STEVEN HUGHES/The Globe and Mail
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I'm handed back my essay and slip it into my backpack, not pausing to look at the mark.
I head out the door and join the throng of class change until I can stand the suspense no longer. I step to the side, unzip my backpack and pull out the paper.
The mark is an A, with the notation "very impressive."
I don't read further. My smile is Cheshire-cat large and unstoppable. It probably scares a few of the passing students. Then tears surface. Why does it take an A to validate my sense of worth?
I'm in my 50s and back in university after 25 years, starting an undergraduate degree in English.
On my first day, I look to Shakespeare Prof as an instant peer because of our ages. She starts talking sonnets. "Open your anthology to page …"
What? Am I supposed to have the book already? Duh.
My tablemate slides her book over to share, and tears of gratitude well in my eyes.
My double-university-degreed daughter has made me promise not to have my eager hand up all the time, but I know I'll have to speak in the first class or lose my nerve altogether.
When I venture an answer, Shakespeare Prof refutes it. Again, silent tears threaten to fall. "Get a grip," I tell myself.
But the kindness of Book Sharing Girl takes over, and finally the class ends. Despite the shaky start, I remember why I love Shakespeare.
My second class is twice as large as the first, about 80 students. Again, amid the mass of pheromonal youth, my instant connection of age is with the professor. But her disparaging opening remarks incite a deep urge to stand up and leave. I don't need to be lectured by Mighty Prof if the topic is, "Do you know how much this class is costing you?"
I suppose she wants to incite an appreciation for university education; she's asking for attendance and interaction. Aren't these things a given?
In this sea of students I'm an odd bird, and the seat beside me often remains empty. I long for other fiftysomething comrades, so that discussions would come from our world of experiences.
I sit near the front – so that I can hear the profs, frankly. Also at the front is Hand-Up Boy, his hand shooting up again and again like a pop-up weasel head. Mighty Prof glares at him. "Not you," she says, and waits for other hands to venture up.
Then, one day, Beautiful Girl sits beside me in Shakespeare class and asks, "Aren't you in my next class, too?" Beautiful Girl's name is Chelsey and we become friends. I feel less odd.
And so I shift from feeling the age connection with my profs to feeling the learning connection with my classmates. I'm impressed – these kids are smart.
Blond Girl in Toque, also in the front row, is seriously profound and always present in body and attention. I chat with Boy With Straight White Teeth about our midterm, and learn he has applied to medical school. Red Head Goth Girl, who takes to sitting beside me, never fails to speak confidently in highly evolved statements. Retro Glasses Girl, who aced her Shakespeare essay despite starting it the night before, becomes my second friend, the lovely Rachael. I would like to introduce her to my son.
I reach deep into the rusted locker of yesteryear to remember the rewrite, the all-nighter and the relief that follows the mad catharsis of an in-class essay. I learn some unexpected things, like how the university mass of youth walk painfully slowly. Why hurry? They know they will arrive at their next class. I notice there's a second coming of the Beard. These are can-father-children beards: extraordinary.
But mostly I learn how much I love what I'm doing.
Having left nursing years ago to raise my children, I was told over and over again that my résumé of volunteer experience would enable me to move laterally into the work force. Not so.
I was inspired to come back to school in part by my mentor, Famous Canadian Author. We meet monthly, and in her 70s her brain is an impressive machine, still writing novels. I want to age like her. I may end up with a "useless English degree," working in McDonald's, as one friend challenged me; but I am doing something I feel is worthwhile.
I am singled out for talking in class, whispering a comment to Chelsey. "Do you have a question?" asked Shakespeare Prof.
"No," I apologize. But I don't tear up, I settle in and continue listening to the lecture on Othello. I have relaxed into this learning, and into walking at the same pace as the class-change procession. I celebrate each time I make a human connection: Red Head Goth Girl? Madison.
Mighty Prof reveals herself to be one of the most inspiring and talented teachers I've ever known, and when I lose a close friend to cancer she compassionately shares with me her own story of loss.
And the A on my first essay? It's nice, but validation from a mark only goes so far.
I may be the only one in my class having a routine colonoscopy next week, but this Adult Learner Girl has found her place.
Donna Williams lives in Calgary.