All that was special, all that was rare is common here. ~Anne Sexton

“Time now to pack this humpty-dumpty

back the frightened way she came

and run along…”

     I feel like I should confess the blaring obvious, so here goes; “…forgive me readers (whoever you are) for I have sinned the bloggers sin; it has been months since my last blog post…”  Many times I have thought of post ideas, and now I have a backlog of them.  Today, I want to catch you up on my non-traditional student adventures, not with how the second semester of my master’s degree went, but I am going to take you back to almost a year ago-(which will lead you to my spring break of this year).  The time of summer classes at Western Michigan University is where “it” began in earnest.  Oh, “it” had been bugging me, since about January.  But I was way too busy, with classes and working, and traipsing from one West Michigan county to another, to take care of “it.”

     This thing, this “it” was breast related.  And it was concerning.  Not the more tangible lump issues, because frankly that would have been easier, but something much more subtle.  I will spare details, for now.  It was my summer semester, and I was in the final classes of an undergrad minor in writing.  I was taking my second poetry class, and I had been to see both a doctor, then a surgeon.  I had already endured prodding, poking and ultrasounds, and was about to have a full out MRI.  But, I had to get to class the night before.  We poetry students were to meet and head over to Asylum Lake to have a nature walk, and listen to our instructor read poetry and then, write ourselves.  After a bit of writing, we would share a little, and then walk a little more, and write again.  All I could think about really though, was about those three letters, MRI.  Most Ridiculous Incident.  Many Reels Incandescent.  Maybe Right Increments.  Magnetic Resonance Imaging.  Magnetically most, many, maybe.  Maybe.  Maybe it was cancer.

     I wanted to be one of the young girls in my class so badly that night.  I wanted to be traditional.  But I was 44 years old, and beginning to realize that being in your 40’s is a little frightening.  During that time period as I would drive about for work and to school, I was listening to CD’s from a book I have—“Poetry Speaks.”  I had been trying at every opportunity to become inspired to write poetry, and I spent so much time in my car, I would listen to everything I could.  Ann Sexton’s poem ‘The Operation’ was on that CD, and when it started to play in her own voice, I was startled into my first cry about the situation.  My second cry happened while I undressed for the MRI.   

     The results were inconclusive.  They could find nothing significant.  So, on my merry non-traditional student way I went.  But, there was one problem always just tugging on my right sleeve, beneath my right breast.  The symptoms would not go away.  So, nearly one year later-off I am sent to U of M.  Yep, shudder.  The University of Michigan.  How I spent this year’s Spring Break.  Off to have the first cancer center experience of my life.  This time, my daughter was with me.  The experience was disconcerting.  On the early morning of my appointment I, along with about 15 other women, spent the next hours together.

     Breast Cancer and Potential Breast Cancer Patients alike gather together, all very early in the morning in the general waiting room.  One by one, in short increments, we are called in, taken to another waiting room, where we are instructed to disrobe from the waist up, and given a teal blue hospital gown to wear.  There we sit, women together in an L-shaped room, in our gowns. Corralled together in our mundane and obediently decorated neutral-toned room.  I ponder this group, old and young, of practically every race, sitting there in submission.  Most of us have crossed our legs, and I notice everyone’s shoes and socks.  I think about them, how early they got up and dressed this morning, and I wonder about their socks.  What kinds of floors they padded on this morning-hardwood floors in tidy homes…old linoleum floors…plush carpet, worn carpet…tile?  Then I think about their shoes.  Were they waiting by solid core doors on little rugs of golds and browns?  Or maybe tucked away in a hall closet on a shoe rack?  I wondered too, what all of our shoes said about all of us.  It helped to muse about these things, and not think about all of our breasts hanging there under our blue-green gowns.  Breasts held up by our crossed arms tucked neatly above our belly buttons.

     An older Jewish woman keeps us all going.  She converses with women describing the adventures they had getting to the hospital.  Another describes using her GPS, one woman talks about flying, and soon the conversation swings to overseas travel.  All the while, women are called into a little room (well, I imagined it was little, I was never called into there), and some return to be seated again, and some emerge looking teary.  It subdues our conversations for a bit, respectfully for each woman.  Then, a couple of words spoken, and soon the conversation flows again.  No one talks about the C-word though, nor does the word ‘breast’ emerge from anyone’s lips.

     I am called in and out from a different door-clearly my first visit; the others almost seem to nod the recognition of this.  I am put through first a series of questions, a manual exam of pressing and poking (just the beginning of the pressing, poking, squeezing, and manipulation) then sent back.  Called out again, this time, for an ultra-sound.  It is uncomfortable, as one part of this ‘thing’ is, there is some general discomfort most of the time.  Just when I have had enough, it is over.  Sent back again.  Next call out- mammogram.  More comprehensive than any I have ever had before.

     I especially love the part, during the mammogram when the technician finally has your breast in the most unbelievable pancaked-ness, and she slips behind the little partition and says: “Now hold your breath.”  I want to laugh if I could- a physically impossible task at the moment-because this is assuming that I am actually breathing!  My real breath, well-it was squished out right along with my breast, and I begin to worry about the possibility of ever breathing fully again!  By now, I am really feeling it—pain, and when I am finally allowed to leave, it is to now head up to the surgeon’s office.  More poking, more prodding, more conversations.  More mysteries, about what it is.

     Here is what it is not: cancer.  For now anyway, I can breathe and read Ann Sexton poems.  Next Spring Break, I am going away somewhere far from Michigan.

     But for now, until I can actually fly away, I did the next best thing.  I got my first tattoo- a feather.

…who reappeared on the West Coast

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night
                                                                      ~ Ginsberg

   The second semester of my master’s degree is in full swing, and even though it is only two classes, I can barely keep up!  Remember back in July, I wrote about attending a conference in Ft. Lauderdale?  Well, ‘part two’ of the conference was in January—this time in San Diego.  The conference schedule was as the first one, rather intense.  And, like the last conference, the views all about were gorgeous.  Pure torture for us people from Michigan; yet in spite of the schedule, we managed to take in as much as we could of the city—mostly by night.  The trip was on the cusp of classes beginning, and with no breathing room, I returned to both work and school (and a lot of laundry).

     While in San Diego, I looked up a friend from high school—actually from elementary school on, and I have to admit to the melancholy feelings it gave me.  The last time I saw him was around 1992, and it seems hard to believe that much time has passed by!  He looked great, and I enjoyed having this feeling of ‘home’ all these years later, and so far across the country!  I became aware, as will often happen, of the difference in the life I led (having children early, waiting to return to school) compared to so many of my peers.  Alan, and many of my growing up classmates completed college on time, and have settled lives.  It is amazing how many of my friends from high school are actually still raising young children.  And though you are always a parent, my years of nurturing and intense responsibility are snug behind me!

Alan and Me around 1992

Alan and Me 2010

     This was the first time I had been to California, crazy when I have lived in Nevada twice!  You would think…but, those were young years, and I was raising children the second time I lived there.  Anyway, San Diego still strangely had this sort of Mid-West feel to it, and my friend Alan even said the same.  Still, being in California made me think of Ginsberg, which made me think of Howl, which made me think of madness, and exhaustion, and drugs and such.  Maybe not in that exact order, but you get the general idea.  That poem is fabulous in rage and frustration, and I wish I could write something like it.  But what the heck would the topic be?  Especially coming from an almost 45-year-old female college student?  Perhaps I should write not about being in the supermarket in California with Walt Whitman, but in a Wal-Mart in Georgia with Anne Sexton.  I digress I suppose, though from what I am not sure, another side effect of being a student in your 40′s with a full-time job…forced ADD.        

     The current pace of weekday life is like Groundhog Day, the movie.  Funny, as I say that, I admit that when you work in a program like Head Start, everyday is different—and change is the norm, but somehow, change and its struggles have become predictable and full of sameness; and the assignments for college seem to have this “been there before” feel to them.  Though, there is something new, a sort of disconcerting feeling.  Have you ever heard the phrase “being pushed up against yourself” before?  The new social networking phenomena, combined with the topics I face in my college classes, and the literature I pick out to read, all give me this sense of facing off with ghosts of my life, my kids’ lives, my parents and grandparents lives, and even all those friends and foes.  It is wondrous, fun, and exciting, while also being a bit stressful and maybe even anxiety producing.   

     Perhaps changing life so drastically just gives you that feeling—it’s classic Maslow (remember students-I can’t stress this enough-never, ever use Wikipedia).  The bottom couple of tiers of the pyramid have been shaken up a bit, so the steps one takes are hesitant, and questioning.  Which way now, Scarecrow?

“Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.”

“Those hours, that with gentle work did frame…” ~ Shakespeare

     Officially, the first semester of my master’s degree is over, and I feel like I have been through battle.  Not that the school work was terribly hard, it just seems that I have run out of the drive that I had when I completed that bachelor’s and swung smack into the master’s degree.  My job intensified late summer into fall, and this sort of mid-life crisis thing came to a peak, and I began to miss Western Michigan University, and question whether or not any of the decisions I have made were right, and do I really want to stay in my field, and what if I can only go this far in my career, and what am I doing anyway?

     Some of what I am experiencing is normal, I am sure.  I mean, normal people do talk in run-on sentences, right?  The problem is the age certainly-there is not much room left for any mistakes.  If I were a traditional student, then at my current age, I may have begun to think about retiring soon and looking to another field to work in, for fun.   This life of mine feels completely backwards right now!

     Okay, but before I lose both you and me in some non-traditional student pity party, I will switch this post up.  One thing I managed this semester, in spite of everything I shared, and some things I can’t, is a return to reading.  Reading for pleasure.  In retrospect, I probably should not have read so much, but I just couldn’t stand it anymore.  So, I read, frantically at times, in defiance of homework sometimes and sometimes to soothe my old soul.  I read Harris and Me, and Starvation Lake; Yellow, Well Deserved, started The English Major, and I am almost finished with Women and Other Animals.  Poetry remained in my life, and I re-read poetry from my old classes, and attended a poetry reading which gave me both that crazy combination of admiration, inspiration, and jealousy towards the poets.  That is normal too; all writers experience the emotional roller coaster.  It is like musicians who cannot sit through a concert without envy or the desire to be among those performing, so in a way, they miss out on the pure indulgence of the actual experience.

     There was a section of my life where I felt as though I was on the edge of something.  Something great—life changing.  My whole body felt it.  It started years ago, and I have believed it was just a matter of time.  Nothing greatly mystical, or religious, or winning the lottery related—I was pretty sure about that.  There were a few times I thought it was close.  But, alas, “it”, whatever “it” is, has escaped me.  So, plod on.  Like waves.  Finish the next degree.

“And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple…”

 

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

                                                     ~Richard Wilbur

 I have loved poetry for as long as I can remember.  When I was young, my aunt gave me “The Best Loved Poems of the American People.”  I had just turned 9 years old.  The book is still with me (see the inscription from my aunt), and it was so well worn that the some of the pages came loose—somewhere along the way I lost a chunk of the pages so I was delighted to find a copy in an antique store years later to purchase—now I have both to complement each other.

     My sister and cousins joined me in turning these poems into song during those years.    I was delighted by poems that were already songs (even if folksy), and even as a youngster I remember having deep thoughts about the poem ‘A Fence Or An Ambulance.’  Should we rescue those who have fallen, or should we expend resources to prevent it from happening in the first place?  “To rescue the fallen is good, but ‘tis best To prevent other people from falling.”  That applies so much to discussions we are all having to this day! 

     We turned the poem ‘The Unknown Soldier’ into a song…to the tune of One Tin Soldier (minus the chorus), totally instigated by me.  A sign of the times…it was 1974. I memorized poems from the book, some I can still recite today, though not as well as, say—10 years ago!  That age, it is the magical time in life, before a girl really starts thinking about boys, and about how you are dressed, how your hair looks, how your jeans fit; it is the twilight before all of the true peer pressure sets in—taking away the joys of true innocent childhood.

     Many of us return to our pre-adolescent loves after time has passed.  Though I kept my love throughout life, I truly returned to my young adoration of poetry as a non-traditional student.  Even though I had read some contemporary poetry, I discovered this whole new world and style of poetry that blew away all the cobwebs of traditional style.  It is liberating, really refreshing.  Not to mention exciting.  So while my old childhood memories of poetry will remain endearing, I look forward to venturing further into poetries future.  It makes me wonder…is there some 9 year old girl out there somewhere right now, memorizing contemporary poetry?  Will she return to her first love after all the dust of the first half of her life has settled?  What genre will be there for her to discover?  What poets will we be studying?

Oh!  The song, One Tin Soldier…it has an interesting history…reminder though to all you non-traditional students:  do not use Wikipedia!!

“I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not…”

Barely tolerated, living on the margin

In our technological society, we are always having to be

rescued                                ~John Ashbery    

     So when does a non-traditional student become just a ‘student’?  If you are a grad student, are you now officially done being a non-traditional student?  I started my master’s degree, and I took the non-traditional route—I chose to go online.  This was a tricky choice: which college to choose, what fits my world and my life.  I wanted a college with a ‘real’ campus.  That was a must.  I needed this degree to fit into my lifestyle and work life, and I wanted to really enjoy the classes.

     Everyone says that from here on out it is easy.  The worst is undergrad work they say.  Who are ‘they’ anyway?  We will see, I hope that is true, but I am sensing from my first two classes that there is still a lot of reading and writing, and silly filler work.  Sigh…’and the beat goes on’…. 

~advanced writing class, Brown Hall

     I wanted to share my Advanced English class with you.  This class was a great challenge for me, the only non-traditional student in the room.  It was a completely digital class.  We created a blog, and a website; and while I had no trouble with the blog, the website—well that was another thing!  I had a patient instructor though, and “strangely, it all turned out well in the end”.  Technically, this was a completely paperless class, but the non-traditional student in me had to take notes the traditional way—on a notepad, with a trusty pencil or pen.  One class, as I showed the instructor Prof. Jason my scratched out idea for a website, he reached for the note pad, and said, “What is this strange thing…” and as I took serious his gesture towards my notebook I remained quite slow on the uptake—looking very closely at my little non-traditional notepad, and almost turning a page in complete wonder myself— until I finally got his joke. 

      I am in wonder about English instructors.  With the exception of one, my Children’s Lit class—every instructor has been male.  This is interesting to me, and I don’t know if there are typically more males than females in English Departments, or if I have just had an unusual run of it.  Even if I think back—waaaayyyyyy back, to my high school senior year, my Advanced English and American Lit teachers were also male.  I still remember their names:  Mr. Langolf and Mr. Mitchell.  Mr. Mitchell, the Lit teacher, started out every class by playing the theme song to Chariots of Fire.  He would tell grand stories, and you never could tell if they were true or not.  He was one of my favorites in high school. 

     Anyway, I am back—here that is.  I took a little break, but I intend to stick to it, and share stories about the never ending pursuit of degrees.  Perhaps one of them will change the world…okay; well maybe the world is a little haughty.  How about just my life?

To the Parents of Traditional Students~ Dedicated to My Peer Group

University of Oxford Library

And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away.       ~ Anne Bronte

 

     Your kids are amazing.  Well, there are a couple who are probably drinking a little too much, but I’m sure they are not any of your kids—and it is probably a passing phase.  Oh, and not the ones in my actual peer group!!  (Sorry guys!)  I want you to know this is hard work, what your college students do every day.   If you were here you may be worried, so it is a good thing you are not.   Instead, I am here worrying about a few of them for you.

     Your students have stressors, much financial, but others too.  Working and going to school seem to be the norm for many of them.  If there are any true traditional students, the ones who just come to school, attend classes all day, and return to their dorm room or apartment to study for the night with no concerns about working or juggling other issues, I have not met any of them yet (or they just don’t talk about it). 

Me in an Oxford Doorway

     Instead, what I see are students who are struggling to stay awake in class, not because they have been out partying, but because they work late.  There was the student in the hall trying to work out her bills on the cell phone, on a short break from class.  There are the students who are trying to make it to class from across campus, who haven’t eaten anything since the morning, and have only time for a soda if they are lucky, from the vending machine.  One very endearing girl from a class I had last semester figured out it was only 50¢ to buy a chunk of plain bread from the local sub shop, and she wasn’t just trying to be frugal—she really only had 50¢. 

     College work does not let up, even when you go ahead and try to pretend you can get away with being a normal person, and try to do regular non-school related things all weekend.  It just catches up to you.  Many instructors will not tolerate you choosing to ‘skip’ an assignment or two (a choice some of us have to make and weigh grade point versus breaking point)—they have figured out a way to make every assignment mandatory, by not accepting any if you miss one.  And yes, for those of you who like to say: “…why, back in my day, we had to really memorize this or that, you kids have it easy”, I am here to assure you they don’t (have it easy).  There is still plenty of memorizing, but in addition, there is so much more technology, new research, real life applications, and group work.

Oxford Library and Cathedral

     I know college is harder than it used to be.  I have shared my experiences with others my age that went to college back in the day (the day I should have been going).  They are surprised, and grateful they are not doing what I am trying to do now.  I think that a true learning community would be hard to establish anymore on any college campus.  In a way, almost all students are non-traditional.  When I visited Oxford, England on a college trip, we toured the University of Oxford  (pretty neat because some of the Harry Potter scenes were filmed there—okay I have not actually seen a Harry Potter film, but I imagine that would be neat for someone to know), and learned how students stay in halls with their instructors, and day and night, they live their studies all together.  Can you imagine?  You would have to essentially leave family, homes, work and loves behind.  To be immersed in learning like that—wow.  I can’t even imagine!  To me, that would be sheer luxury; I have a feeling it would be to any other WMU student I attend college with!

     To my current English peer group, I admire what you are doing!  How unique you are, how hard you work, and what futures you have to look forward to!  As W.H. Auden (who lived in Oxford at one time) said:

“You owe it to us all to get on with what you’re good at.”

PS: I’m hoping you guys will help this non-traditional student finish her website this week, since I dedicated this post to you! 

Oxford Courtyard

 

“Because the story of our life becomes our life…” a.k.a. The Cost of Returning to College

    

Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.         ~ Anne Sexton

 

     When I graduate, I will be the first (at least that I know of besides a couple of cousins) from both my father and mother’s side to hold a bachelor’s degree.  My maternal grandfather was the closest to a complete education, though his training was not in a college, but at the Henry Ford Trade School, where he studied to be an engineer before he served in the Navy during World War II.  He continued on as an engineer at Caterpillar in Illinois until he retired and moved to Florida.  On my paternal side, my grandfather worked for Detroit Edison, actually shoveling coal, on the St. Clair River.  After my own father served in the Navy, he went into sales, attending trainings and the occasional community college class, but he never completed a degree.  My mother attended ‘beauty school’ as it was called back in the day, which she did complete.  Growing up, college was never discussed.  My parents were of the mind that we girls (I have a sister) would pretty much graduate from high school, get married, and move on as they had done.  So, that is what we both did, in our own way of course.   My sister completed an associate’s degree, and then settled into her married life.

     There are times I still resent the choices available to us in the late 70’s and early 80’s, and my parent’s lack of preparing us for the future we were to face.  To be fair, life was different then, jobs were available that required less education, and still paid pretty well (at least for men anyway).  The decision to return to college caused tension in my personal life, and friendships also suffered.  My children, even though they were old enough to be on their own and had their own schooling to attend to, struggled as the time I spent with family became less and less.  Though as a society we appreciate more than ever the need for education, a decision to return to school as an adult can be a costly one, one that affects more than just the pocketbook.  So, while other may tediously keep track of the total cost of returning to college in dollars, I am painfully aware of the cost to my former personal and family life.

     Dr. Ruby Payne, in “Bridges Out of Poverty” says that to make a decision to move out of poverty, you have to leave behind (in some fashion) your former life, such as loved ones, family, etc.  I have just greatly paraphrased this, because I do not have her book in front of me, but that is the general gist of this belief.  Now, I wasn’t exactly living in poverty, but if I were to try to live on my own income without schooling, then I would have been right at the line (and certainly in poverty for many years leading up to now).  This is what I am striving to leave behind.  It means leaving behind an old life, and unfortunately a few friends.

     Being a full time non-traditional student, and working full time besides, leaves barely any time to foster friendships beyond your immediate family cell.  One of my close friends at the time was very put off with my lack of communication and time to spend with her, and she was actually mad about my decisions to immerse myself in this goal.  I think that was the hardest part of heading off to university life.  It was also the moment I realized my life was completely changing, and I would not ever be the same again, nor would I be returning to anything resembling life before school.  I was hurt initially; I expected understanding and support.  Now, while there is admittedly some sad moments, I have moved on, and I love the idea of the ever changing possibilities this new life after school will have to offer.

     I like thinking of how every time you read something new, you are changed forever.  This means, almost every day for the past three years in full time college, I have changed (of course, before that too, but you get the point).  The same scenery off the back deck that I looked at all those years ago is still there, but what I actually see has a richness of depth and detail that only comes from this experience of education.  So, the cost of this degree and those beyond, high though it is, well… it’s…priceless.  And my next dream is to watch my children receive their own bachelor’s degree.

“It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now…”

And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.  ~Pablo Neruda

    Over the past couple of years, I have taken a variety of classes alongside traditional students.  It is awkward (in case I haven’t mentioned it before) at times, not for them I am sure, but for me.  However, I have also had some college moments that are rather regular alongside traditional students—such as sitting on a hallway floor amidst backpacks, coats and scarves, waiting for an instructor to come open the door.  During those times, there is the usual chatting about the class, complaining about assignments or the course load, and expressing mutual frustrations about college life in general.  There have been exchanges about the experiences we liked in the class we were taking, the assignments that were interesting, and observations of the instructor’s quirks.

     This past spring, I began my English classes in earnest.  One of my first classes with completely traditional students was a fiction writing class (the other was “Effective Parenting”—something I will write about another time).  I have to admit, there were moments when I could feel my ‘mom mode’ rise up, as I would become concerned about this or that student.  When every student is near the same age as your own children, this is just bound to happen.  I think I have been lucky, since in my mom world, as my own kids were growing up, there was always an abundance of friends in the house;  slumber parties, and funny moments where I would come downstairs to discover some teen or another eating in the kitchen, or sleeping on the couch, or watching movies in the basement.  That lifestyle has lent itself to being comfortable surrounded by young adults, and taking it at least a little in stride.

     Still, adjusting to that classroom situation took a few weeks.  The first funny thing that started happening occurred as we all began to ‘workshop’ our writing.  For those of you who have never done this, let me explain.  You all have an assignment, say writing a poem, or a short story.  Then, you bring it to class, and pass out a copy to everyone.  The class takes it home and reads it, then returns next class ready to critique the writing, in both positive and suggested improvement fashion.  This is done all semester, and the first time you experience this, it is a little startling.  The part that is the hardest is this:  first you read your work out loud, while the others follow along with their copy.  Then, the author must sit, and only listen.  No defending your work, or your choices.  The result is an oddly intimate experience and this sort of out of body moment, as you observe others discuss your work, as though you are floating above it all, movie fashion.  You should try it sometime.

     I knew this would be weird.  After all, I had 20-something years on these people!  What could I possibly write about that would even mean something to them?  Well, when it came time to read our first poem—an image of something from our past—I wrote about the kitchen of my youth.  I mentioned my parent’s cigarettes, and after I read it the students were allowed to discuss it.  Well, turns out, the class appreciated the details of life in the 70’s.  I had started my reading by saying “Okay, so—I am old…” which got a laugh, and then somehow, I didn’t feel as old anymore.  It was all good, as they say.  The cigarettes really hit home for a few of them, and the discussion centered around that for quite awhile.  

     After that experience the joking took on a new theme that traveled into my next poetry class the following semester (with the same instructor).  It seemed like at first, all the traditional students writings, fiction though it was, focused on what I deemed as “bad mom” reflections.  A short story here, a poem there, and pretty soon I began to wonder if there were any good moms in these students’ lives!  So, after about the third “bad mom” story, I said; “oh no, another bad mom story!”  There were some laughs about that, and even though I had not talked about being a mom, the instructor knew I was (we had filled out little biography papers for him at the start of the semester), and the students had assumed I was a mom.  So, for the rest of the semester, we would acknowledge the occasional “bad mom” story or poem with chuckles, and I was really relieved when, at last, one of the students wrote a “bad dad” piece!  Stay tuned, and I will post that poem, and perhaps share more about my observations of the traditional student!!

Community

I relive it now and then, I would live it all again
in hope of having of each of you as friends.        ~Ivan Donn Carswell

 

     Community college is certainly a good fit for the non-traditional student.  Many of the people I met during my time as a community college student are still an active part of both my personal and professional life, even years later.  This includes fellow students, and several instructors.  The atmosphere in community college is just that, a community.  We had much in common; our lives were webs of families, professions, house payments, bosses, grocery shopping, and household chores.  By day we were regular working people, but we had to shake it all off at night to spend 3 hours together, in a classroom years from where we had all originally come from.   

     There was a sense of “we are all in this together” at community college, and the tone was encouraging.  Every class had an undercurrent of humor, and each one of us brought a sense of real world knowledge that somehow always crept into the subject matter of the evening.  I still miss it at times; university life has certainly been different.  At community college, you retain some sense of dignity, and the feeling that you are an adult.  University classrooms teeter a bit on the traditions of high school.  The non-traditional student has to be willing to sort of humble yourself, and learn to navigate the through the tide of etiqueete—one huge issue being the addressing of the instructors.  At community college, no matter the education level, all the instructors where addressed by their first name.  At the university, many insist upon being addressed “Dr.”, if the title fits.  This is definitely an adjustment for the non-traditional transfer student.  I often wonder how I would expect my students to address me, were I to achieve that station.  I think, after all I have been through to get where I am today, it would be my first name.

      This post was actually commenced with a goal in mind.  It has been years and years since there was a television show I was even mildly interested in viewing.  I am, however, looking forward to Community, coming to NBC this fall.  My guess is, it will probably only last a short time, but this is a great time to launch a show about adults returning to college.  Our economy certainly has lent towards a surge of non-traditional college students among us!

A Traditional Student Interview…

I put my heart to school
In the world, where men grow wise  ~ Henry Van Dyke

 This is Emily.  Emily was a classmate of mine in the spring semester of ’09.  That semester was probably the most awkward for me as a non-traditional student, at least to start.  It was the first time I had the experience of being the only non-traditional student in not one, but two classes.  Emily and I were in a fiction writing class, and this class was all traditional students-most all of the students were around 20 years old.  The instructor was about 5 years younger than me.  Emily, well, for some reason, I just really liked her from the very start of the class.  She is a smart, thoughtful, and talented writer.  Emily’s writing seemed older, and ‘wiser’ than most of the other students.  Near the end of class, I wanted to be sure not to lose track of her, so I added her to my Facebook page!  I decided to ask Emily some questions about her experiences with non-traditional students.  Here is her interview: 

Q.  Have you experienced many non-traditional students in your college years so far?
A.  I think I can safely say that I’ve had non-traditional students in probably a little less than half of my classes. There could very well have been more than that, but in larger classes it’s hard to tell. I know I see many non-traditional students on campus daily and I have myself met several, both in and out of the classroom.

Q.  If so, what are they like? Is there anything different about a classroom atmosphere with non-traditional students?
A.  This isn’t necessarily an easy question to answer. Non-traditional students have different personalities as much as any other (go figure). I think most are just going to class with the rest of us, but there can often be that one person who needs to prove that just because they’re older, doesn’t mean they can’t contribute, and sometimes contribute more than most people would ask for. Bluntly, every class usually has a loudmouth, and the stereotype is, if you have a non-traditional student, that’s who it will be. I don’t think that’s always true, but like any stereotype, it does happen.

Q.  What did you think of me in the classroom? Do you think **** taught differently than he may have were I not in the class?
A.  I really enjoyed having you in class, your work was great and enjoyable to read, and you gave good feedback.  I don’t think you were ever considered separate from anyone else in the class. I don’t think **** ever did anything differently because of you, I can’t really think of any changes that would have made any sense. I can’t say that’s true of all professors, but I think he just taught it like any other class.

Q.  If you could give non-traditional students any advice from the traditional viewpoint, what would it be?
A.  I guess I’d just tell them to relax. Yes, everyone will know that you’re not 18. It’s okay. So long as you behave like a normal person, don’t try to be anyone’s parent or answer every question with an anecdote about your kids or what it was like 20 years ago, no one will mind. It’s not a big deal these days, be a student and that’s how you’ll be treated.

Q.  Any other thoughts? Questions I should have asked??
A.  I think this could be a really interesting project. I’d like to see how most non-traditional students think of the rest of the student body and whether or not they want to fit in in any way. I guess maybe a good question would be if regular students are as comfortable working with and talking to non-traditional students as they are with their peers, just to see how much that age gap really does affect people.