Chapter 8: Being a Student

“What is this?” he said, tapping the table.

I thought he was barking mad. “A table,” I said.

“How do you know it’s real?” he asked.

I could have said, “Because in the energetic field, energy at its lowest manifestation is compounded into shapes that we can appreciate in the physical realm. If we are talking about the infinite field of possibility then it isn’t real because nothing is real there. There is only nothingness.” But I didn’t say that because I didn’t have a clue about any such things. I mumbled something about being able to see it and feel it.

This was my interview at York University to do a degree in maths and philosophy.

I had never studied any philosophy, or read any, for that matter. It just looked like an interesting subject from the prospectus. They offered me a place. I turned it down to go to teacher training college and do an external degree in education. I’ve wondered more than once how my life might have been different if I had gone to York.

I had had quite a sedate upbringing and education. I foresaw a huge campus and student population at York with boys as well as girls. I also suspected that I would be way out of my depth. I chose safety and more of what I was used to – a girls’ Catholic college in rural Warwickshire run by nuns. To be fair, I had decided by this time that I definitely wanted to be a teacher and there was a new degree now – an Honours Bachelor of Education. This was considered, at the time, to be a very second rate degree. But I would be trained to teach and I would have a degree, so that suited me.

What also suited me was that I would be able to stand out at a smaller college. I didn’t think that would be true at York University. I didn’t know the first thing about philosophy and my maths teacher had spent two years making excuses for my lack of understanding in maths by saying, “Of course, you’re not a mathematician.” She obviously thought that would be a small comfort to me. I was sure I would have been lost in the crowd of people cleverer than me, more socially skilled than me – more everything than me.

I felt the confidence I had acquired at school would evaporate quickly at a large university.

Off I went to St Paul’s College. It was only seven miles from Rugby in the Midlands, but as no one in those days had a car, Rugby might well have been the other side of the country. The college was an 18^th century country house set by a lake. It’s now a listed building and is owned by the Prison Service. It’s still used as a training college, although probably a step away from the St Trinians I had experienced!

In our first year it was mandatory to live in digs to make sure that we were properly cared for. There were six St Paul’s students in our digs in Rugby and the college provided buses to bring us in and take us home. It was a good halfway house between leaving home and living on your own, which you were allowed do after the first year. This was my first time being away from Lancashire and, although it was only the Midlands, the cultural differences seemed huge to me. Everyone was so unfriendly. At home, if I saw the same person on the street every morning as I went for a bus, I would be saying ‘hello’ on the second day and starting to chat to them on the third. But in the Midlands people just didn’t want to speak and, after a few days, they would cross the road and avoid eye contact. Of course, it might have been a personal thing, except that when I went to London, this was amplified to a large degree.

It was my first experience of a distinct Northern culture.

As a first year I was assigned a ‘college mother’ – a third year student – to show me the ropes, answer any questions I had and check that I was OK. It was a nice touch and certainly helped with the inevitable homesickness.

The nuns were fabulous! Sister Agnes, The Principal, did the best Frankie Howerd impersonation I have ever seen. Frankie Howerd was one of the most popular comedians of his day and his distinct way of speaking attracted many impersonators. None as good as Sister Agnes though. And there was no monitoring of whether you were being a ‘good Catholic’ or not. They didn’t care one jot if you didn’t go to church, and many girls left Catholicism by the end of their first year. The atmosphere was relaxed and the girls were friendly. Students seemed to come from the North of England or Ireland and we had many similar characteristics – sense of humour, friendliness, openness. I was very happy there.

I was introduced to subjects like the sociology of education, the psychology of education and the philosophy of education. My sociology tutor, Mr Grace, was also my personal tutor for teaching and teaching practice. If I became a good teacher, it was largely because of his influence. He was tall with black hair, already thinning, combed back and he had a strong voice and an easy smile. He clearly knew his subject but was always ready to encourage discussion and to listen to our uninformed views where we expressed certainty about things we had no idea about. I formed a good relationship with him. He didn’t seem to mind my strident questioning of whatever we were studying and, far from being irritated, he was permanently amused. In my third year, I did my thesis on ‘the family’ and argued that the only way society could survive was if the family unit remained a strong cornerstone. It was hand-written, as all work was. He gave it back to me with a low grade and asked me to redo it as there was not an original thought in it. I was furious and did redo it, arguing now that the only way society could survive was if the family unit was destroyed as the cornerstone of society. I found all kinds of spurious research to back it up.

I had learned that you could practically say anything in sociology as long as you found some obscure research to support your idea.

I can’t remember the grade I got but I passed.

Professor Gerald Grace is now the Director of the Centre for Research and Development in Catholic Education at the Institute of Education, University of London. He founded the centre and it is reported that he has made the most, perhaps the only, important contribution to the study of Catholic education in the UK. Some years ago, I looked him up and we went out to lunch in London. It had been 40 years since my college days and I wanted to tell him how important he had been to me and my career and to thank him. We laughed and sparred as we used to. He asked me if I had read his book. I said, “No, have you read mine?” We both laughed.

In my second year, I moved into the college and had a huge room on the top floor overlooking the lake. Lots of the girls by this time had boyfriends from Rugby College or Lanchester College (now Coventry University) and there were often discos there. I went a few times but didn’t like the drunk boys and music so loud you couldn’t talk. I couldn’t dance. I never got a boyfriend. The nearest I got was a boy called Terry. I really liked him but made the mistake of telling him, so he never showed up at the college to pick me up one night and he wouldn’t answer the phone. I found out later that his friends had put pressure on him and teased him for being ‘under the thumb’. As if I wanted to marry him! Stupid boys! The highlight of my year was when Joe Cocker came to Rugby Tech to headline at a dance. I had been roped in to help with decor so I did a huge painting of an octopus in red and blue and with crossed eyes which was plastered all over the wall behind him. It was the most creative work I did at college.

At the end of my second year, I became President of the Students’ Union. I was frustrated with the incessant talking about things yet nothing being done so I decided I would step in. I enjoyed being President. It was the culmination of my ‘big fish in a little pool’ strategy. I had a seat on the Academic Board and attended regional Student Union meetings, where I saw more of the incessant resolutions that went nowhere.

It was at college that the principle that if you want anything done you had better do it yourself, became cemented in me.

I have implemented that principle ever since.

Meanwhile, my social life at home had picked up a pace. It had taken a turn for the better just before I started college and continued throughout my college days. I, and my two brothers, Daniel and John, had got involved with an international group of students who were studying textiles at Bolton Technical College. Apparently, it was the best textile course in the country and the students had been sent by their families in Turkey, India and Pakistan, among others, prior to their taking over the family firm back home. We used to meet on a Friday night at The Golden Lion pub in Bolton town centre and then would go to the Greeks’ flat, where John and Cosmos lived, or go bowling at Walkden bowling alley. We usually ended up back at my house for coffee and long games of Monopoly, which usually ended up in a fracas because these particular Turkish students always cheated and seemed to think this was perfectly acceptable. The evening would invariably end with John and Daniel getting out their guitars and us all singing.

Our house was the obvious choice as they all lived in tawdry student accommodation. They got milk with their coffee at our house. My parents put up with this with endless patience. Once my father came into our front room (always called the front room, never the lounge) and counted eight different nationalities in the crowded room. He actually loved it and all the gang loved him (they loved Mum too) and would sometimes join them in the kitchen, where Mum and Dad would be having their supper before bed. There were no drugs and no drink, not in our house anyway.

I started dating Hisham, a Pakistani student. His full name was Hishamuddin Bhadruddin, but everyone called him ‘Sham’, except my mother. She called him ‘hashish’. She didn’t even know what hashish was but had obviously heard the word. He had told me that he would get me into bed within three months. I laughed and said he had absolutely no chance – and he hadn’t. In fact, we only dated for about seven weeks. But it was the first time my parents had seen me with a boyfriend.

They took notice of this polite, tall, dark, handsome guy with a little black goatee beard and a strong Pakistani accent.

He was certainly different from the awkward, generally surly youths we were used to seeing around. His culture had given him very clear guidelines about such things as holding doors open for women, walking closest to the road, carrying the bags, respecting your elders – all things I wasn’t used to. However, his courteousness to me and them didn’t seem to matter to my parents. They decided to have a word with me.

My father did the talking, “This Hisham, do you like him?”

“Yes, he’s very nice.”

“Do you think you will continue to see him?”

“Only until my exams in the summer.”

“Well, your mother and I were talking.” That sounded ominous.

“And it might be that you get serious and you just need to be aware that if you do and you marry and have children they will have a hard time being half-caste.” The term ‘mixed race’ hadn’t even been coined then.

“Whoa, hang on,” I said. “We’re just dating. I’m going away to college soon. I have no intention of marrying him.” Then I realised what was going on. “Oh, you mean you wouldn’t be able to face your friends and neighbours if your daughter hooked up with a Pakistani?” I felt humiliated on behalf of Sham, and angry with them.

We didn’t speak about it again and, of course, the relationship ended that summer.

I got my first real boyfriend at the end of the third year. His name was Gareth and he was at Rugby Tech. We were set up by friends at our third-year ball. We got on really well and continued to see each other for a while during fourth year – but being good and kind weren’t enough for me. I wanted the spark, the fire. And so, my pattern started: the boys and men who were nice, kind and funny were rejected by me.

I would go for the men I lusted after and would then find out that our physical encounters were unsatisfactory.

I had a hard time trusting them. I married my husband without being in love with him and we were together for 27 years. I set up home with David when I was 52 years old and wasn’t in love with him either. We were together for seven years. Maybe I was never to have the full relationship I craved.

I moved to the newest residence block in my third year and it was during that year that I had my 21^st birthday. I had treated myself to a long brown wig and wore it around college. I had always wanted long hair but mine would never grow the way I wanted it to – it was too curly, so I went for the long, straight hair of the wig. As I was walking through college one day I passed the Principal, Sister Agnes. She stopped to speak to me. This was unusual as she was always rushing from one place in the college to the next. She asked me about my wig. I thought it was odd. She had far more things to occupy her mind than my wig.

A few days later I was asked to go to the Principal’s office. I had assumed it was in relation to my President’s duties. I was wearing my wig and a black polo neck jumper and wasn’t wearing any jewellery, as it happened. There were four men in her office with her, who turned out to be police officers. There was a tall older guy who looked like a regular family man. He had a kind face and he did all the talking. Nearest to me was a young guy with a piercing stare. He never smiled and never took his beady eyes off me. The older man started, “There have been a number of forged cheques being cashed in Rugby.”

I nodded, there had been a spate of thieving in the college. I had been asked to suggest what the Students Union could do to combat it. I assumed that was why they wanted to speak with me.

He went on, “We got a description of the girl who cashed the latest forgery in a store in town.” He paused.

I nodded, “She had long dark hair, was wearing a black polo jumper and she didn’t have any jewellery on. She also had a Northern accent.”

It took a minute for what they were suggesting to dawn on me. “You think it’s me?” I asked, completely incredulous.

He looked at me and the young guy leaned forward to stare intently. Now I realised why Sister Agnes has been so interested in my wig. “We’re looking at everyone who fits the description,” the older guy continued.

I realised I wasn’t afraid. I was furious. “Right, so here’s my long dark hair,” I ran my fingers through the wig, “And the black polo neck jumper.” I pulled at the jumper, “And no jewellery.” I held out my hands.

The young guy spoke, “And she had bad teeth.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said sharply.

The older guy came in quickly, “Of course, that doesn’t apply to you.”

The older guy stood up and came towards the desk.

“We have a signature on the cheque. Can we ask you to sign this name on a piece of paper?” I duly signed.

The younger guy looked at it and showed me the forged one. “Well, that letter is the same, and that, and that,” he said.

“And that one is different, and that, and that,” I retorted. “So, what now?”

The older guy said, “We are going to send these two to a handwriting expert in Wales for analysis.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Do you mean to tell me that if some person in Wales says these signatures were done by the same person, you are going to charge me?”

There was silence.

“Well, send it to whoever you want,” I continued. “You have the wrong person. I didn’t do it, so build up the case as much as you want. I’ll knock it down.”

Although I was angry, I was laughing. It was all so ridiculous. My laughter probably convinced the younger guy that it was me being hard-faced and laughing to cover it up.

They subsequently found the culprit, of course. Sister Agnes told me later that before the meeting they had been so convinced it was me they wanted to bring me into the station for questioning. She refused and said they could interview me in her office and that she would be present. I wonder if I would have got that kind of care at York University.

Teaching Practice was required in each of our three years. Girls, usually dishevelled and unkempt around college, would appear at an ungodly hour in the morning to board coaches going to the various schools we taught at. We would be there looking smart and made-up, sitting in silence like zombies until we were dispatched at our various placement schools. This was our only classroom experience and it was very scary. Luckily, I had the excellent Mr Grace to advise and guide me and, by the time the final teaching practice came, I knew I was in line for a Distinction. Mr Grace and an external examiner came to observe one of my lessons. I was teaching 12-year-olds, not my favourite age group, but I was well prepared. I’d play some music then they’d do some creative writing. One boy was messing about in class, as he always did, and I could see the two assessors watching to see what I would do. I walked slowly around the class while the music was playing and when I got to the cocky boy I bent down really low so only he could hear my words, “These men who are here are assessing me, not you. I would like a good assessment. Once they are gone you can do what you like – swing from the ceiling, jump out of the window, turn your desk over – whatever you like. But if you so much as utter one more word while they are in the room, I will hit you so hard you will never be able to open your mouth again. Do you understand?” I smiled and stood up and continued my walk round the room. The boy sat in silence for the rest of the lesson, his head bowed.

The assessors were impressed. It wasn’t my finest moment, but it got me my Distinction.

The teacher training course was three years. The fourth year was for those who were studying for the B.Ed. I dropped maths and carried on with English and the sociology and philosophy of education. In my fourth year, I rented a house in Rugby with two other students, Dee and Pat. It was my first real taste of freedom and I loved it. Dee and I were two of the three students studying English with the Head of Department, Mr McArdle. He was very tall, with grey hair and a grey moustache and didn’t often smile. When he did it looked unnatural, like a smile had been attached to his face.

He was like a distinguished, but unfunny John Cleese.

I loved George Eliot at the time and had spent a week during my holidays living in Nuneaton with a distant cousin so I could go to the library every day and read her original papers and letters. Mr McArdle had said I could not do another essay on George Eliot, “You have to show the examiners in Leicester that you know something other than George Eliot.”

I turned my attention instead to Wuthering Heights. However, I had not really given it much attention before I had to present a seminar to the other two students and Mr McArdle. I made up a wonderful theory about Cathy and Heathcliff and their spiritual relationship.

At one point Mr McArdle looked at me and said, jokingly, “Have you read this book?”

“Er no, not really. I’ve seen the film.”

The other two stifled sniggers. Mr McArdle didn’t raise his voice or change his expression as he said, “Get out of my tutorial.”

I duly read the book and revised my theory for my essay. But for my finals, when I answered a question about Wuthering Heights, I reverted back to my original theory, this time backing it up from the text. My Head of Department said afterwards that I had written ‘a fine answer’ and we both smiled.

From my student days, I learned that academic achievement isn’t the most important thing. I only got a 2:2 for my degree and you needed a First or a 2:1 to do a Master’s. I wasn’t planning on doing that and so didn’t really care and in my whole life I have never been asked what classification of degree I got. In fact, people assume I have a Master’s or a Doctorate! I also learned that I like being a big fish in a little pond. And I liked being in charge of things.

And, most importantly, I learned that I loved teaching. 

Photo

Graduation picture my mother made me have. I had been crying all morning (I can’t remember why) and refused to smile.

Questions For Reflection

If you had a college or university education what are your take aways from that period? If you didn’t do you regret not being a student? What did you gain from NOT being a student? Would you recommend young people now to continue their education beyond school? Why or why not?

A Blessing While You Reflect

May we continue to direct our minds to know, investigate and seek

the truth

May we learn to understand the difference between wise and foolish 

choices.

May we acquire confidence in our abilities so we can do our best

work

May we appreciate all the learning from the teachers we have had

May we remember that we are all teachers of the young as they

watch us, and be mindful of wheaten they are leaning from us