Читать книгу Indeed You Can: A True Story Edged in Humor to Inspire All Ages to Rush Forward with Arms Outstretched and Embrace Life - Elleta Nolte - Страница 8

Although I thrive on goals, I never listed enrolling in college as one to reach. If it had occurred to me, my logic would have dismissed the thought and moved along to more attainable targets. Six of our nine children graduated from Texas Tech University in Lubbock, so I knew of the entrance tests required for institutions of higher learning, and clearly it was not for me.

But maybe it was. I believe God gives us each a path if we open our mind and heart to accept it. He knows our unique nature, and plans our paths accordingly, giving us the graces we need to complete our goal in life. God doesn’t deal in limitations; our perceived limitations mean nothing to him. We must work with them, through them, or around them.

So perhaps this was his plan for me, for conveniently in the fall of 1990, Texas Tech dangled a tantalizing carrot in front of would-be older students. In a program called Senior Academy, Tech offered streamlined admissions and registration procedures for students 55 or over. The university required no transcripts or SAT/ACT scores, but once admitted, a student maintained the same academic standards, and paid the same tuition and fees as traditional students. I was among the first to inquire, take a tour of the campus and enroll. I would handle my self-imposed limitations.

Two of my college-seasoned daughters, Marsha and Tricia, took my hand and led me to register for classes and obtain my ID, textbooks, and parking permit. Bewildered kids followed parents all over the campus that enrollment day. This bewildered parent followed kids.

Later we did a dry run: “Mom, park here and wait for the bus. Get off here. Walk to this building. Go in this door. Here’s your classroom and the restroom. Here’s your next class. Go out this door and wait here for the return bus.”

More words to the unwise: “Sit on the front row. Record the lectures. Enter into class discussions. Talk to your professor during office hours if you need help.” I wondered if the girls would check my homework and report card.

We shopped for new jeans, shirts, and sneakers. I said I needed a book satchel. “No, Mom, you need a backpack—here try this one. No, not on your back, slip one arm through this strap.” (The rest dangles and flops.) I decided privately I would sneak out and choose my own lunch box and crayons.

Later, as I sat reading a textbook in preparation for my first class, my daughter Tricia called me. I complained, “College is too hard. I’ve read three pages in a book, and I don’t know what they say. I may drop out.” She gave an enormous sigh. I hoped I would not become a problem child. They had such high hopes for me.

At that moment, a profound surge of emotions—an epiphany—set me back in my seat. I had come full circle in my life. When the time came for my children to begin a new and exciting phase of learning in their young lives, I took the hand of each of the nine and led them, observed and encouraged them, through all the years of schooling and into successful careers. They, in turn, now closed the circle, extending the same love and care to their mother in her new venture. Perhaps the master planner held my hand also, to lead me in a new direction on my path. Now I waited to see what came of this new impulse of mine born of the desire for personal growth and achievement. I smiled in contentment, picked up my textbook and continued reading.

As I drove away from home for my first 8 a.m. class, I glanced at the sunrise’s billboard in my rearview mirror. It seemed to ask, “Where you going…the beauty and things you love are back here…why are you leaving?” And it nagged, “The flower beds need clearing, the bird baths need cleaning, and…” I waved nonchalantly, “later…the other kids are calling me.”

The campus swarmed with the other kids as I struggled to find the classroom for my first English class. A bit late, I stumbled into the room and stared at the sea of faces. One student asked, “Are you the instructor?” I answered, “No, I’m a freshman,” and I sat down. Later, I climbed to the third floor of the building, and as I stood looking out across the vast campus dotted with students, the immensity of the turn in my life hit me, and I felt a great surge of excitement at the prospect of what might lie ahead. I thought, “This is my school, this is my building, I am a college student, I am so privileged.” And I turned away in tears.

I didn’t stay in my first English class after the third day, however. I sought out my English advisor and Director of General Studies and explained to him I didn’t believe I could learn in that course, “It teaches you to write, and I know how to write,” and I showed him two of the books I had written. He looked at my writing, then handed me a list of classes and said, “Pick out the one you want.” I glanced at him and suspected he thought, “…what the heck, she’s not going to last anyway.”

As it turned out, my advisor had another thought. Tech sent me a copy of a letter he sent to the Associate Dean of Arts and Sciences. In it, he requested I be allowed to substitute two advanced English courses for the two required freshman composition courses. “I have examined a book and several articles Mrs. Nolte has published,” he wrote. “As a result of her own self-education, she has attained a level of writing ability far beyond the capabilities of most college graduates. It would be an immense waste of her time and talent to take the freshman courses, for she is far beyond what they cover.” He suggested the advance courses would “enable her to write critical essays more challenging to her writing ability.”

I, the lowly freshman, the one with the inflated head who could select any advanced English course, chose a junior class of short stories, taught by the head of the English department. I found the classroom, walked in and then stood uncertainly as I glanced around at the small class. The professor asked, “Can I help you?” I explained I was enrolled in his class, and he answered, “You can’t be, my class is full…but, oh well, sit down.”

I sat on the front row and listened with rapt attention to the discussion of the short stories. Yet later when the professor handed out the first test, I was so traumatized I could scarcely read the questions, even though I knew many of the answers. I flunked the test, completely bottomed out. And I thought, “wait till my advisor learns of this.” Devastated, I swallowed my pride, crawled into my instructor’s office and asked for help. With his suggestions, I earned a B grade in the course with upperclassmen. As an ironic note: it took this writer a fourth of the semester to learn to write a critical essay in the preferred form.