My College

My college, the School of Data Science and Engineering at East China Normal University, is a school that looks, at first glance, exceptionally bright and promising.

They produced beautifully polished promotional videos, skillfully mixing together various companies, technologies, buzzwords, and grand concepts. The dean would also appear on camera, speaking in an approachable and friendly manner, giving the impression that the college cared deeply about its students’ futures, experiences, and personal development.

And then, countless innocent students would walk into the major.

During my third year of undergraduate study, I had the privilege of working under the supervision of Professor Yanhao Wang. As the first author, I published my first research work, Coresets for Deletion-Robust k-Center Clustering, at CIKM, a conference in the field of data mining. Although it was only a Short Research Paper, I still considered it a meaningful breakthrough for an undergraduate student who had only started exploring academic research in 2024. It was my own personal “0 to 1” moment, something genuinely worth remembering. I believed that I had done something worth recognizing and, perhaps, worth congratulating.

Since the paper had been accepted by a conference, attending the conference was naturally one of the things I was most looking forward to. For many young researchers, conferences are not merely about presenting a paper. They are also an opportunity to meet researchers from different parts of the world, listen to ideas that may never appear in a classroom, and experience what academic research is actually like beyond the university campus.

I imagined that in some colleges and universities, if an undergraduate student published a research paper, the institution might be genuinely excited to put that student on its website. They might want everyone to know that they had helped cultivate a young researcher. And if a college treated its students with such enthusiasm, I thought, surely they might also be willing to provide some financial support when that student wanted to attend the conference.

The development of the story was somewhat unexpected.

Some of Professor Yanhao Wang’s previous research projects were academically valuable, but they were probably not the kind of projects that could easily attract the hottest government or industry funding in China at the time. As a result, his research budget was rather limited, and his position within the college seemed somewhat peripheral.

After understanding his situation, I hoped that the college might be willing to lend a hand.

I was fortunate enough to receive an enthusiastic response from the vice dean:

“Tell him that he can either attend the conference online, or he can simply not attend.”

I understood immediately.

This was, apparently, the greatest sincerity my college could offer to one of its own undergraduate students, even when that undergraduate student had published a paper under the name of their college.

And so, for the publication of the paper and my attendance at the conference, my college generously provided me with a grand total of $0 in financial support.

The registration fee was paid by my family. The flight from China to Boise, Idaho, USA, was paid by my family. The accommodation near the conference venue was paid by my family. The food and all the other expenses during the trip were paid by my family.

For us, the cost of living in the United States was dramatically higher than what we were accustomed to in Shanghai. Every additional expense made my parents, whose salaries were by no means particularly high, feel the financial pressure.

They knew all of this.

And yet they still chose to pay for my trip because they wanted me to realize a dream.

For that, I remain deeply grateful to them.

In September 2024, it was time for the annual scholarship evaluation. At my college, students were ranked primarily according to a comprehensive score based on two particularly important factors: how many courses they had taken during the year and how well they had performed in those courses. In other words, if you wanted a scholarship, you generally needed to take many courses and get excellent grades in them.

Of course, evaluating a person based on only one metric would be somewhat inappropriate. So the college thoughtfully provided everyone with an opportunity to participate in a defense, where students could demonstrate whether they had any additional achievements that might deserve recognition.

Indeed, because I had taken relatively many courses during my earlier years, I took fewer courses that year. Consequently, my ranking was not at the very top.

But I thought I had something rather unusual.

As far as I knew, I was the only student in the room who had actually published an academic paper.

In a college that valued academic achievement, encouraged students to “do something useful,” and constantly emphasized the importance of cultivating practical and meaningful abilities, I thought perhaps this might finally be something worthy of recognition.

Perhaps this time, I would receive a slightly better scholarship.

The development of the story was once again unexpected.

Although, this time, it was somewhat easier to predict.

On the day of the defense, I happened to be applying for a U.S. business visa so that I could attend CIKM in person. Therefore, I recorded a video in advance for the college to play during the defense.

After completing my visa appointment and leaving the embassy, one of my classmates sent me a message through social media.

It contained another warm and encouraging message from the vice dean:

“I do not support raising his ranking. I think his work is only a Short Research Paper at a non-top conference, so it does not have much academic value.”

There was actually something I admired about this college.

They were absolutely right that CIKM was not the most prestigious conference in the field. They were also absolutely right that a Short Research Paper generally carried less weight than a full-length research paper.

They were remarkably honest.

Remarkably sincere.

And the vice dean’s powerful words of encouragement gave me even more confidence in my future.

Eventually, I graduated.

At long last, I was going to leave this place filled with so many warm and unforgettable memories.

Before graduation, the college held an evaluation for the title of Outstanding Undergraduate Graduate. I thought that, considering how much the college valued GPA, my GPA over the past few years, which had consistently been near the top of my cohort, should at least count for something. On top of that, I had participated in competitions, published a research paper, and was continuing to work with Professor Yanhao Wang on new research projects.

Surely, this time, I could receive some form of recognition.

The Outstanding Undergraduate Graduate awards were divided into three levels: municipal, university, and college. There were fourteen awards in total, while fifteen students participated in the selection.

I thought that, statistically speaking, I had a reasonable chance.

Perhaps the college would finally recognize me once.

This time, I was no longer surprised by the result.

When the results were announced, I was the only student who received none of the honors.

I was later told that one of the professors believed I did not have a sufficiently clear plan for what I would do after graduation, such as pursuing further education or entering the workforce. A graduate who had not made adequate preparations for the future, they believed, did not deserve to be called an outstanding graduate.

Eventually, I learned how my college chose to treat me.

And once I understood that, I also learned how I should treat them.

Later, when another one of my papers was accepted by NeurIPS, I once again asked Professor Yanhao Wang, whom I respected deeply, whether he had any funding that could support my attendance at the conference.

Once again, he expressed his regret.

After hanging up the phone, I simply stopped asking the college for anything.

I became the kind of person that many people may never meet in their entire lives: someone who paid his own way to the United States twice, each time taking a flight that lasted more than twelve hours, simply to attend an academic conference.

Today, I am sitting on a red chair at the Memorial Union Terrace.

Ducks are slowly approaching. Seagulls are circling above me. Sailboats are drifting quietly across the lake, making the whole place look almost like a peaceful little town somewhere far away from university life.

Yet the laughter and cheers from the people around me keep bringing me back to the many warm and unforgettable moments I experienced at my college in 2024 and 2025.

Even now, I still find it difficult to forget all those wonderfully positive evaluations I received from the professors who cared so deeply about my future.

The lake is so blue.