This article is from the source 'guardian' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.
You can find the current article at its original source at http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/feb/25/moment-that-changed-me-dropping-out-of-university
The article has changed 3 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.
| Version 0 | Version 1 |
|---|---|
| A moment that changed me: dropping out of university | A moment that changed me: dropping out of university |
| (about 2 hours later) | |
| I starting sabotaging my relationship with academia as a teenager. Desperate to rebel against my reputation as a real-life Lisa Simpson, I switched schools in 11th grade and hit the self-destruct button immediately, forfeiting any academic ambition for nights out with friends. I accepted failure as a badge of honour – as proof of my rebellion and my commitment to the cause. I assumed I’d get to university if it was “meant to be”, cramming for tests minutes before they began, and at one point doing an entire assignment the day it was due in the school cafeteria (alongside my best friend who was doing the same thing). | I starting sabotaging my relationship with academia as a teenager. Desperate to rebel against my reputation as a real-life Lisa Simpson, I switched schools in 11th grade and hit the self-destruct button immediately, forfeiting any academic ambition for nights out with friends. I accepted failure as a badge of honour – as proof of my rebellion and my commitment to the cause. I assumed I’d get to university if it was “meant to be”, cramming for tests minutes before they began, and at one point doing an entire assignment the day it was due in the school cafeteria (alongside my best friend who was doing the same thing). |
| But thanks to my affinity for doing nothing but talk in classes (and getting kicked out of them), I didn’t have the grades to finish high school on time, let alone get into university, and by 18 I found myself repeating my last year of high school out of necessity, not choice. In the midst of this victory lap, I vowed to get into college. | |
| And I did. On 1 April 2004, I found out I had got on to a journalism course at a local school, and provided I show up on time for my last batch of high-school exams (unlike the year before when I slept in), I’d be set. Finally, I told myself, I’d be a grown-up woman destined for professional greatness, so I happily stepped up: I bought the books, I bought the clothes, I tried to make friends. But by November, I was miserable. | |
| I was finally ready to leave behind the slacker girl I’d become | I was finally ready to leave behind the slacker girl I’d become |
| So I did what served me so well in the past: I stopped caring. I went in for shifts at my part-time job instead of showing up to class, I didn’t hand in assignments because I knew I was dropping out, I spent lectures on MSN chat, attempting to woo the boy I had crush on, and I chose sleep over studying (which I still stand by). Unsurprisingly, by December, college was barely on my radar. | So I did what served me so well in the past: I stopped caring. I went in for shifts at my part-time job instead of showing up to class, I didn’t hand in assignments because I knew I was dropping out, I spent lectures on MSN chat, attempting to woo the boy I had crush on, and I chose sleep over studying (which I still stand by). Unsurprisingly, by December, college was barely on my radar. |
| Which is why getting into university four years later really meant something. Between the last day of journalism school and the first day of my bachelor of arts, so much had changed. I’d grown-up. I’d soul-searched. I’d been a cash supervisor at a hardware store, a keyholder at American Eagle Outfitters, I’d re-done 12th grade for the second time (and achieved top marks), suffered personal victories, failures, and regularly cried at the cash desk in front of my teenage staff. I was ready. I’d earned a place at university (damn it) and was ready to leave behind the slacker girl I’d become. | Which is why getting into university four years later really meant something. Between the last day of journalism school and the first day of my bachelor of arts, so much had changed. I’d grown-up. I’d soul-searched. I’d been a cash supervisor at a hardware store, a keyholder at American Eagle Outfitters, I’d re-done 12th grade for the second time (and achieved top marks), suffered personal victories, failures, and regularly cried at the cash desk in front of my teenage staff. I was ready. I’d earned a place at university (damn it) and was ready to leave behind the slacker girl I’d become. |
| And I tried my best. Desperate to prove I wasn’t the failure I felt my family believed I was, I went to every class, threw myself into every assignment, and prepped for every exam with the tenacity of Hermione Granger. Finally, I was a student. An academic. A person the professor asked to please stop raising her hand because it was annoying. I made the dean’s list, and got an A on an exam I wrote while ill with the flu, days after totalling my car. I was a success story, not the teen whose law teacher once told her it would take a long time for her to achieve anything. And I was miserable. | |
| I wanted to write. I wanted to be a comedian, taking on essays and TV scripts and even jokes, burying myself in the world of pop culture I was so obsessed with. I’d told myself this degree would deliver that just that, but I was 24 and impatient and desperate. So that summer, I went on Craigslist, and got my first writing job. And then I got another (never do this, anybody). And by October – at the start of the second year – I was writing about fashion, beauty and music for next to nothing, but I was doing it. A cool thing. And I didn’t need to be at school. | |
| Related: A moment that changed me: David Cameron got me and my dad together | Victoria Anderson | Related: A moment that changed me: David Cameron got me and my dad together | Victoria Anderson |
| In November, I made a choice. I’d dropped down to part-time studies, begun skipping the class I wasn’t interested in, then dropped that too, and kept only the course I needed to eventually fulfil my degree requirements. I’d missed a handful of classes, but I didn’t care, and that familiar sense of apathy began dictating my approach to the rest of the semester. Instead of using computer labs and tutorials to apply what we’d learn, I’d use it to chat with the teaching assistant and work on my writing. I’d leave early to attend gigs. And even now, just over six years later, I have no recollection of what that class even was. I just wanted to write, and I was doing it, so I threw myself into that. | In November, I made a choice. I’d dropped down to part-time studies, begun skipping the class I wasn’t interested in, then dropped that too, and kept only the course I needed to eventually fulfil my degree requirements. I’d missed a handful of classes, but I didn’t care, and that familiar sense of apathy began dictating my approach to the rest of the semester. Instead of using computer labs and tutorials to apply what we’d learn, I’d use it to chat with the teaching assistant and work on my writing. I’d leave early to attend gigs. And even now, just over six years later, I have no recollection of what that class even was. I just wanted to write, and I was doing it, so I threw myself into that. |
| I don’t know why I even showed up for the exam. I knew I was done with university, but I think I felt I’d be letting my parents down if I rejected a world I’d fought hard to get into. My friend sat in the seat next to me and we joked about failing. I told her I didn’t study and I was probably going to leave as soon as I could and then she laughed, and the exam started. I knew I was screwed. I spent the mandatory hour randomly selecting multiple choice answers, and at one point answered “a Matt Damon movie” to the question, “What is an informant?” Even at the end, I wrote a note apologising to my professor, adding that I knew I “didn’t belong there” – which probably read much darker than I had intended. When the hour was up, I was the only person who got up, handed her exam in, and left. School, for me, was out – at least in the traditional sense. | |
| At the time, I was painfully unaware of what it takes to be a writer or even just an adult person, and what I learned through the next six years of relationships, misunderstandings, mistakes, miscommunications, failure, more self-destruction and near-bankruptcy taught me what I never would have learned in a traditional academic setting. Which isn’t to say that university is bad – it’s just not for me. Especially when there are millions of students who will seize the day and take that opportunity seriously. And not cite a terrific Matt Damon movie on an exam that could make or break their degrees. |