I grew up hearing and now seeing it everywhere: “Batang 90’s lang ang nakakaalam.” Sometimes it’s about cartoons, street games, cassette tapes, or the golden age of Philippine TV. There’s a warm nostalgia in claiming that our generation—born into analog, raised in digital—“gets it” in a way others don’t. We survived dial-up internet, we collected pogs, we burned CDs, and we watched the world shift from VHS to streaming.

But here’s the uncomfortable question: if the Batang 90’s really know-it-all, why is it that many of us—now adults in our 30s and 40s—can’t even buy a home like our parents did?

Houses Our Parents Could Afford, But We Cannot

Our parents—many of whom worked as fast-food crew on short contracts, government clerks, OFWs, or factory workers—were still able to secure a modest house and lot, something that would be nearly impossible to achieve today on the same ‘humble’ income. A simple subdivision home in Marikina, Cavite, or Bulacan wasn’t out of reach. They tightened belts, yes, but land values and wages still matched enough to make dreams possible.

Fast forward to us, the so-called “malakas” generation. Double degrees, multiple side hustles, “financial literacy” seminars, and tech-powered productivity—yet the price of a house often feels like chasing the horizon. The obvious culprit is inflation, rising land values, and a speculative economy that favors developers and investors. But is that the whole story?

Structural Failure Is Political Failure

Because if we’re truly the know-it-all generation, then how do we explain why, almost consistently, we elect officials who fail at city planning, urban renewal, and honest governance? How come the very infrastructure that should have cushioned housing demand—public transport, zoning, inclusive development—is compromised by corruption and “kickback urbanism” where contractors and politicians shake hands while the public suffers?

In too many LGUs, subdivision permits are approved without proper transport studies, housing projects are built with no regard for flooding risks, and taxpayers’ money drains into half-baked—or worse, ghost— infrastructure projects. We, Batang 90’s, are old enough now to see through the patterns. Still, many of us shrug and retreat into nostalgia reels.

Yes, the economy makes housing harder. Yes, inflation is real. But we also have to own this truth: structural failure is political failure. And as long as our generation keeps excusing the recycled names of failed decision-makers, the dream of affordable housing will remain just that—a dream.

But here’s where hope breaks through. Because nostalgia is not just about play. If the Batang 90’s were the last to play patintero in the streets, then maybe we are also the first to realize that streets themselves—the way they’re planned, designed, and owned—matter to the kind of future our children will inherit. If we are truly “malakas,” then our strength should not end at throwback posts but extend to demanding transparency, voting with discernment, and shaping a real estate market that values people more than profit.

No More Kickback Urbanism

Healing our inner child is good. But securing the legacy of our actual children—the next generation—that’s where the true strength of the Batang 90’s must lie.

We, the Batang 90’s, once traded teks in the streets; today, every choice is a trade of decision and consequence. Unlike the games of our childhood, these trades shape the homes we live in and the future our children will inherit. We are no longer just kids—we are taxpayers, parents, and voters. And if we want homes that are livable, cities that are humane, and communities that can outlast us, we must put an end to payola planning and bribe-based building.

Because maybe, just maybe, the real flex isn’t what cartoons we grew up with, but whether we can build communities where our children can still play in the streets, safe, secure, and proud of the choices we made.

Image Cover Credit: Maria Chona Zalsos