An Education

A little story about my old friend.

Rachel.

She was one of my housemates during my final year at Uni.

A bubbly, petite brunette with laughing dark eyes, enviable olive skin and a broad smile for everyone.

We were both enrolled on the same degree course, and got on swimmingly.

“Let’s share a house together next year.”

She’d suggested during my turbulent second year, and when the time came along with a couple of others, I did.

Rachel was outgoing, vivacious and funny, but it soon became apparent whilst living with her, that she found higher education a challenge. Concepts I picked up easily were tricky for her to grasp. Pennies didn’t seem to drop but had to be forcibly rammed in, whilst writing up assignments seemed to take her an age. Luckily for Rachel, her parents - both teachers - were always on hand to help out. Especially her mother.

Every time we were set a new piece of work, I’d return to my student digs to hear them thick as thieves on the phone together. Her mother would be recommending books, advising how best to word things, plan stuff……even proof reading and amending for her.

Frankly, it started to piss me off.

If she couldn’t complete a single project without intense coaching, should she even be there?

Higher education, was for me, my first real experience of disparity and the class system/advantages at play.

The richer kids generally got the best accommodation, for example, because their parents were willing and able to pay upfront for the whole year, long summer holidays included.

I remember my mother carefully counting out and handing over notes to my landlord for my first term’s rent, feeling embarrassed she hadn’t given a cheque like the other parents had. It felt like such a give away to my background. An outing.

Just a few months later, whilst he’d been between houses, I’d lived briefly with a posh boy called Chris. You know the type; public school, into rugby, who - to my absolute horror - paid people to do his course work for him!

“Why on earth would I spend my time doing THAT when I can pay someone else to?”

He’d admitted, brazenly. Money was nothing to him. What was more, most of his mates did the same!

“We’d rather be playing rugby or down the pub.”

He’d said smugly as I’d poured over texts and scribbled down notes. Any notions of educational equality I’d naively bought into, egged on by Tony Blair, had all but evaporated.

And now, here was my good friend Rachel turning out to be nearly as bad!

What privileges had I had?

Any grades I’d ever achieved, I’d worked for - sometimes under taxing home conditions. There’d been no private tuition, no PC or Lap Top.

Nothing would have mortified me more than giving my parents one of my pieces of work to check over, not that my mum - who’d left school at 15 to become a sewing machinist - had the skill set to critique them anyway. As for my dad, he was in jail. ’Nuff said.

Although it wasn’t Chris level ‘silver spoon’, it grated on me. I began to resent Rachel and her middle class ‘teacher’s child’ advantages. Every time one of her assignments would come back with glowing grades and comments, all I could think was; “Hang on a minute though…….your mum wrote that.”

Life wasn’t fair!

A night didn’t seem to go by when she wasn’t on the phone to her, picking her brains.

Had she no pride at all? And what sort of overbearing parent assisted to this extent? Me being me, I just HAD to say something.

“Don’t you feel a bit of a fraud……..that your mum is basically spoon feeding you everything? Let’s face it, those grades you get are really hers not yours! ”

I expressed candidly one evening, after a cider or two down the Student Union.

She looked understandably uncomfortable and hit back.

“Well ……how would you know what it’s like? Comes easy to you, doesn’t it? You can just cobble some shit together the night before and still get the same grade as I do when I work for weeks. You’re just naturally clever……..brighter than I am…….”

Not that bloody clever I thought to myself as her comment struck a nerve. Or I’d have passed my Maths GCSE and I’d be doing a completely different degree instead of this Mickey Mouse one.

Rachel continued;

“My family - all of them - are teachers. Mum, sister …… My dad’s a headmaster for fucks sake! Imagine! And me? Well, I’ve always been the thick shit of the family, haven’t I? The disappointment. Why would they pay for me to come here if I’m not going to pass anything? It would be a total waste of their investment.”

The more I thought about it, I felt sorry for her. Her confidence in her own academic ability was clearly low, whilst the pressure she felt under was immense. Still, I couldn’t help wonder why her mum was such a helicopter all the time. Apron strings, anyone? Like, please…..back off the mic and give the poor girl a chance to work things out on her own, won’t you?

Anyway, I’d said my piece and let it lie, silently seething as the nightly coaching continued and the good grades rolled in.

Until one night, Rachel received a very different phone call.

She wandered into my room, a confused expression on her face, shaky and teary.

“It’s mum. She’s got breast cancer.”

She blurted out.

“They weren’t going to tell me because they didn’t want to worry me……they’ve all known ages……but she’s only got a few months left now and my sister told them they had to tell me!”

She paused.

“Julie……they’ve worked so hard all their lives, my parents”

She continued.

“…..were gonna retire next year, private pension. They were planning to do everything. Had dreams of seeing the world together…….Egypt, Rome, Athens….my dad loves history you know……...and now…..”

I can still see her in her satin cream pyjamas and big fluffy slippers as she sat on the end of my bed. My friend, always so loud, bolshy and gregarious, now looked dazed, alone and vulnerable, the slope of the attic roof above her striking parallels with the weight of the world that sat upon her shoulders.

She broke her heart that night, and hopelessly, I cried with her.

The next few months were fraught. As her mother went through therapy after therapy. Rachel struggled to cope with the emotional rollercoaster as well as the demands of study.

But she did.

Cope.

And maybe - just maybe - she surprised both herself and her parents with just how well she could manage.

Finally, months later, our graduation day arrived.

My mother was there, proud.

Rachel’s mother, was dead.

Life, wasn’t fair.

I learned a lot that year.

I learned that if someone is getting extra help or assistance, not to waste time grumbling or resenting them for it. Whatever material advantages they may have, they cannot and will not escape the real trials of life.

I learned that when people do things, that on the surface might appear stupid or unnecessary, they have their reasons.

Their reasons.

I see Rachel’s mum in a different light these days.

She was simply a mother who knew she was dying.

She knew she’d never be able to show her daughter those snaps of the pyramids she’d dreamed of, a mother who knew she wouldn’t even make her daughter’s graduation. So she was doing what she could, whilst she could with the skills, time and energy she had left.

A mum who wanted to smooth the path for her daughter, give her the best chance possible because she knew her own life would shortly be over.

We can spend our time bemoaning unfairness ……or we can reflect upon what our bitterness reveals about ourself. Why are we triggered when others receive more or have better opportunities? How can we turn what we perceive as our disadvantages, into strengths and have them work in our favour?

The world may be unjust, but we can do our best to make it a little fairer, treat people equally, regardless of their background. We can be mindful of a hidden bigger picture, instead of reducing people to ‘haves and have-nots’ or ‘workers and scroungers’.

And we can show grace to those who appear to be having a cushy time of things. 

The wheel of fortune is never still and we all ride its ups and downs, eventually.

Joy cannot be bought and no amount of tutoring can prepare us for great pain.

These, are the bare bones of life, before us in marrow and splinter. Caving like ribs and awkward as an elbow.

And realising this, is the ultimate education.

(She’s next to me here on the pic)