class of 2013 ✓

epilogue | learning curve

San Francisco—the Golden City, arguably the foggiest place in the bay, and where my heart will always live. Yes, I said what I said. Sorry Warrington, but the second I moved here to finish my master's of education in grad school, I knew this was home.

Fast forward a few years, and I still have to hold my breath every time I drive through the Sunset district. Hand firmly gripping the wheel, I drive down a windy road, the brisk autumn air seeping through the crack of my ajar car window. The dormitories pass by like a mismatched splotch of beige, yellow, and gray. Rustling sounds from the robust trees are drowned out by the radio host whose voice is blasting through my speakers. I'm tuning in and out, but from what I can gather, he's babbling on and on about some Senator from the midwest named Tara and her push to redistribute the wealth in her state.

Blaise would love it here, it fits his vibe, I think to myself, immediately pushing that thought out before it could completely invade my head. It's been a hot minute since we broke up—freshman year of college if I'm not mistaken—and I think it's about time I moved on.

And now it's the perfect time to since the lecture starts in approximately 10 minutes and I need to occupy my mind with more important thoughts—like how to explain the Solow growth model to my students.

Awkwardly parking the vehicle into my own spot in the lot, I slide out, twirling my key chain loop around my finger. Students are everywhere—seated on the lawn with their notes scattered in front of them in an organized mess, clustered in front of a bus stop, and chattering amongst themselves as they stride to their next class. It's funny, really, because I was living that life once upon a time. I can't help but reminisce about being in their shoes. I was so unfulfilled. You know, feeling like a dormant seed waiting to sprout, and therefore wasting my potential. I'd like to think I've found my purpose now, and I'd kill to go back in time and tell my past self that everything's gonna be okay.

The hallway clears as I make my entrance. My footsteps echo between the walls. Gingerly, I push open the door to my auditorium-style classroom. Some of the students have arrived early, most of them finding their usual rows and pulling out their desks to lay their materials. As it turns out, Economics is a pretty popular major, and this is one of the only rooms that can accommodate that many kids.

"Morning Professor," someone greets, but I couldn't tell who it was because I was too busy digging through my suitcase for my lesson plan. When I finally find the stack of papers that corresponds to today, I look back up.

"Good morning," I reply, hoping the person heard it and didn't think I was ignoring them.

As I wait for everyone to finally settle in, I can't help but marvel at how ironic all of this is. Senior year of high school, I swore to myself that after college, I'd never step foot in an academic setting ever again, and yet here I was. I guess after I changed my mindset, it made me realize that I truly thrive off of academia.

Making sure my mic is working, I toggle on the projector so that my PowerPoint is on display. I clear my throat. Then, I begin teaching.

It's funny, really, because this is honestly the last profession I pictured myself doing when I was a kid, however, I'm really really happy with it. I love being hopeful about the next generation of thinkers and scholars. They make me excited for the future, and to think that I might have some sort of impact on them is so rewarding. Goes to show that life doesn't always end up the way you planned it to, but somehow, it feels like everything worked out in the end.

When the lecture ends, applause erupts from the crowd. A common occurrence, but I still get jittery from it every time.

"Hold the clapping," I say, shaking my head to hide my smile, "your essays are still due tomorrow."