I was aiming for an Upper Second and was happy with my efforts until one of my university professors told me, a week or so after I had written my examinations, that I had done exceptionally well in nine of my papers and was on the borderline of First and Upper Second for the tenth. It was so close that the Department of Languages was recommending to the University of London, which marked our papers, that I be awarded a First, rather than an Upper Second. I was over the moon, to think that I, who had never believed myself capable of acquiring a First Class degree, could have achieved this level.
However, we had to wait for our results for several weeks, and the assessment by the University of London was all that counted. When the results were announced, I was devastated: Upper Second. I could not stop crying.
At that time, my mother was away with my younger brother Peter, visiting her brother’s family who had emigrated to South Africa years previously and were now living in Somerset West outside Cape Town. Just my father and I were at home. My father could not understand why I was so upset with my results, which he considered praiseworthy. The disappointment I felt was almost visceral. I was crushed beyond belief. I was also furious with the professor who had told me that the local university was recommending I be granted a First Class degree. If he had maintained a professional silence, as he should have done, I would have been thrilled with my Upper Second. As it was, my results were gut-wrenching for me, a huge disappointment, which I can still feel even now, because I was so close to the coveted First. I felt as if I had failed, somehow, which is ridiculous, I know. Nevertheless, my tears flowed freely. It took me some time to get over it.
in January of 1970, I began my Post-Graduate Degree in Education but didn’t go back into residence. Instead, I lived at home. I had decided that it wasn’t worth going into residence, because I would be required to do two lengthy student teacher placements during the year and it would be easier to get to the schools in Salisbury, by accompanying my parents to work in the morning, on by going with my brother on his motorbike. Peter could bring me home again at 1:15pm or so when the school day ended, too. Living at home would be cheaper, too.
Graduation came at last! In early 1970, I joined my fellow new graduates, only five of us with an Honours degree in French, in a graduation ceremony held in the open air outside the library of our small university. I was excited, elated that I had made it, but also feeling disappointed. I walked up the steps of the library, shook hands with the Chancellor and received my scroll.
I was officially a graduate and had the paperwork to prove my status. I was the first person in my extended family to have attended university. I had worked hard to get to this point, doubting myself and my abilities throughout, but at least, I had made it, in the end.
