Let me start with a disclaimer– I’m only in my second year of college, so a museum of my college life is more like a museum of my college life so far. But despite my short stint, it feels like so much has happened in the last year and a half.
What would I put in a museum dedicated to my college life? I don’t think I’d put up my grades, or any Instagram-worthy photos I might have taken. No.
I think that if the museum opened today, my first few exhibits would probably be these:
The One with the College ID
It’s not eye-catching. It’s a piece of plastic with my name, and a photo that definitely doesn’t deserve to be in a museum. But it tells a story. It represents who I was when I walked onto campus for the first time, unprepared and unaware of how the next few years were gonna go.
I did not know that my sleep schedule would become non-existent; which classrooms I would spend the most time in; which people I would start to call my own.
All I knew that very first day was that I was starting college.
And the card is proof that I did.
The One with the Tote Bag
This one deserves a place of honour, because it has been through it all.
It’s carried laptops, notebooks, chargers, snacks and things that I probably haven’t needed since October of last year. It’s been through early morning lectures, late-night coffee spills at Narsi’s and even later study sessions at the library. My bag has probably been to more places on campus than I have.
The One with the First Assignment
I think I’d save it not because I got a particularly good grade, but because it was my first ever concrete contribution to higher education. There would probably be a small plaque under it that would say: “When I thought my motivation would last forever.”
There’s something hysterically hilarious about looking back at your first assignment and seeing how committed you were to being perfect. The headlines, the formatting, stressing over every full stop, and the panic that not a single thing should be out of place.
And now here I am, three trimesters later, congratulating myself for making it to class on time and having accepted that no matter how much time my professor has given, the assignment will be completed at an entirely unreasonable hour.
The One with the Overused Hoodie
I’ve worn many outfits over the last year and a half but my favourite would be my hoodie.
Overused and overworn, no matter the time of day or what temperature it is, my hoodie travels with me everywhere. It’s been with me in excessively cold classrooms, long lectures, nights where I thought it was appropriate sleepwear, and mornings where putting together an outfit seemed just a little too exhausting.
No matter how many rounds of the washing machine it’s been through, or how many times I’ve thrown it over the back of a chair and forgotten it there, it stands tall and is still just as comforting.
Maybe I should write a thank-you letter to H&M.
The One with the First Year Evidence
This one should be a two-part section. Two images from two completely different times from my first year.
The first one obviously needs to be a terrible photograph. A picture that I look back at, and try to figure out what in the world possessed me to save it. The pose is terrible; the lighting terrifying; the outfit questionable. And yet, for some reason, me from a year ago probably posted it on her story.
But that’s the point isn’t it? First year wasn’t about knowing who I was. It was about figuring out who I wanted to be. What I liked to do. Where I fit in.
The second would be a photo taken on one of those nights where the possibilities seemed endless. A night when my friends and I decided to stay up, talking, laughing, playing games. A photo of one of those nights where anything and everything is allowed, except going to sleep. There was no major event or any extraordinary reason to choose that particular night. Just one of those moments where nobody wants to be the first one to leave.
And I think that’s what’s so incredible and so strange about college: you keep waiting for the big moments, the milestones that you’ve had written for years. But when you look back you realise that they aren’t your favourite memories.
It’s the unexpected ones. Those are the ones I’d preserve in my museum.
It’s only my second year. There are a lot of empty exhibits waiting to be filled, and honestly? I have no idea what’s going to go into them.
Isn’t that exciting?