Sometimes Forever Is Just A Second: University

As a Student, a Worker, a Sponsor, and a Person, I Stand in Solidarity with the UCU Strike

I’m currently in a level of debt I may never pay off.

I currently do not have the “luxury” of being able to pay into a pension fund.

I’m facing a long working life. I’m 22. My generation will probably (almost certainly) retire at an older age than ever before. My generation are also, probably, spending more on education, facing greater debt, selling ourselves on the most competitive job market, more unable to get on the housing ladder…than ever before. When I retire, hopefully after many happy years in a career I have loved and lived and breathed in all the right ways (although, the reality is probably less rosy), I want a pension. More than that, I’m going to need a pension, because this world I’m growing up in, this economy I’m contributing to, this job market I’m competing in, this business I have no choice but to enter, is going to demand every penny I earn, above and beyond my wellbeing, sanity and health.

I do not want to be a “human resource,” because life is about more than that. Like all those who stand to lose their pensions, I am a person. As humans, surely our value on this earth has to be more than the sum of the hours we work?

The withering away of a system that valued its “workers” as people has been subtle and sly. This is not “flexibility”. Flexibility is holiday pay, because you value people’s commitment to their work, but you know this is dependent on their wellbeing. Flexibility is maternity and paternity leave, allowing working hours to be tweaked as far as possible, so that childcare can be negotiated (don’t even go there on the reality of this one…), because you know that your “workers” are not emotionless robots that function in isolation, and you value their life beyond the work place (not solely so that they can produce tomorrow's workers). Flexibility is sick pay, because nobody chooses to get ill, and sometimes, life happens despite our best efforts, and that’s scary enough, without the risk of having to navigate this without a wage. Flexibility is a lot of things. Yet surely, if flexibility neglects either the employer or the employee, then it isn’t “flexibility” at all? It’s manipulation. It's negligence. And it’s unfair. If too heavily weighted, one way or the other (although, let’s be honest, this only seems to tip one way) then that’s simply not flexibility, that’s sugar-coated-term-changing-and-hoping-no-one-questions-it.

@ucu.campaigns (Facebook)

Well, here’s the thing: people are questioning it. People are questioning it and disputing it and demanding it be heard, because for too long, “workers” have been silenced. Fear-installation is perhaps the most controlling mechanism anyone can exert, and it’s been drip-fed into us all for too long. Whilst fear may silence and demand compliance, it seems this carefully crafted concoction has gone wrong somewhere in production. This latest dose just isn’t working. Technical malfunction. Staff and students are uniting; the rose-tinted glasses have lost their rose-tintedness. And when the whole system is dependent on the “workers” being drugged up, silent, unquestioning (the “perfect workforce”) the system cannot work if this “perfect workforce” is anything less than drugged up on silence and compliance.

And as for us students, so carefully protected from the big bad world of business, nestled in our little academic bubble, rolling out of bed around lunchtime, swanning around in designer sportsgear, maybe rocking up to a lecture (or maybe ordering Domino’s and watching it from our beds): we’ve been grown on, nurtured by, sustained with the perfect blend of possibility and regulation, so as to make us into perfect sponsors, investors, buyers, workers... Competition is bred into us. Our education is entirely driven by competition. Our parents are told to consider our primary school choices carefully. By secondary school, we’re herded like cattle, and segregated by school choice (and parental income). And then come league tables. If you’re bright/determined/spoon-fed/competitive/coached enough, aged 16/17, your shiny eyes devour the tops of university league tables. You’ve been taught (not just told) that the world is your oyster. You’ve been taught that you can have it all. You’ve been taught to aim high. You’ve been taught that the priority is how good you look on paper. I’ve been there, I’ve done it…although actually, as a “product” of state education, I believed I’d been sheltered. I hadn’t. My grades became figures in league tables. My grades became badges of honour…and not solely because I worked bloody hard, taught myself 2 years of English Lit A Level in about 6 months and re-sat the whole thing because my school screwed up, wouldn’t admit liability, and my plan to do an English degree was somewhat less certain. That came later, but back to my rose-tinted glasses days: 16/17 year old me, wanting to go to uni, drew up the league tables, typed in “English” and scrolled no further than those golden top 10. I’d been preconditioned, and I didn’t even know it. I knew I wanted a Russell Group University, because if it’s “possible” then why the hell wouldn’t I want to go somewhere that would give me the best chance of the best education, which, of course, naturally translates to the best chance of looking the most employable?!

For what it’s worth, I have no regrets: coming to Exeter in 2013 was the best decision I ever made. I’d go so far as saying it saved my life. In 2017, I returned to do an MA, because I know that all the good things about the University of Exeter are really good, "execeptional"..the best in the world. Rewind two months and I’d defend it from the rooftops (and I’ve been preconditioned to comply, work hard and not draw attention to myself). But let’s just clarify, I came to Exeter, yes, partly because of where it sat in the league table, but also because of everything it seemed to value, especially wellbeing. Moreover, although my decision was, in part, based on the omniscient league table, naïve and sheltered younger me believed that these league tables were representative of education, and not business. I genuinely thought that league tables solely depicted academic result/satisfaction/teaching; I believed that league tables solely measured the quality of the education on offer. In hindsight, I'm not actually sure that education can be accurately measured anyway, but that's a topic for another day. And, as someone who had spent a fair amount of their education in classrooms with a rather "mixed bunch," many of whom frankly did not want to be there and were going to make that very, very clear, I could not wait to enter a classroom with like-minded people. That is, I cherished the idea of discussing books, rather than ducking as they were flung across the room. I wanted to be taught by people as passionate as I was, because I'd experienced what it meant to be taught by someone who was solely trudging through another day in a job that paid the bills. I came back to Exeter because I do not wish to waste time look for a department that rivals Exeter’s English department. I want to be taught by people who are specialist/experts in their area. I want to be taught by people who want to teach me and really love their jobs. The reality is that at a Russell Group university, I want to be taught by the best of the best: that is kind of the point. And if we want to be crude, that is what I’m paying for. Take away the "attractions/luxuries/perks," the best of the best will simply venture elsewhere (be that through choice or necessity). And that stands for staff and students.

In hindsight, I guess those league tables tell all sorts of tales, not least how well an institution ranks as a business. This notion of university being a business is one I’ve resisted as much as possible. It’s one I’ve lalalala-ed and tried to ignore. It’s one that, right now, with people’s livelihoods on the line, seems truer than ever. (And, in case you haven’t gotten the gist, I really hate it.) I want my education to be about education/learning/being taught and inspired. And, as a chronic apologiser, I’m not sorry; I did not sign up for this and I do not want to be a worker, or a sponsor, in what I’m increasingly realising is a corporate organisation: a business trading in big bucks. You do not get to use my money, or my marks, to fund your exploitation of those who know me as a person.

Let’s talk money. So long as I could get the loan for it, I’d pay whatever for my education. The reality is, the higher the price, the bigger the loan, the greater the accumulation of interest, the less likely I am to ever pay it back. And, whilst I have an extortionate amount of debt beside my name, I love education too much to be turned away by a price tag (evidently, this is very much dependent on comparable loans). I know saying that risks sounding exceptionally privileged, so I’m just going to put it out there that my degrees (BA, and MA) have been solely funded by student finance/government loans and myself. All my living expenses for, what will be, the four years of my degrees, have been funded by student finance/government loans and myself. So, my debt might be excessive and terrifying, but I know that without the loans that were introduced alongside higher tuition fees, I would not have been able to do my degrees.

However, let’s just clear this up: I’m paying for my education. In that, I’m paying for my tutors and to be taught, for my essays to be marked, for my ideas to be discussed and for the admin teams that make all this possible. Admittedly, I’m also paying for a degree of maintenance, but let’s be realistic, when you’re raking in the funds you clearly are, the percentage each student is paying for maintenance/rebuilds and development to secure the uni’s future, should be minimal…right?! Apparently not. And yes, I get it, in order to be a world-leading university, we have to have the latest tech and the snazziest buildings, but, urmm, as one of the people who, evidently, is funding this, could I please just raise my hand and state that I am predominantly paying for my education, not for super-edgy looking buildings with lots of glass. You know, it’s great and all that…but, as a humanities student (and, I’ve never used this argument before because it’s crude and reductive, but if that’s how you want to be…) I’m paying a lot of money for minimal contact hours…and still have to shell out additional expenses for the actual books. Now, I’ve had the “your degree is just an expensive library card” comment one too many times, and I’m not even going to go there; ultimately, I am studying English because it’s what I love and it’s what I enjoy, and because life is too short to solely think about employment. That is what education should be. That said, I’m paying the same as everyone else, because we’re all about the equality and that’s fine, but I am not benefiting from the latest tech, and my college building is shit.

As I say, I’m kind of resigned to the fees I pay, and normally I wouldn’t question them because I value my tutors immensely. However, when the tutors, who are funded by my money, are on strike, surely I’d be ignorant/naïve/complacent if I didn’t ask the question: where is my money going, because I’m not receiving the service that I’m paying for, and unless Queen’s is going to be renovated dramatically (more than new sofas and a few stickers – lovely, but surface level) over the coming weeks, I’m not entirely sure where these past week’s fees have gone?! And, to be clear, I’m not totally naïve: I know the university needs senior management and financial advisors and businessy people doing businessy things, but that should be secondary to my education. My education is dependent on the wellbeing, sustainability, and, urmm, presence, of your employees. So if you want to run a business, at least run it well! I'm no business student, but I dare say sustainability is crucial?! Reality check: your employees make your university. No student I know came to Exeter because of its senior management team.

I fully support my striking tutors and have shown solidarity as much as I can. They are not the ones who I am questioning, not in the slightest. The number on my bank statement is also not in the firing line. My tutors are the reason I am writing this, because normally I shy away from topics that could divide. I’m much more of a sit on the fence kind of girl and I don’t do disputes. However, this is something that matters. And my education has taught me to believe anything is possible...that means I get to have an opinion. This is something that needs to be said, and I won’t be silenced into complicity/negligence/exploitation alongside my debt. I can live with one, I cannot, and will not, live with the other.

02:03
0 Comments

The Dissertation: Let it be. Let it stand. Let it go.

a year on

I remember this time last year particularly well. It was stressful and busy and pressing, yet felt like the dreaded approach to an inevitable ending. I remember being bogged down in what felt like a continual slog of: get up, go to campus, write, re-write, delete, edit, take a break to walk to the loo, walk the longest way back to my table - which was crowded with research, books and post-it notes - continue the process of write and re-write, edit and re-edit. At some point, I’d leave campus, walk home, greet my housemates in some kind of mutual grunt and retreat to my room, where the books would be reopened, and those post-its rearranged. I’d return to the books that were simply too heavy to lug to campus, apologise for my absence, plug my tired laptop in, apologise for my dedication/obsessiveness, and re-read my own words, for what felt like (and quite possibly was) the thousandth time.

I had more word documents and tabs open than my laptop (and brain) could cope with; proven when 3 weeks before the deadline, one particularly tearful trip to Apple had them tell me “you’re on borrowed time, your laptop’s going to die any minute…I hope you’ve got it all backed up”. Maisie MacBook didn’t make the trip home. Tragic times, indeed. Some days, I’d simply stare at the screens and mindmaps, colour-coding and “logical” systems of organising my research, and wonder what the heck my frazzled brain was doing. I’d contemplate how I ever thought this system to be “methodical”. And question why I ever thought this task to be “manageable”. Inevitably, I’d tweak word choice for longer than those words needed tweaking, and considered whether words would ever be “just words” again. In hindsight, I draw on my word tweaking: Let it be. Let it stand. Let it go.

The Dissertation – capitalised as appropriate, and not through some sleep-deprived typo. The cumulative product of a degree, the dissertation brings with it a level of expectation far greater than the average summative. As the clearest depiction of individual interest, the dissertation is, quite simply, a personal investment. Nothing short of blood, sweat and tears go into the long hours dedicated to that lengthy document, accumulating in a trip to The Print Room (alack, The Print Room drama – how long does one allow for queues? Where even is the Print Room? To spiral bind or not to spiral bind? The questions are endless…but the end is insight).

And perhaps this is the most terrifying paradox of all: you’re counting down the days until you hand that beast in, and grace Arena once more, and yet you’re dreading that very moment – the moment you deem you degree done. And then what?! As “one of those English students”, come the end of April 2016, I tentatively released my grip on those crisp pages and bibliographical hell; I wore a smile that read: “I survived my degree”. I was overjoyed and relieved and, in many ways, somewhat believing in miracles…but that momentary exultation was tainted by the realisation that this had been my life, what now?! I’d slept with a memory stick under my pillow for weeks, and dedicated more space to McQueen and Cinderella than I had anyone else...and now our time together had drawn to a close. It was a goodbye with no words: a goodbye where all the words had been said, in that dreaded word limit (+ inevitable usage of 10%). It was a goodbye I both celebrated, and mourned, in that late April sun, with the best of friends, and a much needed Impy jug of Pimm’s. And it was perfect. The whole thing was perfect – from beginning to end, I lived, breathed and loved my degree. There were highs and lows, I laughed and cried, but I miss it more than words (because of course, words will never be “just words” ever again!!) and, dare I say it, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat!