When I try to contemplate my college days, I always have this feeling that I was a goody all time.
I remember when I was in my first year, I was excited, and determined to get my bachelor’s in English as soon as possible and not to repeat a single year. I was twenty years old, and just happy that I finished my high school. Happy that I was stretching out, leaving a little village where I was known by my grandfather’s good reputation as a farmer and a stand-up man, leaving a town where I had made some friends and insulted some others, where one time, I interrupted my teacher’s long boring lecture, took a chalk from his table and wrote “one hour talk” on the board. I almost get expelled and everyone was laughing at my craziness, or that time where my friend and I spent a night making a big flag for the march we agreed to make the day after.
I am repeatedly reminded that I didn’t live my college days as I was supposed to live them, always carrying this hint of regret that I had missed a lot of opportunities back then.