By Cynthia Shank
It all begins, as all great Sillimman sagas do, with an email that looks harmless until you read the subject line: “ID VALIDATION REMINDERS.”
Ah, ID validation—the biannual rite of passage that turns mild-mannered Sillimmanians into sweaty gladiators armed with ballpens and sheer willpower. Every year, the university decides to crank the chaos dial to “Biblical Plague” levels (because why not raise both tuition and blood pressure at the same time?): it requires a medical certificate from Sillimman University Medical Centre (SUMC) before even putting the validation sticker on your ID.
Yes. A medical certificate. To prove you are medically capable of having a sticker attached to your card. Because apparently, a 2×2 plastic square cannot be validated unless your white blood cells have also been validated.
Step One: The SUMC Shuffle
First stop: SUMC, where you queue for a med cert like it’s the latest iPhone drop—or free ice cream on campus during special events. You sit in a hallway, waiting for a doctor to glance at you and say, “Yep, still breathing.” Congratulations! You are now deemed fit to carry the laminated shiny rectangle of campus clout.
This crucial paper—printed on what might be the thinnest bond sheet this side of a freshman’s allowance—feels like a Wonka golden ticket. Guard it with your life. If it gets wet, well… re-queue and possibly cry in a public restroom.
Step Two: The Oryental Hall Inferno
Next comes the final boss: Oryental Hall (OH).
Imagine hundreds of students, all clinging to their medcerts like relics, forming a line that could be seen from space. The OH waiting room is hotter than the inside of a freshly microwaved siopao. Whoever controls the thermostat here is clearly conducting an experiment on human endurance.
The line inches forward at the pace of a Sillimman Wi-Fi connection during finals week. You begin to question your life choices. Your hair frizzes. Someone faints dramatically. Rumor has it that by the time you are finally at the counter, you’re thirstier than a castaway in the Sahara—gasping for air, clutching your med cert like the mirage might hand you water.
Cultural Phenomena Observed
While slowly melting, you start noticing patterns:
- The Overprepared Upperclassman: Carries multiple pens, two Jisulife fans, a gallon of water, and the stoic expression of someone who has survived three rounds of ID validation.
- The First-Year Fumbler: Keeps whispering, “Is this the right line?” while standing directly beneath the three-foot sign screaming ID VALIDATION HERE.
- The Bottomless-Bagger: Unzips their bag that’s basically a black hole—pulling out snacks after snacks and, for all we know, a small refrigerator. No one knows where the snacks end or if the bag even has a floor.
By hour three, the entire hall smells like a mixture of sweat, despair, and feet. Your med cert sticks to your skin like a second degree burn. The university choir could sample the collective groans into an avant-garde soundtrack.
The moment of truth, finally, you reach the counter. The staff member glances at your ID, your med cert, and your weary soul.
But wait… think the ordeal ends at OH? Cute.
Samukan University has prepared a side quest menu guaranteed to test every shred of your patience.
Step Three: The Birth Certificate Ballet
Because apparently proving you were born is crucial to proving you deserve a sticker. Grab your PSA copy, your baby photo, and maybe the midwife who delivered you—just in case they ask for a witness.
Tip: bring two photocopies, because the first will mysteriously vanish into the registrar’s Bermuda Triangle.
Step Four: Barangay Clearance—Because Why Not
Now hike to your hometown barangay and beg for a sheet of paper that says, essentially, “This person exists and does not throw their trash outside the schedule.”
Bonus cardio if your barangay hall is uphill.
Step Five: The Driver’s License Detour
Don’t have a license? No worries—you just need to magically acquire one overnight. Never mind that you don’t own a vehicle. The point is to prove you could drive to OH if destiny demanded.
Step Six: Parent’s Permit (a.k.a. The Permission Slip of Shame)
Even if you’re 30 and pay your own Globe bill, the university demands proof that a responsible adult has approved your quest for validation. Preferably signed in blue ink, notarized, and scented with parental disappointment.
Step Seven: Form 137: The Ghost of High School Past
Yes, dig up the transcript of your adolescent angst. Because nothing screams “fit for a sticker” like a record of your senior-high school math grade.
Epilogue: The Existential Sticker
After completing all these easy-peasy steps, with a single motion, they apply the sacred validation sticker. It shines like the crown jewel of your academic existence.
You are free. You have been chosen. You are now officially recognized as a living, breathing Sillimmanian with a valid piece of plastic.
Let’s be real: the sticker will probably peel off after a week of humidity, and probably no one will check it anyway. But for a brief, blistering afternoon, you were part of something greater. You joined a fellowship of students who braved the SUMC Shuffle, the OH Inferno, and the Great Sticker Hunger Games.
And when the next email inevitably arrives—“REMINDER: ID VALIDATION”—you will laugh, cry, and start hydrating early. Because nothing says Sillimman pride quite like risking heatstroke for a piece of adhesive.
