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Aug. 19, 2005
Second time's a charm
More mature return to university reaps dividends.
CASSANDRA SAVAGE
I had a great childhood with all the middle-class trimmings: piano
lessons, dance classes and a kitten or two. When my dad pulled up
in the new family minivan, circa 1989, I felt like a celebrity.
We were the pioneers of an automobile movement, I thought, as I
flung open the door and proudly leapt in. Life was good; life was
easy. But the world was an untapped adventure and I was ready to
dig in. On my last day of high school, I packed my bags. Freedom
was so close, I could smell it.
At 18 years old, I left home for a summer job in the Rockies. There
were tears in my parents' eyes as they dropped me off at my new
home in the mountains. It was touching, but I could hardly wait
for them hop aboard the Caravan and drive the other way. This was
a defining moment for me, a true test of the independence my parents
had effectively instilled and I was more than ready to confront
the world solo.
Some of my home town friends stopped by on their way to various
music festivals that summer. I was happy to see them (it had been
four weeks!) but I made new friends too, people in their 20s who
captivated me with their willingness to talk about big issues and
their ability to party until dawn. By the time I headed to university
that fall, independence was old news: I had a bike to get around
on, a stern word for anyone who scorned me and a knack for creative
cooking when ingredients were scarce. I thought the world was my
oyster because I'd been raised to believe it. I was a star, a knockout,
the smartest person on Earth!
Then, I got a D on my first philosophy paper. Before my bewildered
eyes, in glaring red ink, on the second page of a heartfelt essay
on Nietzsche and God: "This is awful. It makes no sense and
I will not read any further," wrote my professor. I was crushed.
I flew into his office after class, ready to fight for my intellectual
honor. But before I could speak, the look on his face made three
things very clear: the world was not my oyster, I was a privileged
kid with lots of work to do and the D was there to stay. All I could
muster was a barely-audible, "But...." He was the toughest
man I had ever met. I later learned that he'd cut off his own big
toe as a young draft resister.
Today, I realize my professor was trying to shake me up a bit and
I probably needed it. He could smell my ego a mile away and wanted
to test my mettle. But there were other tests, too, during those
first years of school. My first basement suite was so dank there
were mushrooms growing through cracks in the bathroom floor and
water seeped in through the carpets after heavy rains. What little
scholarship money I had was drained within a few months and, determined
to remain independent, I lived on a diet of pasta with butter, worked
a series of tedious jobs and sold my possessions for cash, as needed.
There were serious struggles as well. One of my best friends checked
himself into the mental health centre on campus one day, when his
mind decided it was just too scary to get out of bed anymore.
If I could back to school for the first time all over again, I'd
aim for more balance. I wouldn't worry so much about what teachers
wanted from me and I'd do more of my own thinking. I'd spend more
time in the community, more time learning how my ideas and changing
values fit into the world around me.
I'm in my 30s now and I'm heading back to university next month.
At 18, I feigned defiance and confidence to disguise my utter naivety;
I was motivated by the praise of others and school was a way to
get it. At 30, my reasons for going to university are more my own
and I'm excited for what lies ahead. This time, a D wouldn't be
half as bad.
Cassandra Savage is a writer/editor living in Vancouver.
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