I have always felt rather at home on a university campus.
All the ones I’ve ever been to look pretty much the same – sad concrete boxes with brown glass windows; the gardens surrounding them, if there’s a budget for gardening to start with, always offer a stark contrast back upon their inorganic, decrepit neighbours. There are exceptions, of course. The ornate colleges and buildings of the University of Melbourne, for one, with their elaborate cornices dripping history strike a feeling of awe which cannot be faked.
Still, I love them. I love what they stand for – or what they potentially stand for – because a discussion of tertiary education always opens up the debate of privilege and elitism in society in general. I am fully aware of this, but my pleasure in these spaces always comes from the pie-eyed, country bumpkin in me. The one who stands in the middle of a quadrangle and gazes upon the libraries, the different faculties and just be in awe of how clever humans are.
I went along to a particular campus of a local university today, to sign up to use their library facilities. Naturally this included the usual administrative cock-ups which necessitated my traipsing all over campus to rectify: with two children in tow, in gale winds, in the cold, with old men skeletons professors and moody youths staring me down whenever we made eye contact because I dared bring uncouth youths upon ‘their’ soil.
Not much fun.
Especially as I walked past one puddle of (I’m guessing) alcohol-related vomit and I left like saying, pointing, “Oh, yeah, and that’s maturity for you.”
I got what I wanted – after 90 mins – eventually. Mind, by then, my expansive love of all things intellectual, the joy of witnessing the spark of passion and curiosity of other individuals was quashed. I threw the books down to be borrowed, left the carpark without paying my fare (horrors!) and sped out of the carpark.
“Faster, mum, faster!” said my son from the back.
Indeed, I couldn’t wait to get home.
Next time, I’m going by myself!
