The one who showed up late on the first day and said, “Get used to it.”
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Remember that first class? The palpable hum of anticipation in an ancient hall, the scent of old wood mingling with ambition. We arrived early, notebooks pristine, minds buzzing. This was it – the culmination of effort, the beginning of our intellectual journey in these storied institutions. We were ready for brilliance, for punctuality, for profound revelations.
Then, the clock ticked past. Five minutes. Ten. A nervous cough. We exchanged glances: a silent question, a shared uncertainty. Was this a test? Just as anxiety peaked, the door creaked open. No grand entrance, no apology. Just a figure striding in, perhaps rumpled, perhaps with precariously stacked papers. They didn't look up, reaching the lectern with a decisive thud. Then, the words. Not a welcome, not an introduction, but a simple, almost nonchalant declaration that would define an era: “Get used to it.”
That wasn't merely about tardiness. It was a philosophy. An immediate immersion into the unpredictable, often brilliant rhythm of true scholarship. It taught us that intellect doesn't always adhere to a schedule, that profound insights emerge from unexpected places, delivered by unconventional minds. It challenged our notions, pushing us to adapt, to observe, to understand that genuine education embraces the oddities and eccentricities of those who shape our minds. It was the first, unwritten lesson in adaptability, resilience, and irreverence. What did that moment teach you?