Continueing the college fairy tale

F or 30 years, a copy of The Torch  yellowed  in  a  sidetable  of  my  childhood  home.  I  remembered  the  photo  shoot  that  featured  my mom and me, but had never  read  the  actual  article  penned  by  Rosemary  James, my mother.  Her story, written in 1979  and titled "My College Fairy Tale," sent me in  search of a hidden  identity. Could my mother  possibly have been more than just my parent?   As  I  began  looking  at  both  the  literal  and  literary  picture  of  her  as  a  "mature"  student,  I  saw  a  familiar  image  refected  in  her  story.

The original photo captures a cute kid sporting  the  ubiquitous  1970s  shirt  and  some  trendy  yarn hair bows. That kid is the six-year-old me.  The  studious  adult  in  the  shot  is my mom.  I  am currently the age that she was in the photo,  forcing me to examine where she was then and  where I am now. The parallels are startling: we  both  returned  to  college  in  our  mid-thirties,  attended Fullerton College,  and wrote  for  the  magazine.  Thirty years of differences separate  the  stories  of  these  two  "mature"  students,  but,  like  all  mother-daughter  comparisons,  the  similarities  are  impossible  to  ignore.

My  parents  pursued  their  college  degrees  in  different,  non-traditional  trajectories. Dad earned his degree by  taking classes at night while working  full-time  during  the  day. My mother was  unaware  of  scholarships  that  could  have  fnanced  college,  and  instead  chose work, marriage,  and  family. After  we  moved  to  California,  she  resurrected  her  education by pursuing  an A.A. in Journalism  at  Fullerton  College. 

Then she matriculated  to Cal State Fullerton  to  earn  a  B.A.  in  Communications.  I  recall  her  graduation  seemed  very  important  to  my  parents,  but  I  didn't  understand  what  the  fuss  was  all  about.  I  didn't  realize  my  mom  struggled  to  maintain  the  sometimes competing  identities  of  mother,  student,  wife,  and  individual. I certainly  didn't  appreciate  her  talents  or  her  drive.  As  her  kid,  I  just  wanted Mom to make  my jelly sandwiches. Because  both  my  parents  achieved  their  college  dreams  the  hard way,  their  kids  chose  the  traditional  route. My  brother  followed  in  my  mom's  Cal  State  Fullerton  footsteps,  whereas  I  craved  the  individual  attention  of  Chapman  University.    I  took  summer  classes at Fullerton College  to graduate  in  four years.  At the end of that hard slog, I had a shiny new degree in  English Literature, but no real job prospects.

One of the myths of growing up is that once a college raduate has a diploma in hand, the rest of his/her life should be clear.  It was pretty muddled  for me.  I needed  a break from four intense years of college, so I joined  the rat race of real employment.  After a year away from  academia, I entered Chapman's graduate program with  a  tentative  goal  of  emerging  an  English  teacher. But  the  price  tag,  along  with  the prospect of  a  career  that  I  may  not even like, led me  to  become  a  grad- school dropout.  Back  in  the  workforce, I enjoyed  my  job,  but  missed  the  challenge  of  school.    Eventually,  I  suffered  the  infamous job-related  injury, which  ended  my career.  My body  had  been  hurt,  but  my  mind  -  though  dormant  for  over  a  decade  -  still  clung  to  life.   

I  needed  to  get  back  into  the  writing  groove,  so  30  years  after  my  mother  had  walked  these  leafy  paths,  I  was  again  a  student  of Fullerton College. The  experiences  of a "mature" student  three  decades  ago  contrast sharply with  those  of  today.  My  clearest memory  of Mom's  college  experience  is  her  dragging me along  to newspaper class.  I  recall sitting  underneath  a  huge  drafting  table  set  with  clippings  of  "The  Hornet"  raining  down  around  me.  Modern  students take the "cut" and "paste" commands on their  computers  for granted. Not many people  realize  there  was a time when people physically cut with scissors and  pasted with glue. My memory of that room is crowded  with  the fying  litter of newsprint amid  the distinctive  smell of rubber cement.