A small stack of my most beloved text books
I was 35 when I decided it was time to go to university. This wasn't planned, it just naturally happened this way. I had actually met three very different people who truly inspired me to want to grow and learn and add a few more layers to my self. I felt mature enough and I felt ready. I had reached a dead end in my horticulture job, I didn’t like my bosses, many of my colleagues bored me to death and I was sick of working in the hot sun, the rain and the cold. I was sick of helping rich customers choose plants and I was done loading bags of potting mix into their fancy cars. I had no aspirations to become a manager or open my own nursery – it was time to move on and it was time for mental stimulation. The only way forward for me was uni.
Only my husband and I knew about my new plan at this stage, I didn’t dare tell anyone just in case I wasn't accepted and then would have to live with the humiliation. But I also knew that many wouldn't share my enthusiasm. And then finally the day came, my husband called me at work and said, “Guess who’s going to uni?” God! It was such a sweet moment. He told me my name was in the paper and I got a first round offer. “Well,” I said, “I had better resign then.” I smiled and we hung up. I could barley contain my emotions and my excitement but somehow I kept it together long enough to tell my boss I’ll be leaving because I’m going to university (happy dance!!).
Little did I know how much my world would change? And little did I know how isolated I would feel. But off I went with as much courage as I could muster. I chose to study the Humanities disciplines; it was an area of study I was naturally drawn to, but choosing the subjects was much harder because I loved them them all! I eventually settled on a couple of languages, linguistics, history and anthropology units.
God I was so nervous on my first day. I was totally out of my depth. I had to learn the lay of the land, the library system, locate my class rooms, buy the prescribed books and just try to make sense of it all. Starting mid-year just made it harder; it was kind of all up to me to figure it out.
My path to the university library
Several of my tutors were younger than me, which I found equally disturbing and amusing. I was also the only student in my medieval history class who handed in a handwritten essay - slightly embarrassing. My tutor left me a kind note asking me to type my work from now on. My first year was such a blur. I was like a lost little robot going from A to B on a human conveyor belt in an academic factory.
Between classes I sat in quiet areas in the library. I also wasted way too much time trying to find books due to lack of experience, and I wasted even more time sifting through the endless list of references. Sometimes I reread an essay question multiple times and still wouldn’t understand what the hell it was about. Tears of frustration would follow and quick shallow breathing, like I was suffocating. But somehow I got through the first year and even managed to pass all of my subjects.
The second and third years were better. I knew my way around, I had made some friends, and I started getting distinctions and even high distinctions. While my fourth year was spent frantically writing a thesis. It was an insanely overwhelming experience! I'll never forget that moment when my supervisor had a look at the first draft of my introduction. It was abysmal. I sobbed uncontrollably and rewrote it many times after that.
I also started to notice irritating behaviour from some of the younger students in my classes. It was a sense of self-entitlement. That natural progression in their priviledged lives to go to university straight after school. ‘No respect and no appreciation!’ I found myself thinking over and over again. Turning up to class hung-over, not doing the readings, not contributing, slacking off during group assignments (fuck that used to piss me off so much!) and far too preoccupied with looking cute.
I thought of all the women around the world who would never make it to university, many wouldn’t even make it to school. And here were these precious spoilt little shits who had no idea how lucky they were. But I knew how lucky I was and I soaked it in as much as I could. I eventually ignored these types and focused on my own path.
This road signifies the end of my university journey. It's the road to Borroloola in the Northern Territory, Australia and the home to the Yanyuwa People. I wrote my thesis on the cultural significance of their bush foods, and later got the chance to visit this special place.
Would I recommend uni later in life? Absolutely! I was there because I wanted to be there not because my parents expected it. I was more mature, interested, committed and more studious. The stuff I was learning either made me feel alive or depressed. In some of the anthropology units we had an in-depth look at some pretty horrific human atrocities; like the homeless little boys in Indonesia who are high on drugs and prostitute themselves out to men simply to survive, or the destruction Indigenous peoples faced around the world. One documentary we had to watch sickened me to my core. I saw footage and interviews of the trained murderers who spoke candidly about their killings during the Rwandan genocide, including the hunting down and killing of children.
Uni for me was a very grounding and humbling experience, mostly because it made me realise just how little know. And during my solo journey I realised I was unable to share most of what was going on in my new life with people in my old life. My husband of course was most significantly impacted by the new me, but much to my relief, he chose to join me in my quest for personal growth, but some friends and family were left behind. I was heading in a different direction to them - an unrelatable one and an unattainable one.
But that didn't bother me so much as long as I wasn't held back.
