Winding Down

Somehow (and don’t ask me how me how because I have clearly either been asleep or not concentrating, or suffering good old-fashioned denial) next week is the last week of term. I have four days of class left, and I currently feel like I’m standing on top of one of those great big Scottish cairns. Gradually the smallest pebbles are slipping out from under my feet. Any minute now I’m going to crash back to England in a great cascade; freewheeling my arms and shouting “WHAT? NO, I’M NOT READY. I WAS JUST STARTING TO GET GOOD AT THIS!”

This is a cairn, just in case anyone was confused by that reference

Because I have just about gained the ability to be here now. To be here and function as a normal, intelligent human being.

I’m talkative in my discussion groups.

I go to exercise classes.

I have bought a rucksack- the first one I've casually carried about since the hiking pack I took to school when I was eleven and fastened the clips across my front.

I've started using the word ‘whack’ as an adjective, and I’m not ready to stop.

It’s sod’s law really, because now everyone is starting to pack up their things and ask the same questions about ‘where next’, and ‘what’s coming up for you.’ A conversation I was beginning to think of as mundane until two days ago, when I was sitting on the steps of the I-House in the afternoon sun, and The Optimist appeared in front of me. Hands down the happiest person on the seventh floor, he was wearing his characteristic beam as he politely asked if I didn't mind him bothering me for five minutes. So we had the usual chats, and segued neatly into the ‘what next for you?’ conversation: in which I talked about the rapidly approaching arrival of my parents, The Graduate, my travel plans, and my reluctant return to British studenthood, where I’d be ferreting for internships and completing my degree. What about him, I asked.

“Oh, I’ll stay for a bit longer to finish my PHD.” he said cheerfully. “Then I will go home, and I shall probably go to jail.”

I looked across at him. He is ten years older than me.

“Why?”

He beamed at me, unperturbed.

“Because I have a loud voice.”

“Oh.”

We sat in silence for a minute, before he continued speaking, entirely matter-of-fact.

“I expect to go to jail twice. One time it will be the government, the second time it will be people who dislike the government, but don’t like people like me, either. Perhaps there will be other times after that.”

What can you say to that?

“Just don’t get hurt.” I managed, feebly. He smiled.

“We have privilege, and we are lucky to be here. But everyone here is also a fighter. We are strong people, clever, and we have the power to create change. We’re a good generation.”

He looked placidly out at the students ambling in the sunshine, the frat boys collecting the fractured solo cups from their front lawn, debris from the previous night’s party.

"In a few years there will be another big fight in my country. And when that happens I will be there, and I will raise my voice for the minorities who cannot be heard. People who don’t have the equality and the freedom that you have; and that I have here.” He grinned at me. “You are too anxious, I’ll be fine. Do you know what my name means, in my language? It means ‘have faith.’”

So yes, I don’t want to leave Berkeley. But I should still remember to be thankful for what I’m going home to.