Going Back to College, College, College

“You’ll have to excuse me, it’s been so long since I’ve been on campus, I’ve actually forgotten what the “advising meeting” is supposed to accomplish, other than having you lift the hold on my account and allow me to register for classes.” I shifted nervously in my chair. My faculty advisor was out for the Summer, so here I was meeting with the head of the department, and on very short notice. “Well,” she said as she folded her pleasantly wrinkled hands in front of her, “The idea is to lay out some goals for the upcoming semester. I look at what you’ve taken, make recommendations on what you need to take, and so on.”

I was officially daunted. Her plush office was like the writing studio of my dreams. Simple, hand-made bookshelves covered every inch of the wall, laden with paperbacks, hard covers, serials, magazines, newspapers and huge books of art from every age and every corner of the world. The only sections of the pleasantly tacky wood-paneled walls that were visible were the ones holding up her inconspicuously displayed Doctorate certificates in Literature and Philosophy. I was torn by jealousy and fear. Basking in the presence of a bonafide intellectual is something I had not experienced since my surly youth, a time when I could not have appreciated the gravity, or even mustered the sobriety to care.

“So, what were you planning to major in?” She asked, flashing a toothy, receding gum-line grin. “Um, well…” I was legitimately thrown off by her ending that last sentence with a preposition. I suppose we’re not all perfect. “English, definitely. Creative writing most likely. Given my penchant to give up on things that prove either dull or too hard, I suppose if I choose something I actually enjoy, I might have a better chance at success.” I started squirming again. This time, it wasn’t solely because of her, but because she was examining what appeared to be my transcript. Needless to say, that amazing beer-a-mid I built from MGD cans in February of 1999 did not appear on this document.



“I see you attended honor’s English your freshman year?” she asked. If by “attended” you mean “showed up sober twice,” then yes, I thought to myself, I attended honor’s English. “I had the good fortune to enter into the honor’s program here in 1998, a distinction I squandered with unmatched aptitude.” I replied. “I wouldn’t dwell on it,” she comforted, “Not everyone is cut out for college their first go ‘round. The ones that return are the ones that take the opportunity seriously and usually prove to be some of our most valued students.” She was caressing my injured ego, I liked it. “I suppose you could say I experienced what alcoholics refer to as “a moment of clarity.”” I stated.

She smiled again, like rolling the cover off a set of piano keys. “Very good.” She said. Very good? What does that mean? I grew more nervous, this time unable to determine precisely why. It was school. School always made me nervous, perhaps that’s why I pretended never to take it seriously. It’s almost a Pavlovian response: enter faculty’s office, get nervous. It’s not without cause, after all, the only times I ever darkened the door of any teacher’s or administrator’s office was for some nature of reprimand. This was going well, however, and the impulses to run away screaming were coming less and less often.

“Well, you can take just about any classes you want.” She said, handing over the upcoming semester’s prospectus. I though to myself, that’s a nice way of saying ‘Since all you accomplished your freshmen year was to determine the recipe for the real Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, any credits will be an improvement to this dismal transcript.’ This time I laughed. As sad as is sounds, the real Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is so good, it was almost worth it.

We agreed on American Literature 206, I groaned when she brought up the calculus class I needed to take, I signed the appropriate forms, we shook hands, she flashed those mighty teeth one more time, and I left her eclectic office. All in all, it had been a good meeting. I strolled back into the hallway feeling good about myself. I was finally going to get this college-level monkey off my back. It’s going to take a few years, but I’ll soon be able to feel a little bit better about myself, and that’s certainly worth tens of thousands of dollars in student loans, right? I checked my watch, I still had twenty minutes to get back to the office before the conference call started. Plenty of time to stroll the campus, get my bearings again.

I emerged on the quad, strolling slowly, admiring the freshly shorn lawn, the bustle of students shouldering backpacks from Lee Hall to Griffin Hall, in and out of the library, sitting in front of PJ’s coffee discussing important, collegey things. The day was nice and I was feeling like I was on my way to accomplishing something, and my apprehension about the time and cost required were beginning to feel not-quite-so-stifling. Yep, I was feeling alright about stuff.

“Excuse me?” I heard around my shoulder. I turned to see a blonde woman, about my age, thrust her hand into mine and begin vigorously shaking. “I’m Julie. I noticed you leaving Dr. Gaudet’s office (it’s pronounced “go-day” –ed.) and I just had to meet you. Are you our new English instructor? I just can’t tell you how excited we are to have you. From Florida State, right? I’m the new head of the undergraduate English department.” I was stunned. Even if I hadn’t been completely speechless, I doubt I could have squeezed a word in edge-wise. She kept talking, and I sort of zoned out, in pure embarrassment.

Then there was this awful silence, a strange hiccup in the universe. This hiccup was all that was required for the world to shit in my freshly poured bowl of Cheerios.

“Um.” I stammered. I don’t usually stammer. “Um. No, actually. I’m a re-entry student, undergraduate, junior division. I know, I’m a little old, but I’ve been away for a while.”

There was that silence again, that awkward pause. If I had been on top of the world only a few moments earlier, I was now firmly planted in a 12th century Turkish prison being ritually gang-raped by horses.

“Oh.” Julie stammered. She seemed like the type of person that doesn’t usually stammer. “Um. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll do very well. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around campus. It was nice to meet you.” She shook my hand again, a little less vigorously this time, and walked away.



I stood there for a second, picking up the pieces of my shattered ego, the very one that Dr. Gaudet had so convincingly pretended to polish only minutes earlier. I watched the students as they passed. Girls and boys, ten to fifteen years younger than myself, walking to and from classes, classes I don’t even qualify to take, educated years beyond me. Suddenly the June heat got a little more than I could bear and I slinked off to make my two o’clock conference call.