I must admit, the idea of going back to school after ten years was a bit daunting. I wasn’t sure that I would have the time, energy, or money to return to the classroom while at the same time working full-time to support myself. But, as I often do, I jumped in with both feet, confident that I would not sink. I was much relieved to learn that my friend Marie had also decided to enroll at Plymouth State, and, as a mother of two, that she shared some of my fears.
We went to the new student orientation together on the Friday before classes were to start. We were given a package with the day’s schedule and a tentative schedule of classes that we had been pre-registered for. The young lady who gave us our packet reminded us to attend the “nontrad” portion of the day’s events. As we took our seats, Marie, who is from France, asked me, “What is this word, nontrad?”
“Oh,” I said casually, “It means ‘old fart.’” Marie’s eyes widened, and I explained to her that it was short for ‘non-traditional student’.
The first event was a meeting in which all of the various department heads welcomed us to PSC and told us a bit about their departments. This took about an hour. Then the Assistant Dean of Academic Affairs announced that there was another meeting for all of the “nontrads” down the hall. I couldn’t believe it; the assistant dean had just called us nontrads in front of everybody! I had been hoping to keep it a secret.
On my first day of classes I left the house with my class schedule in one hand and about fifty pounds of books in the other. As a new student, I was only able to get parking in the lot farthest from the campus. Once on campus, I had no idea where my first class was. My schedule, which I kept hidden in my shirt pocket lest I be branded a newcomer, said that my first class was at R204. I had found out earlier that R meant Rounds Hall, and since it was a small campus and the buildings were all labeled, I figured I could just wander through and find Rounds Hall. Eventually I asked for directions and found that I was standing directly in front of Rounds, whose sign is on the side of the building, not the front.
Most of the classrooms at PSC are equipped with what I affectionately call “chesks.” You know, the chair/desk combo created when you take a hard, unyielding plastic seat and, via a metal arm, attach a tiny work space to take notes or open a book upon (there’s only room to do one or the other). Well, let me tell you, this type of seat was not designed for an ectomorph such as myself; I am six feet six inches tall, and can use a little artificial padding when I sit. Chesks are a pain in the ass, literally.
After my first couple of classes came my favorite part of the day: lunch. Marie and I met in the Hartman Union Building, appropriately dubbed “the hub.” I love to eat, and was thrilled to find that I could get a decent meal for around five dollars. Marie and I exchanged stories about our day so far: our struggle to find parking, to find our classes, etc.
“How you doing, you nontrad?” she queried in her cute French accent.
“Not too bad, you old fart, and you?” I replied.
We had a laugh and some food, then wandered through the hub on separate errands. I went to check my mail. I had my directions for opening that bastion of campus communication tucked into my pocket with my class schedule. I wandered through the aisles looking for my box number, peered through the glass, and lo and behold, someone had sent me something! Ok, I thought, spin the wheel to the left to clear, stop on 15, right to 18, left again to 4, and bingo! The door was still locked. I tried again. Still no luck. This girl came up on my left, chatting a mile a minute with a friend about her hair and how she spent her summer and can you believe he actually called me back, at the same time she casually spun her dial and whipped open her box on the first try.
“This says ‘taxes’ on the envelope, it goes straight to Daddy,” she said, as she bounced off down the hall. What a dingbat. If she can do this so can I, I determined. Ok, spin to the right… This guy came up on my right, talking to a friend.
“So do your parents know now?” I couldn’t help but overhear, but my curiosity was peaked. Was he involved with something dastardly?
“Know what?” he asked. This should be good.
“That you drink.” He whipped open his box and grabbed his mail.
“Oh, yah, they found out this summer.”
Drinking! That was the big secret? I felt really old—and I still couldn’t get my damn mailbox open.
I had an hour and a half to kill between my third and forth class of the day, so I went to the library to get some work done. The vastness of this building is enhanced by the silence observed by its patrons. People worked at large tables where they could spread out their materials; people lounged in deliciously comfortable arm-chairs reading. You could hear someone turning a page at a table twenty feet away. The atmosphere inspired scholastic behavior, and I loved it. I sat at a computer terminal and logged onto my WebCT account to send a message to the other students in one of my work groups.
After typing about half a page, the computer, of its own accord, rebooted itself, and I lost all of my work. When I explained my dilemma to the man at the reference desk, he informed me that this group of computers was for referencing the library’s catalogue only. He told me where to find the lower level computer cluster, which could be used for longer periods of time to do word processing, etc. I went downstairs and walked through a large room filled with rows upon rows of books. So many books that they were on rolling shelves so that there was room for more shelves than the vast room would otherwise hold. I was in awe. Look at all these thousands of books, containing millions of words and ideas! All created with just 26 letters of the alphabet. I suddenly felt very glad to be here, thinking that one day maybe these shelves would hold a book with my name on the cover.
Having survived the trials and tribulations of my first week at school, I have found a comfortable routine. I have stopped carrying all of my books with me, which lightened my load considerably. I quickly learned where all of my classes were, and so could stop taking furtive peeks into my shirt pocket. I did a bit of finagling, and now can park on campus, and have mastered the combo on my mailbox. But best of all, I have started meeting people. I have started an ongoing dialogue with a cutie that sits next to me in Art History, and most days I have lunch with Marie or this odd guy from World History. It’s great to see familiar faces walking around campus, to say hello in passing or to be asked what the teacher assigned on Friday. I am really starting to feel like a member of this learning community, and it feels good.
The chesks, however, are still a pain in the ass.