Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
T
he clock's second hand clinks as loudly as a dripping faucet in the middle of the night. Twenty other students, my friend
and I all nervously await the "go" signal. Quivering thoroughbreds restrained at the starting post.
We are writing the final exam for Anthropology 150, a first-year university course.
Margot is at the back of the room, I am in the front row, bookends to the other students shelved in rows in between. The stern, serious invigilator sits at the front of the room.
I purposefully sit at the front to write this exam. I don't want to be distracted by the unsettled squirming of bums in hard chairs. Or the soft groans of realization that more studying might have been a good plan. Or the annoying breeze that fans me as students stride up the aisle, handing in their exams so they can head to the pub to celebrate.
I love learning. I take courses, whether about a hobby or an interest I enjoy, to learn something new, or to get my brain fired up. I also write the exams to see how I do with mental challenges at this time in my life.
For I am no longer a university student of 19. I am a senior citizen, that label conjuring up visions of decrepit, hunched-over folks shuffling to the grocery-store checkout. I wish there was another word, another descriptive for us; "baby boomer," "recycled teenager" or " zoomer" don't seem to fit either.
But regardless of my age, or whatever category the college registration system assigns to me, or the fact that Margot and I are the only students over the age of 30 sitting in this room, I have so enjoyed this class and its professor.
This, my first university course in years, has also magnified changes to the way I used to respond to quizzes and written assignments.
When surprise quizzes are sprung, I now hesitate over choosing a, b, c, or d. It takes me longer to search the memory bank, flip the Rolodex of stored information that I know is "in there," but is taking a while to access. It's the necessity to choose an answer – fast, trust my initial instinct and perform quickly under pressure that is a challenge now and a surprise.
Yet, when researching and composing essays, I excel. In this course, the final assignment, counting for 30 per cent of our final grade, was an in-depth report. Having the luxury of time, able to edit as much as I liked to improve meaning and flow and allowing my brain to work slowly and methodically, was invigorating. And rewarding: If I hadn't misspelled "alter" (meant to be "altar"), the professor said he would have given me an A-plus, another surprise.
Whoever said that giving grades is detrimental to motivation and self-esteem? They're not to me. I've been "graded" throughout my entire educational and work life and even in my personal life; that's the real world. The tests in our lives often come with a report card.
So I, a lifelong learner, am here by choice. This gives me some advantages over the other, younger students.
There are no parents peering over my shoulder, payers of my tuition and books, expecting me to produce results. No massive student loan building daily interest. No necessity to work two part-time jobs and attend classes. My future career advancement and income and value do not depend on getting that degree.
I hear the invigilator announce: "Start." I look up at the clock's face, which seems to frown as it warns me that time and tide wait for no man (or woman).
Quickly, before they evaporate, I start jotting down major points to answer questions, such as No. 7: "How did the Trobrianders use yams as currency?" I furrow my brow to visualize the Levantine chart of archeological ages and sketch it in a hurry while it's fresh. And, aha, I can answer the easy questions first, leaving the hard for last, easing the fear and distraction of not knowing what will leap at me next.
I have been writing for the past 2 1/2 hours, like someone crazed. My right hand has cramped and I slowly stretch my fingers straight. Unfurled, they tingle and come back to life.
I could add to or revise some of my answers, but I sigh: I just can't write any more. I'm physically pooped, my fingers cringe at the thought and, anyway, my brain's hard drive has no more gigabytes to spare.
I decide to hand in my exam, even though I'm sure that some of the other students in the room will continue to the very end.
I stand up and glance back to see if Margot is still here.
I am frozen in shock and the invigilator raises her head sharply and frowns suspiciously at my burst of laughter.
Margot and I are the only ones left in the exam room.
(By the way, we both got an A.)
Linda McLean lives in Courtenay, B.C.