“The two best decisions I ever made were to marry my husband and enroll in this writing program,” she said. “It’s just what you need.”
We’d been sipping chai lattés at the local café and talking about my dream of writing a memoir of my 40-year search for my birth parents. Over the years, I’d written copiously — the pages, yellow with age, now lying in various stages of completion around the house.
To emphasize her point, Margaret leaned forward, gripped my hand and whispered, “Do it now or you will regret foregoing the opportunity forever.”
After leaning back in her chair, she enthusiastically outlined her experience with the writing program she earlier described as one of two best decisions she’d ever made. I nodded, sighed and promised to consider the idea seriously. I was envisioning my book and the possibility of assembling the many pages already written about my search for my birth parents.
“Maybe this deserves serious consideration,” I thought.
After my mother reluctantly agreed to my adoption, I spent 16 months transferred from the hospital to an infants’ home for children difficult to place, then to a couple of foster homes. Leaving those behind and being adopted by a middle-class couple marked the start of a complicated journey to find my birth parents. I was happy to have a “real” home but, as I matured, I wanted to know if I had a “real” family.
I let my thoughts drift back to the café, just as Margaret reached into her bag and thrust a brochure toward me. I was captivated by its front page: “We’ve Got Your Book.” I scanned the photos. No gray heads to be seen. Then I read, “we started the program in Halifax.”
Right away, I balked. I had no interest in relocating to Halifax. My husband and I had just settled happily in Victoria.
“Wait,” Margaret insisted. “The program doesn’t mean you have to move to Halifax.”
I read on and learned this would lead to an MFA (not of interest at my age). It was a two-year, limited residency program consisting of two summer residencies in Halifax and winter residencies that alternated between New York and Toronto. We would work long-distance with mentors in between residencies – all to move our manuscripts forward. As students (a label I thought I’d left behind), we’d learn research skills and structure through lectures and mentorships and solidify our book proposals. I envisioned myself once again in a lecture hall.
We walked to the door of the café with Margaret extolling the value of this program for me. The next intake was a few months away in August. “You need to decide quickly,” she added, as we parted ways.
I knew she had no idea of my age, a major factor in my decision making.
“Who goes back to university as she’s turning 80?” I asked myself as I trudged home in the rain.
Not long after I’d closed my umbrella and hung up my coat, the phone rang.
“I forgot to mention that it’s one of the premier degree programs in North America for authors writing in this genre,” said Margaret. I could hear excitement in her voice as she explained that all the lecturers and mentors had published books. She ended with, “I know you can do it. You’ve been a journalist and a professional communicator.”
Before I could remind her my journalism days were long past their due date, she’d hung up.
I sat in our most comfortable chair, tilted it back, eased the footrest up, leaned into the soft leather and opened the brochure again.
Missing: grey hair. Instead, young, keen, energetic students. I couldn’t see any of “me.” My energy level had dipped in the past few months, in my view a result of aging. My husband attributes it to my over-involvement as a volunteer. We agree to disagree. But I still had reservations about taking on a challenge that would demand intense concentration, lots of enthusiasm and energy and a commitment to write seriously, every day.
Another look at the brochure. “We’ll help you learn the craft and practice of being an author… with additional help of top publishing professionals in Canada and the United States.” Just what I had wanted and, if those musty papers I’d written over the years could be incorporated into a manuscript maybe, just maybe, I should embrace the opportunity before me.
Returning to school as you reach your eighth decade isn’t for the faint of heart, but here I was. My first day of school, I am outside the gate of the University of King’s College, founded in 1789, the oldest chartered university in Canada. Nervous and in awe, I proceed along the quadrangle to the lecture hall.
I nod and smile on my way to a seat. Because my hearing is diminishing –confirmed by an audiologist in recent testing – I sit near the front. Scanning the room, I notice two other grey heads. One might be older. I remember him from Ottawa when he was a diplomat. People say I look younger than my age. Today, the opposite would apply. I feel old. I took the elevator not the stairs, saving my energy for what lay ahead.
We are greeted by the head of the journalism school, our program executive director and two teaching colleagues. I distil from an hour-and-half, first-year greeting: rules, direction to washrooms, the school’s “rubric” (a grade below B- equals an F), the course load is intensive and challenging, the style manual is 1,144 pages (too heavy for me to carry), 5,000 words a month toward my manuscript is mandatory and our class numbers 31, ranging in age from 24 to me.
As the two weeks progress, the class grows close and protective of one other as we’ve been forced to. My first attempt at a “pitch” in front of the group was scary: I was revealing parts of my life kept secret until now. I hadn’t slept the night before and my tremor was fully operational. After I finished, silence. My classmates explained it was a sign that meant I’d presented well, and no questions needed to be asked. Relief.
Small groups found commonalities during the semester. Two younger women and I began to get to know each other well enough to share frustrations, challenges, home lives and lunch. When we walked together, they slowed to accommodate my arthritic gait. And they offered help when I got lost in the technology we were required to use.
On our final day, as I once again passed through the King’s College gates, I was proud that I’d risen to the challenges and sad at leaving the security and support of the class of 2021. I will be 80 the next time I see them, and I know my age won’t matter to any of them.
Pat Preston is a former journalist, journalism instructor, public school teacher, public affairs executive, media advisor to a federal cabinet minister and feature writer for a city magazine.
She lives in Victoria where she curates art in a popular café and a wine bar/kitchen and volunteers as a Gallery Associate for the Art Gallery of Greater Victoria.
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