Higher Education

It's been a struggle getting to class on time, even if I dutifully pack my bag the night before and lay out my clothes. For every reason under the sun I'm habitually ten to fifteen minutes late and despite an early afternoon start time, am always rushing to pay for parking and then trotting to class, swimming against the tide of students who've just been released. Returning to an academic setting instantly triggers hard to kill habits. Being late, a reluctance to finish homework, sitting in the back of the room. The old anxiety surrounding speaking up in class. On this last point I've been challenging myself to say at least one thing per period, even if it's to ask a simple question. Twice I've caught myself raising my hand, courage gathered but timed a beat late.

"No more questions?" the professor will say and I'll sheepishly lower my unnoticed hand. I've already decided who are the studious/smart kids in my class, and have maneuvered to be around them, on the off-chance we become friendly. I've run out of patience for lazy students, like the one who somehow fell into my group and declared that he hadn't done the reading because he didn't fix his laptop yet. Is it possible to attend college nowadays without a working laptop? I doubt it. Ten minutes earlier I'd been afraid I wouldn't have anyone to group with, now I was worried about the makeup of my four member team. I wanted to reject him immediately.

When bored in class -- which isn't often because I am here to learn this time -- I look around the room and jot down clothing combinations, do word sketches of interesting looking people, and hope it'll all come in use one day when I create characters. I am probably just as familiar with some of my classmates' clothing rotation as they are. You can deduce a lot, and imagine a lot of stories, if you keep a running log of somebody's outfits. One guy seems to always wear the same sports jacket and I assume he's not from San Diego because he refuses to remove the jacket, even when it's very hot and stuffy. The girl who plants herself in front dresses up on Thursdays but down on Tuesdays. I suspect she has some sort of job after our Thursday meetings. One that requires her to look nicer than the typical college student. From little personal details spilled through the first few weeks, I've gathered mini-profiles on about ten people in each class.

Of course, I've yet to actually meet any friends. The last time I was on campus, in 2002, I befriended someone after a few weeks. I'd sit with her at the bus stop, chatting while she missed bus after bus. I reciprocated by missing my Brontes class. The closest I've come to having a friend so far is a guy who has the same classes as me back-to-back. We take the ten minutes in-between to complain about our first session and prepare for our second. We've shared chocolate chip cookies, video game recommendations, and a mutual appreciation for Ayn Rand.

The elevator in the Literature building is still broken, just like it was seven years ago. The most used classroom in the building is located on the top floor. I'm familiar with this classroom as I took Poetry here. The room looks exactly the same except for a broken window our first few weeks. A few professors ranted during orientation day that the Literature department is underfunded and on the brink of extinction. I believe them.

The one other person I've talked to for more than ten minutes I chatting with while walking down the stairs after class. Negotiating a narrow stairway, barely wide enough for two, and with a still getting to know you stranger, requires a certain distance to be kept. I fell a step behind to decrease the awkwardness. After slowly descending three flights to street level, we turned to leave and she extended her hand in greeting and goodbye. "What was your name? I'm Mary." Professional and confident, which seemed foreign on a college campus.

It's weird being back.