It's Never Too Late
by Celia King
I was still in the process of learning how to he a widow—even after four years of practice—when I heard about the program for Seniors at the University of Hawaii. By now I had a pleasant and full life, albeit very different from the one I had previously led, and I wondered if attending a class at a university was beyond me. I'd graduated high school in London at the age of sixteen and had been relieved to say goodbye to my school books and homework, so the idea of attending the University of Hawaii was rather intimidating.
However, I was somehow attracted to try something new. I was assured that as a Senior who was auditing a class I need only do as much work as I wanted. A couple of other Seniors I knew attended some of the lecture courses and did not become too involved; they did no home assignments or tests so there was no pressure. I decided a trip to the Senior office could do no harm.
As soon as I set foot on the campus grounds I felt a surge of energy and well-being. I liked the friendliness of the young, casually dressed students, but the architecture of the buildings was not how I'd envisioned a university. The UH campus was very different from the stately halls and spires of Oxford University. Different, too, from the Berkeley campus I had visited when my elder son had been a student there. Here I saw a mixture of pleasant older buildings, contemporary high-rises, and wooden structures, some looking as though they were only temporary. Huge trees shed their leaves and colorful flowers on the uneven paths, and the sudden splash of exotic blooms looked inviting and approachable. Still, even before I reached the Senior office I thought Yes! I like the way this place makes me feel. I would enjoy being a part of this.
The staff in the office were most helpful. I told the delightful young lady who introduced herself as Tanya that I had no idea of what classes were offered, or what I wanted to do. After her questions led to some pleasant exchange we came to the conclusion that I enjoyed writing. I'd enjoyed exchanging long letters with relatives and friends all over the world for most of my life (and had frequently been complimented on them). Also,
especially since living alone I'd made a habit of keeping a journal. Above all, I made it clear I was taking a class for fun and pleasure. English 311, Autobiographical Writing, seemed the obvious choice because I could write about myself—plus the class met at a convenient time and on the days when I had the fewest commitments.By the time I left the office I was convinced this class was meant for me. When I was told to choose an alternative as sometimes these classes were full and had a waiting list, I refused to even consider not getting in. The professor was out of town as this was vacation time so I could not obtain permission from her. Although I was told not to worry, I was so determined by now to get into this that Prof. Marsella was bombarded with messages from me. I made a point of arriving early on that first day of class and found my intuition had not led me astray. My name was already familiar to the professor and was on her list.
My charming professor put me at ease right from the start. She introduced me to the class of young people, saying she was in favor of mixing a Senior in with a young group. She told me I could participate as much or little as I wished. This suited me perfectly as I really thought I was mainly there for fun and to observe, and maybe would not even do the homework. I didn't expect to be able to compete with the young college students anyway. After all, I hadn't been to school for fifty-six years, and a high school in England all those years ago surely couldn’t be compared with a college in Hawaii. I even wondered what I was doing there as I sat at my desk.
My worries were soon dispelled. I enjoyed every moment of the class. Before I knew it I found I was participating as much as anyone else, and instead of being overwhelmed by being back at school I was experiencing a rush of pleasure. I was eager to hurry home and work on my assignment because I was receiving so much encouragement from my professor; my fellow students were extremely interested in why I would want to go to school if I didn't need the credits.
In this first class I was also fortunate enough to meet a wonderful man by the name of Dave Bird. He was fiftyish and a teacher of English at another campus, and on sabbatical. He was taking this class because he knew of the outstanding professor and decided it would be a helpful experience. My first impression of him was of a left-over hippie with his ultra casual appearance, and straw basket he used as a book-bag. He soon kindly offered to type my handwritten essays when he realized I do not type. He turned out to be a marvelous friend and mentor, taking a great interest in my writing , and continuing to type up my essays until recently, although he only took a class for that one semester. It was a joy to meet his delightful family and I'm proud to count him among my friends.
When I first received good grades I thought my success must be a fluke, but then my friend Dave as well as my fellow students let me know how much they enjoyed my essays and I soon took my good grades as the only acceptable ones; I worked really hard to make sure I didn't fall below my standard.
The whole experience was certainly a boost to my ego. In fact my health improved; my cholesterol level carne down to normal, while my self-confidence rose. I could feel the joy in life I'd had as a wife with a loving husband gradually return, even if it was a different kind of joy. A friend who had first met me when I'd been recently widowed and feeling extremely insecure told me, "Celia, your whole personality is changing. You are coming out of your shell." (Sad to report I later found out she preferred me back in my shell.)
My main memories of those days are of numerous bomb scares and rushing to keep up with the youngsters scampering down the stairs. Of being invited to a talk given by a visiting professor, Peter Elbow. My professor Joy Marsella had often quoted him and when she graciously introduced me to him at a gathering following his interesting lecture as "one of my favorite students," I was delighted. He turned out to be unusually modest, charming and friendly, and eager to speak of his days in England. His wife was equally charming and I remember feeling surprised at myself for being so much at ease with all these brilliant professors at this gathering. Of course the main reason was that my kind professor who happened to be the hostess that evening made sure I did not feel out of place. When she realized I was going home on the bus she insisted on driving me home if I was willing to wait until she was free to leave. Of course I was happy to wait, and we are friends till this day and stay in touch. Joy was just what I needed at that time in my life, and seemed heaven-sent.
One of the many reasons that first semester is so memorable to me are the essays that were written in that class. The quality of the writing wasn't the greatest but the subjects were fascinating. I didn't know what to expect. The essays were autobiographical, seeming to pour out all the writers' emotions and innermost secrets as they read in front of the class. I could not believe my ears as I heard of sexual abuse by both mothers and fathers of their own children. Some students admitted they were gay, and others that they were pregnant. We all listened together to intimate details of sexual encounters, dishonesty and thievery. We all seemed to encourage each other to expose our most private experiences, and the class session truly became confession time. No one was judged but many a tear was shed in sympathy.
I joined in by recounting the events of the sudden collapse and ambulance ride ending with the swift death of my husband four years earlier. I'd never spoken of it before although the details of that nightmare are branded in my memory forever. I wept as the words wrote themselves, and in spite of all the run-throughs at home I could not hold back the tears as I read in front of the class. My professor offered to finish reading my essay for me, but I insisted on finishing it myself, with Joy by my side with her arm on my shoulder. I didn't have to read it at all, but felt I needed to get the facts out and the writing and rehearsing and performing proved a relief and a kind of cleansing for me. Probably the other students felt the same way about their outpourings.
My elder son who lives in Europe was delighted to hear of my pleasure in becoming a student again. My cup was full when my younger son, upon hearing of my excellent grades, gave me an extra bear hug, and said the words I had so often spoken to him: "I'm really proud of you." I know he was referring to my progress in getting on with my life as well as congratulating me on my grades.
Going back to the classroom helped me in more ways than one to see the world as it is today. Although it was a jolt to hear some of the vocabulary, and I was shocked at some of the stories being spilled, I feel I've learned to be less judgmental and more open-minded and understanding. So it seems indeed it is never too late to learn.
© Celia King, 1998.