An open letter to my second home
Dear Ngee Ann Poly,
Where do I begin?
People don’t really understand my deep love for you when I talk about you. To be honest, neither did I. Until I had a huge lack of love for some place else to compare it to.
I remember the day we met. It was a life-changing experience; one I will tell for years to come. Sixteen year old me, fresh out of secondary school, full of hope and longing for something to challenge me, decided that I had had enough of… uniforms. I craved freedom and what better way to experience that than a routine of deciding what to wear everyday in the next step of my education? Granted, it was the path less taken, but I had never let the probability of losing out change my mind. Persuading my parents to let me take that first leap into the great unknown was difficult, but necessary. I succeeded, and the rest is history.
On the days that I miss you, I take awhile to reminisce over the good times we had together. We were good apart, but we were beautiful together. Not to mention, you had good soul searching spots. Or SSS, as I like to call them. Every school should have a soul searching spot or two, like a bench or a quiet roof top with gorgeous scenery that you can visit to reflect on the day, away from the crowd. I found one in the outermost seat of the second level of the Atrium, the FMS roof top, the sports complex bleachers, just to name a few. (I have yet to find one here.)
Which is why I’m struggling so hard to fill the widening void in my heart.
I could be asked to pack up my things and transfer to another school tomorrow and not feel a single thing. I have come to terms that I might feel nothing for this place, even after another two years. I am afraid I will graduate with minimal gratitude (for the knowledge — and the cert to prove it), and maximum relief at having gotten out. I do not want that kind of apathy for anything at all, much less in a school I’m spending the beginning of my twenties in.
The other day, I saw a photo my friend had taken of a bench here. On it were carved the words “This place is a prison” and I found myself tearing up. A little dramatic, but I felt so trapped and suffocated, and it was as if, finally, a kind soul amidst the rest of the over stressed, over worked student population felt what I was feeling and left the note to let me know I’m not alone.
And this, this growing sense of dissatisfaction, as much as I hate to admit it, is partly your fault.
You were more than amazing and the education, my god, your education was akin to throwing wide-eyed, naive seventeen year olds into the deep end of the pool and watching us struggle to survive. And we did. Marvellously, too. You never once underestimated our capabilities. In fact, you were like a mother sending her child off into the wild world, vowing never to hold her child’s hand again, yet always standing watch in case we should fail. You brought out the best in me and made me a better person. You taught me love, passion, commitment, courage and strength. More importantly, how to stay true to myself in a world that tries its best to break you.
The best part of you, however, was always your people. Everyone was passionate about and proud of what they learnt; no one was in it simply for the paper chase. If passion were the fertility of a piece of land, this place would be near barren.
A part of my heart will always and forever remain with you, and with every single one of the people who shaped the best three years of my education. I hope you know how much you changed me.
I love you,
Me
P.S. I am sorry I used to feel annoyed at the gamers in OurSpace or the library. I wish the people here knew how to relax half as much.
