One Saturday morning in late August with a my cup of coffee beside me, I leafed through a flyer with the headline “Back to School” in bold red letters. With pen and pad in hand, I made a list of things I needed for the new school year.
I was 51 years old.
Earlier that year, I decided that my current career had run its course. That it was time to pursue my lifelong passion and try to change the world through my writing.
My school year started just after Labour Day. The day was hot and steamy and still felt like summer. It was a stark contrast to my first day of school over 30 years earlier that started with the crispness of the fall air resting on tip of my nose. Back then, the weather knew summer was over and a new school year was beginning.
This time, the humidity lingered in the air and even though it was September, my mind was still in summer mode. I set out into a new year, a new period of my life with my essentials including pens and a notebook packed in a black nylon knapsack. I felt determined, excited and hopeful about where this journey would take me.
When I was shopping around for schools, I avoided the huge impersonal campus that spanned over city blocks in the city. As a university student, I felt lost in a huge campus and struggled through most of my post-secondary life. But for my second time around, there was something about the feel of this smaller campus nestled in a residential neighbourhood that was comforting to me. Plus, for years, I worked downtown and was looking to escape the corporate culture and most of all, the commute.
One thing that hadn’t changed was the energy and excitement of the first day of school. When I walked into the building, clusters of students gathered in corners peering over schedules and booklists. Other students lined up at the registration office, sorting out some administrative problem. Colourful artwork that was displayed throughout the building bred inspiration and invited creativity.
But there were other signs that I was in a different time. Posters in the bathrooms encouraged students to seek help for mental health. In the student centre, a small black velvet lined mahogany box that looked like my mother’s jewelry boxed, was filled with condoms for anyone’s use. A sign for “Sex Toy” bingo was posted on the bulletin board beside a poster advising people of the deadline to apply for financial assistance.
As I studied the young faces, a thought came to me. This was not my world. I came from a world of suits. endless meetings and projects that went past their deadlines. But now, it was like I’d been granted temporary access into a place that was one generation behind me. As an older student, I felt like a visitor and observer. In 10 months, I would have what I needed to launch myself in my new career.
Within my first few days I was forced to look at technology deeper than I had before. My cellphone, (henceforth known as my ‘mobile device’) was no longer just a receiver of texts, a birthday reminder and grocery list taker. It was a tool to capture visual stories with meaning. My twitter account was to be resurrected and I would need to set up an Instagram and Snap Chat account.
My hands shook as my photography instructor challenged me to take my digital camera off the “automatic setting” and experiment with manually adjusting shutter speeds and aperture settings.
My classmates (and most of my instructors) were younger than me. This was during the Raptors championship run and I remember referencing the first time the Blue Jays won the World Series. A student politely said that it was “before his time”.
When I was flustered with a new piece of software, another student was there to help without making me feel like a grandmother learning email for the first time. My classmates and teachers were fun, engaging and pushed me to do things better and to think in different ways.
At the end my first week, I looked through the my list of assignments and what lied ahead. Some work was straight forward and required old fashioned studying and memorization. Other assignments, such as my photography class, would stretch my mind and force me to have a different relationship with the world. During the months ahead, I would have panic attacks and severe doubts about my choice to change careers. A few times, I even would dig back in my closet to make sure my work suits still fit me.
But if I had to be honest, I was also having the time of my life.