I've been going to public school almost continuously since September 1989. This semester marks my last. The only discontinuities were the semesters I skipped by teaching the gospel in the wilds of Wisconsin for two years. Well, and summer vacations.
I still remember my first day in Kindergarten. I was in the afternoon class with Mrs. Harris. On the way through the playground before school started I tripped and caught myself with my hands on the asphalt. My palms stung. The black rocks and dirt contrasted with the red blood. It wasn't too bad, and somebody helped me get washed up. But it stung.
Over the years I only took one single summer class. Driver's Education, taught by Coach Gillespie, my uncle. Before I enrolled I was terrified of learning the stick-shift. It always seemed so incomprehensibly complicated from the passenger seat. It required finesse and timing. I feared damaging the vehicle, but even worse, my anxiety accelerated with the thought of stalling in a busy intersection and looking like a moron. Luckily, the driving range only had automatic transmissions. (I did eventually teach myself stick shift. Now I think it's fun.)
As this semester begins, I oscillate between two thoughts:
- Almost done. Soon to be a Master of mechanical engineering, and done with school forever. Well done.
- WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?! I don't know anything! I got through these classes because I learned how to be a student, not because I learned how to engineer.
Now that I've finally figured out school, they're kicking me out. Gotta learn a whole new system. It'll probably sting, and I risk looking like a complete moron. Oh well. The only way out is through. Bully!