old thesis abstract.”

The surroundings seemed to darken. The pages that had been rewritten over and over again to make the grammar correct flashed through her mind. The name of the person who had laughed at her before—Maxine—came to mind because she was the last one to touch her notebook in the library when they accidentally switched it.

“I have drafts,” Lucia replied, clutching her bag tightly. One by one, she took out the handwritten notes with dates, with correction marks in red by Dr. Miles, with Tagalog explanations in the margins. “If I had stolen them, I wouldn’t have known that my first concept was wrong. You see, I revised it with Sir Miles’ help.”

The room was silent. The Chair took the pages. The weight of doubt fell on the table, but the evidence he brought was also heavy. A few minutes later, Dr. Miles spoke.

“Excellence is a habit,” she said, staring at the drafts. “Habits leave a trail. And this—” she pointed to the handwriting, “—is a trail of someone who labored, not someone who copied.”

After a while, Maxine entered, her lips trembling. “Ma’am… Sir… I filed the complaint.” She looked down. “I’ve seen you always help him. I thought… I thought you’d choose him over us. I was afraid of losing.”

Lucia didn’t answer. She looked at Maxine—not as an enemy, but as a memory of her own fear from earlier. “If you want,” she said calmly, “I can teach you how I write an outline. It’s not easy to lose if you’re well prepared.”

Maxine didn’t smile back. But yes, she nodded. The next day, they worked side by side in the library, sorting through sources, dividing chapters, aligning margins, replacing redundant words. That was where the first unplanned study group night began—the janitor-turned-scholar and the student who once laughed guarded the fan.

The School Night

The small circle slowly grew. The security guard’s son, the working student from the canteen, and the saleswoman at the corner sari-sari store who wanted to finish their high school equivalent joined in. They called themselves the “Light Group”—because they always met only at midnight.

“Why don’t we make it official?” Maxine asked one night, tying her hair. “There’s a room in the old building. It’s just locked.”

“That’s maintenance storage,” Lucia said, smiling. “I know there are broken chairs, an old whiteboard, and a lot of dust left.”

The next day, they walked to Dr. Miles. He rubbed the sleeve of his old blazer, as if searching for something in his pocket. When he pulled out a rusty key, it gleamed in the afternoon light.

“Whoever can open a locked door, that’s the one who has the right to teach inside,” he said. “Make the old room beautiful. That’s the first classroom of Liwanag.”

As they glued the linings and scrubbed the floor, Lucia’s old favorite sounds returned—the rustling of the broom, the clanking of the bucket, and the creaking of the window. But now, the mix was different: each stroke was no longer to erase the traces of others, but to weave a beginning of its own. That same evening, eight people—of various ages—gathered and began the Alphabet of Essay Writing, from outline to the final dot.

Dr. Miles’s Last Advice

Word came that Dr. Miles was ill one rainy season—not badly, but his breaks were getting longer. Footsteps rang in the hallway, the books he was lending out increased, there was always a letter tucked inside.

One night, he called Lucia into his office.

“I’m not forever,” he joked briefly, handing her an envelope. “Don’t cry first—it’s not a will.” Lucia laughed at least. “That’s a proposal. For a Westhill Evening Program—an official track for workers who want to continue their education. I’ve already walked the Board. All I need is a face to fight for it.”

“Sir, I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“You know how to learn,” she replied. “And you know how to believe in people who don’t believe. That’s the hardest thing of all.”

A month later, in front of the Board, Lucia’s hand was shaking but her voice was firm. She brought the notebook, not as a weapon, but as a map. She showed the attendance of the Liwanag Group, the essays with marks, the names that used to be just ID numbers in the maintenance logbook. Maxine also spoke—a miracle after all—as a witness.

“If the door is closed in the morning to people like them,” Maxine said, “why don’t we open it at night?”

It’s not easy for the Board to listen. There are financials, there are bylaws, there’s fear of precedent. But sometimes, the old and heavy move when pushed by many silent hands. At the end, there was one condition: a pilot program first, one year. If successful, then we’ll talk about the final.

When it was said “Approved,” Lucia didn’t shout. She just took a deep breath, like the first breath after a long swim.

After the Diploma

This is where the evening came to its loudest applause. And the next morning, she returned to Westhill early—not with a mop, but with a copy of the pilot program, a list of enrollees, and a key to the old room that now had fresh paint.

“Welcome to the Westhill Evening Program,” she opened the first class. “There is no age limit. No shame. The only requirement: you are tired but you are still willing to learn.”

The man she used to work with when she used to haul trash sat in the back. In the middle, the fishball vendor who knew fractions but was afraid of English. At the front, Maxine sat—not as a student, but as a volunteer tutor.

“Ma’am,” she whispered before starting, “I’m sorry for everything.”

“Why are you apologizing for the past,” Lucia replied, “when we both have something to do in the present?”

The Letter

One afternoon, there was a knock on the door of the old room. A messenger from the hospital: the envelope was for Lucia. Dr. Miles’ letter, very short, like a whistle that struck the heart:

“We are what we repeatedly do.

If they repeatedly lock doors, we repeatedly build keys.
—M.”

Along with the letter was a small box. Inside was a white piece of chalk, worn, with traces of many lessons written and erased. Lucia squeezed it as if it were clinging to the old professor’s hand.

“Sir,” she whispered, looking up at the ceiling of the old room, “you don’t need to worry.”

Nights of Light

Months passed. Little by little, some passed the equivalency exams; there was a father who now knew how to write a CV; there was a salesman who learned to answer emails with the right subject line; a janitor got an entry-level slot in the library because he noticed her diligence and new certificate.

Isela, now in high school, often hung around the corner, fixing markers, making coffee for “Mama’s classmates at night.” Once, she fell asleep in the back while Lucia taught a thesis statement. When they got home, the noise of the jeepney, the smell of smoke and rain, and the burden of fatigue that was no longer scary because it had a name: development.

“Mom,” Isela said once, stroking the old whiteboard that was previously only used when there was a clearance, “someday, I want to teach too.”

“Not just ‘someday’,” Lucia replied, “but every day, to anyone who needs it.”

The Return

One morning, the university issued a memo: “Appointment of New Dean, College of Arts & Letters.” When Lucia saw the name, she stopped in the hallway. The professor who had first told her “This is not your place.” He was now the Dean.

Before she could get scared, there was a knock on the door of the old room. The dean himself.

“I looked at your program,” the first tone was still cold. “The night is full. There is a waiting list.”

“There is a list,” Lucia replied, standing up, showing that she was no longer the one who silently left when reprimanded.

The Dean peered in, staring at the old desks, the long whiteboard with traces of thousands of words. Silently, he sat down in the last seat—where Dr. Miles had first made Lucia sit.

“Apply for a formal position,” the latter said. “Program Coordinator. The Board is waiting for your reports. If you are going to fight for this, fight for it with a title.”

“I am not used to titles,” Lucia replied, smiling slightly, “but I am used to working.”

“Good,” the Dean replied, and for the first time, Lucia caught the strange crack in his voice. “Because sometimes, we who sit here forget the sound of work.”

An Ending Beginning

At the end of the pilot year, the auditorium was filled—not with gowns and confetti, but with evening uniforms: aprons, guard’s robes, shopkeeper’s T-shirts, and a few dresses of grandmothers who had reread the Abakada to keep up with their grandchildren on their assignments. Lucia walked onto the stage, carrying a small box of Dr. Miles’ chalk.

“Many say that success comes to those who have time,” she began. “But the truth is: success comes to those who know how to make time.”

The crowd applauded. At the last line, she paused and looked up at the old ceiling, now covered with new lighting.

“I didn’t know who Aristotle was,” she smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. “But now, I know you don’t need to know the name to feel the truth. We are what we repeatedly do. And tonight, we repeat hope—until it becomes a habit, until it becomes light.”

From the front, Maxine stood, palm to palm—not to ask, but to applaud. At the edge of the stage, the University had erected a small tarp: “The Miles Program for Evening Learners.” But below, in a corner that was barely noticeable, Isela added a line in marker: “Liwanag Group—Simula at Walang Wakas.”

Hanging for Part 3

When they got home, Lucia and Isela found the door of their rented room with an envelope stuck to it. There was no name on the outside—only three words:

“For the next door.”

Inside, there was a handwritten map of an old warehouse behind campus—and a bundle of keys, more than ever.

Lucia looked at Isela. “Son,” she said, squeezing his hand, “it looks like we have another room to open.”

And on the misty street, they laughed together—tired, thankfully, and ready to work in the light of night.