I was wrong.

Specifically, I have misremembered all this time. My college graduation was not on the 20th of June, but rather, the 21st - the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, fifteen years ago today. There went the attempts at poetry when I was on the phone with Nat yesterday talking about the weekend.

I was back in La Salle over the weekend. A work thing. The things I've been going back to campus for before the lockdown - that certificate course - kicked off a year ago, but this was the first time we were having in-person classes, so I had to be there for photographs, and to say hello, and of course, to go back to the old stomping grounds.

It's not that I haven't been there for a while. I did say I had been going back to campus, right? My last meeting before lockdown was there. I remember having my parking arranged. I was to enter the campus through the vehicle entrance right beside South Gate, which is something I never thought I would do. Only employees entered there, or perhaps VIPs. Me, a VIP? I don't even have my alumni card renewed! I got mine after graduation and it was only valid for three years; in contrast, my brother's was a lifetime one. Life is unfair most of the time.

But I suppose it doesn't matter. It's not as if I always have to go back to campus. That would take the sheen off it. Going back every once in a while - now that's magical, somewhat. You go once every few years and see how things have changed and, also, how things haven't.

The second floor of the Miguel building, the most hallowed of stomping grounds, where I spent many of my college days, especially when I began taking my majors. It has, and also hasn't, changed. A lot of things have moved around, of course. The communications department has moved to a different building, the one that used to house the library. The dark room, of course, has long gone. But Mang Ed is still there, still at the equipment room. He remembers me, at least by my face; all I really had to tell him was who I was and what my batch number is. He tells me - and this is the first time I've known this - that he has nine years to go until his retirement. I always thought he was much older than that.

But then, that's how you see authority figures. Mang Norms had long retired. Mang Ric, of course, sadly passed away. Mang Ed, still here for a while longer, unless something untoward happens, knock on wood. He will remain a thread between me, an alumni for fifteen years now, and Francine, a student currently doing her thesis.

She entered the equipment room as I was chatting with Mang Ed, and yes, I did feel sociable, so I chatted with her, too. Her thesis was a documentary on fandom culture. That twigs with both the old music blog and the new writing project, so I was interested.

"Ayan, may panelist ka na," Mang Ed quipped. I never felt so older.

But then, there are many reasons to feel old. That conversation with Francine - and her thesis partner slash boyfriend, whose name I failed to get - where I shared stories not just about how college was when I was there, but my own experiences with fandom culture. The fact that at least two of my classmates have since taught students like her. (Toni apparently has classes on Wednesdays. "I don't have to go here on Wednesdays," I said.) The fact that all of the equipment had changed. "Obsolete na 'yan," Mang Ed said, pointing at the DSLRs that came in a couple of years after I had to take photography classes. Consider that I had to learn film photography, hoard photo paper in Quiapo, get my hands soaked in chemicals, listen to ghost stories in the dark room. I feel like a relic.

And then there's me feeling literally taller, which was weird, because I was not in a position to have a growth spurt between graduating from college and now. I stayed five-foot-eleven. (I grew wider in all the wrong places - sorry, my muscles aren't that great - but that's a different story.) But I'm pretty sure it seemed my head was going to hit the ceiling of the roof at SJ Walk. I don't think I ever attempted touching the ceiling, either last Saturday or in my years as a student, but if I did, maybe now, I could touch it.

That's when it hit me. I am a different person now than when I last stepped out of these grounds as a student. Fifteen years is a long time, and a lot has happened, some of which were things I never even imagined would happen to me. Be published in a newspaper, even if it's a trade publication rather than a mass-distributed one. Have "director" in my job title, even if it really means nothing. Be in a relationship, although, well, yeah, fuck that.

The funny thing with going back, though, is how it instantly transports you to what you were. It's not necessarily rose-tinted glasses. Sure, life felt more carefree when I was still studying, but I also remember how I had a difficult time feeling accepted by my peers. ("Cum laude ka, pero puro easy class kinuha mo? 'Di counted 'yun!") I also remember how I felt they looked at me differently, no matter what I do. I remember all of the insecurities I had, I always had, I still have, I always am reminded of. All of the voices in my head from across the decades. I go back to where I was, and there they are, as if they never left.

But then they never left. Fuck anyone who insists I have had zero character development, but anyone who says they got past their hang-ups easily is most likely lying. It really does depend on where you are at a given time, and how you're looking at things. Saturday, I was in my old stomping grounds. Today, I am at home, on the longest day of the year, at least where I am. You know, the sun's energy, shining down on you, that sort of thing, I suppose. A couple of Saturdays from now, I'll probably be back in my old stomping grounds. Maybe things will be different then.