This is a gift, it comes with a price

Our Director Writes

Diary of a Mature Student, Semester 2, Week 2

There are some things about being a mature student that you just don't talk about, it seems.

Then again, they're more or less the same as any other time in your life. There are some funny moments, too; this week I had to submit proof of the qualifications that got me my place at my university, which meant, basically, submitting a copy of my degree certificate to prove I was eligible to study for my degree.

This is one of the main problems; I can't find part-time work because of an odd kind of situation. The basic conversation runs like this:

"Hi, I'm looking for some part time work while I study."

"Okay, what qualifications do you have?"

"Well, I have my degree in something not that relevant and my GCSEs and A levels."

"Oh, you already have a degree? Why would you want to work here?"

"Well, I'm just looking for-"

"Sorry, we think you're overqualified."

'Overqualified' hides a multitude of sins. On one hand it's "well, why would you stay here for any length of time with that qualification?"; on another hand, it's "what happened in your life that you can't use these qualifications for something better?"; and on a theoretical third hand, there's always the question of intimidation.

Now, intimidation is just asinine. If you're intimidated by someone with a degree, stop it, stop it right goddamn now, because it's pointless. In all my time since graduation I haven't put the letters after my name once. The only time I've had to use my degree certificate is in submitting for further academic courses; no employer has ever asked to see it. And yet I was treated differently - at least, at first - for being a graduate. It meant nothing other than the occasional higher expectation, because I remained for four or so years consistently the lowest-paid person in the building, but there was something there somehow.

So I can't find work, which means living off what savings I'd put together before being kicked out of my work last year with a cheery goodbye and the promise of a reference. And this is what I mean by the things you don't talk about as a mature student.

It means smiling every time someone asks you how the course is going, and being incredibly enthusiastic about it, because how could you not be? You're doing something you're passionate about! You're doing what you love! Any sign of unhappiness just isn't done, old chap.

[As a sidebar, I am happy. I'm incredibly happy; I border on ecstatic during termtime, because I am doing what I love, so this might sound churlish; but it's not this that's the problem, it's the lack of any possible other answer than every day I wake up I feel blessed. Although, right now, I do. Sorry. This is rambling a little.]

Sometimes I want to speak the truth to people, just a little, to see what they might say.

"You know what being a mature student means? It means living at home with parental units because I can't dream of affording anything else. It means living of charity and benificence because I can't find any work. It means a negotiated kind of independence where most everything I think of doing means clearance by someone. It means not necessarily being able to afford anything new for a long, long time. Clothes? DVDs? Gadgets? Forget it. Make do and mend."

Look at it this way; at least my clothes that aren't retro now will be by the end of the course.

This is just idle complaining, though. Because it's a small price to pay to do something I love. It's a miniscule price, really.

But of course, it needs paying.