about the one with dunhill, latte, and brown wool jackets

he was one of those lecturers you would hate for the first time. but remember your whole life.
he would likely to challenge your thought, criticize it, question it, and push you to defend it.

he wouldn't care about your bad english
he'd know that you just need to be pushed
he wouldn't care about your asian background
he'd know that you have a lot to say, but you're just too scared to stand up for yourself

his rotten body didn't stop him from smoking
and having coffee at bella ciao in every break time.
we all used to think that he was on drugs
because of the peculiar gestures he used to make

i personally thought he looked like 'hunchback from Notre Dame' *no offense, sir*

his class was not the funnest class to be in.
it was Communication Skills.
yes, it forced us to get out of our comfort zone
come up with our own ideas, do research, and argue about it.

I personally think my encounter with him for 4 semesters was life-changing.

i remember coming to him on my final presentation day to tell him how confused I was
with my future, and of whether I should go to Melbourne to RMIT, stay in Sydney and got to UTS, or go back to Jakarta to continue my Bachelor's degree. or should I just work.

he calmly advised, 'as long as you love what you do. pursue it. it doesn't matter what uni you go to. if your parents want you to go back, then go back. communication studies in any uni would be the same. don't worry too much. you'll be alright', with his laidback australian accent.

the last time I saw him.

it was not the first time he told me that. he had always encouraged me to follow whatever works for me, and not to get pressurized by what others do.

you were a true mentor, sir. the one who stretched our way of thinking and our skills. the one who encouraged us to be ourselves.

Rest In Peace, Mike Whittle.