"When I was a student..."

Last week, as I was walking (slowly, of course) back to my dorm after Frisbee practice, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between a balding man and a small girl who I presumed to be his daughter. "You know," the man said as the trans-generational duo stood arm in arm on the bridge over Lyman Lakes, "when I was a student..."

I don't know how the man finished his sentence, because those five words halted me mid-step. Was. With that stranger's offhand comment, I realized that I have almost no memory of, nor can I particularly envision in the future, a conception of myself that is not a student. I've been entrenched in some sort of educational environment for over sixteen years. When I began my academic career, George Bush the elder was in office, the Democratic Republic of the Congo was called Zaire, and the cost of gasoline was 95 cents a gallon.

I gazed upon the inverted projection of autumn on Lyman's glassy surface, staggered by the sheer temporal magnitude of my studenthood. Then, looking down at my grass-stained shirt and scuffed purple Crocs, I wondered if this is what America had envisioned as a product of her mighty and unparalleled Educational System.

Father and daughter and long since moved on when I realized that I was late as usual for some evening commitment. But the words still echoed across the still lake water: "When I was a student..." It's hard to believe that one day, perhaps not too far in the future, I will be able to utter that phrase. The prospect is at once terrifying and exciting beyond measure.