Observing Micro-Elitism: A Faculty Perspective on Structural Challenges

When I first entered the university, I was immediately struck by the weight of its dual purpose: it is both a sanctuary of knowledge and a crucible of personal development. It is not simply a place to earn degrees or to acquire vocational skills; it is where ideas, histories, and competencies converge to shape human lives, guiding individuals toward social responsibility, critical engagement, and professional participation. For me, the university was also a deeply personal space of self-discovery. I recall walking through its corridors as a young student, feeling both a sense of possibility and trepidation—wondering whether I could meet the expectations placed upon me while also navigating my own aspirations and limitations. Beyond the lessons contained in textbooks, I learned to question assumptions, analyze complex problems, and understand my responsibilities toward the larger society. These formative experiences now inform my perspective as a faculty member, shaping the lens through which I observe and reflect on the challenges and inequities present in public higher education.

One of the issues that has increasingly captured my attention during my years of teaching is what I have come to term micro-elitism. At first, I did not have a word for it; I only sensed a subtle, persistent inequity in the experiences of students that seemed out of alignment with the mission of public education. It was not overt discrimination or explicit exclusion, but rather a quiet stratification within the university, created by decisions, resources, and expectations that often disadvantaged students from less privileged backgrounds. Over time, I realized that micro-elitism is the cumulative effect of small, everyday practices and structural limitations that, together, produce inequitable learning experiences.

I began teaching at a public university in Manila in 2020, at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. Classes transitioned online almost overnight, a seismic shift that challenged both faculty and students. Technologies that were previously optional became essential for participation, assessment, and instruction. Initially, I thought that the university environment was largely unchanged from my own time as a student. The culture, the commitment of professors, and the enthusiasm of students seemed familiar, even comforting. But as I became more deeply involved in teaching, patterns began to emerge that revealed inequities hidden within institutional practices. Students were often required to purchase proprietary software or expensive equipment to complete assignments. Some subscriptions cost more than two thousand pesos per month, an amount comparable to basic household expenditures such as electricity or internet access. Many of the students enrolled in public universities precisely because private institutions were financially inaccessible. For these students, expectations that required additional spending, even for essential learning tools, created barriers to participation and success.

Listening to students’ experiences brought the reality of micro-elitism into sharp focus. One student shared that he had to share a single laptop with a sibling just to complete his assignments. Another explained that she had to forgo a required software because she could not afford it, improvising with less capable alternatives. I heard stories of students who skipped lectures because their internet connections were unstable, or who had to work late-night jobs to support their studies, leaving them exhausted and less able to focus in class. These narratives were not isolated; they were emblematic of broader structural inequities that persist even in institutions designed to provide equitable access.

The dynamics I observed align closely with Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of social and cultural capital (1986). Students who possess economic, social, and cultural resources are more able to navigate institutional expectations and leverage opportunities for success. Those who lack such capital, in contrast, face structural disadvantages that affect their performance and sense of belonging. In the context of public higher education, micro-elitism is a manifestation of these inequalities: students’ access to technology, software, and other learning resources—resources often taken for granted—can significantly influence their ability to succeed.

Paulo Freire’s (1970) notion of critical pedagogy also illuminates this phenomenon. Freire emphasizes that education should empower learners to recognize and challenge oppression. When students are constrained by material limitations, their potential for agency and critical engagement is curtailed. The university should function not merely as a site of knowledge acquisition but as a space for empowerment, enabling students to participate as co-creators of learning. When institutional practices inadvertently reinforce inequities, this transformative potential is compromised.

At the same time, I observed that faculty operate under significant constraints that contribute, unintentionally, to micro-elitism. The university’s infrastructure is often inadequate. Computer laboratories may have only a few functional units, insufficient for classes of thirty or forty students, leaving those without personal devices at a disadvantage. Licensed software is rarely available through institutional subscriptions, compelling instructors to rely on pirated or unauthorized copies. This raises ethical dilemmas, as faculty are expected to model integrity while navigating resource scarcity. Classrooms may be poorly ventilated, with broken chairs, unreliable projectors, and limited audiovisual support. Teaching under such conditions demands creativity, improvisation, and resilience, yet it also highlights the systemic deficiencies that shape student experiences.

I reflect on the duality of this situation: students are asked to meet certain academic expectations, yet faculty are constrained by the structural limitations of the university. Micro-elitism, therefore, is not always the result of deliberate action; it is often the outcome of structural insufficiency and systemic underfunding. Nonetheless, the consequences are real: students with fewer resources are disproportionately disadvantaged, and the promise of equitable access remains unfulfilled.

The broader policy context is critical to understanding these dynamics. Philippine public higher education is guided by the 1987 Constitution (Article XIV, Section 1–2), which mandates that the State protect and promote the right of all citizens to quality education and take steps to make it accessible to all. The Commission on Higher Education (CHED) provides guidelines for program standards, resource allocation, and student support. Yet despite these frameworks, funding limitations and gaps in implementation persist. Many public universities continue to operate with insufficient budgets for laboratories, classrooms, faculty hiring, and instructional resources. These gaps underscore the centrality of state responsibility in ensuring that higher education fulfills its promise of equity and access.

Over the years, I have witnessed students display remarkable resilience in the face of these challenges. Some creatively share resources, forming study groups where a single laptop is rotated among members. Others find innovative ways to complete assignments with limited tools, demonstrating adaptability and determination. These experiences highlight the agency of students, yet they also underscore the unnecessary burden placed on them by structural inequities. The university, ideally, should support such resourcefulness rather than compel it.

Faculty, too, navigate this tension daily. Decisions about assignments, software, or course structure are often made in the context of limited institutional support. The absence of functional equipment or licensed resources forces instructors to adapt in ways that may inadvertently disadvantage students. In reflecting on my own teaching practices, I have become more mindful of how seemingly minor decisions—such as requiring a subscription or recommending a particular tool—can reinforce inequities. Micro-elitism is as much about the cumulative impact of small, everyday choices as it is about systemic shortcomings.

This reflection has deepened my understanding of the theoretical frameworks provided by Bourdieu and Freire. Bourdieu’s concept of capital elucidates how access to material and cultural resources shapes student experiences, while Freire’s pedagogy emphasizes the ethical responsibility of educators to create empowering learning environments. Together, these frameworks help explain how structural conditions, institutional practices, and individual agency intersect to produce the dynamics of micro-elitism I have observed.

Addressing these challenges requires a multi-level approach. Increased government investment is essential but insufficient on its own. Funding must be accompanied by transparent accountability mechanisms, long-term planning for infrastructure and human resources, and meaningful collaboration between policymakers, administrators, faculty, and students. Institutional policies should explicitly address equity, providing alternatives for students who cannot afford particular software or equipment, and ensuring that classrooms and laboratories are functional and accessible. Faculty development programs should include guidance on ethical and equitable teaching practices, particularly in resource-constrained contexts.

Reflecting on these experiences has also shaped my teaching philosophy. I have learned to approach instruction with both empathy and intentionality, recognizing the diverse backgrounds and capacities of my students. I now actively seek to minimize unnecessary barriers, provide alternatives, and create opportunities for all students to succeed. At the same time, I advocate within my institution for systemic reforms, recognizing that individual efforts must be complemented by structural support.

Ultimately, micro-elitism in public universities is a mirror reflecting broader social inequalities. It reminds educators, policymakers, and society that access to higher education is not merely about enrollment numbers, but about the quality and inclusivity of the learning environment. When students are disadvantaged by resource scarcity, when faculty are constrained by structural deficiencies, and when the State does not provide adequate support, the promise of public education remains unfulfilled.

Yet I remain hopeful. I have witnessed students demonstrate remarkable creativity and resilience, and faculty exhibit dedication despite constraints. I have also observed instances where targeted interventions—such as providing software access, upgrading computer labs, or offering flexible assignment options—have immediate positive effects on learning outcomes and student engagement. These experiences reinforce the importance of sustained, intentional support for public universities, guided by both policy and pedagogy.

Education is both a personal and societal investment. My experiences as a student and faculty member have shown me the transformative power of higher education, as well as the ways in which subtle structural inequities can limit that potential. Micro-elitism is not merely an academic concept; it is a lived reality that shapes the daily experiences of students and faculty. By understanding these dynamics through the lenses of theory and policy, we can work toward solutions that promote equity, inclusion, and empowerment.

Investing in public higher education is not merely an economic decision; it is a moral and strategic imperative. Ensuring that all students have equitable access to resources and opportunities fosters the development of critically engaged, socially responsible citizens. When faculty, administrators, and policymakers collaborate to address structural deficiencies, public universities can become true sites of empowerment, inclusion, and social mobility. In this way, higher education fulfills its most important purpose: shaping individuals who are capable of contributing meaningfully to a just, sustainable, and equitable society.