I've always been what you might call a "nerd." I got good marks. I liked reading. I was the kind of kid who dreamt of studying at Oxford, who slogged my way through classics of English literature passed down from my seven-years-older brother when he returned home from university in the summer (for some reason I wasn't daunted by titles like Jude the Obscure and Hard Times). The other kids on Bus 17, trundling around the dusty Ontario countryside with the windows half-open and gravel ricocehting off the rattling sides, had a nickname for me: "Coolness Einstein." I was OK with it.
I don't remember anyone ever trying to help me choose a career when I was a teenager. I had a guidance counselor, but I don't recall any meetings with her or personality tests filled out, although I am sure I must have done something of this nature. I always knew which subjects in school interested me the most, and as I was at the top of my class in several subjects my teachers probably assumed I'd turn out alright and left it at that. My parents have always been supportive of whatever I have chosen to do without trying to bend my interests one way or the other.
This resulted in me leaving the farm for university in Toronto at the
I arrived at Victoria College in the University of Toronto in September 2000, full of romantic ideas about studying in ivy-covered walls, having signed up for five courses in five different subjects. English literature, French language, the History of European Civilization, Political Science 103 and a special first-year seminar with only 10 students taught by an esteemed professor about Renaissance Rome. It was a phenomenal first year, broad, enriching and with all the excitement of a WASP farm girl in an international metropolis (fellow residents on my floor marveled "Your grandparents lived in Canada too?!" while others corrected my pronunciation of Cal-gary).
The following year I chose a double major, but after spending my third year at Université Laval in Québec City I chose not to return to Toronto for my fourth year. I was in love with Quebec and when presented with an invitation/challenge to stay, I jumped at the chance. I changed my double major to a double minor and suddenly, just like that, I had finished my B.A. My graduation was scheduled for a few months later, on my birthday actually. I weighed the cost of the 8 hour train ride, the fact that I would not be graduating with any of my friends, and that I would only be allotted 2 tickets for guests, and decided not to attend the illustrious ceremony at Convocation Hall in Toronto.
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| Photo via utoronto.ca |
Deciding to not get the four-year "Honours" BA was a challenging decision for my young self who had always placed a great deal of stock in my grades, measuring my self-worth by whether or not I excelled in academics. I was sent a notice to pick up a package at the post office on a cold November day in Quebec City, my boots squeaking on the narrow, hard-packed snow-path that had replaced the sidewalks. When I picked up the sturdy, flat, cardboard envelope, I knew it contained my Bachelor's degree. I didn't open it.
Not wanting to mar it, I carried the closed envelope gingerly as I tramped onwards to my intended destination, a movie theatre in the pyramide. I was a little distracted by the envelope at my feet while I watched Mona Lisa Smile in French. In the English-speaking world, graduations are a rite of passage, a big deal. I didn't celebrate mine, which felt a little strange. I wasn't sure if I should care. I winced knowingly at how the movie's motif was rather à propos to how I had bucked the expectations I had had for my own life. At the time, I thought I was giving up the possibility of ever doing a graduate degree (little did I know I would end up marrying a German, start a Master's degree 5 years later in English literature, and afterwards do my PhD in Germany where there are no 4-year B.A.s anyway. And where just getting your degree sent to you in the mail is par for the course.)
Now I can see that those hard decisions I made at 21, to "give up" my academic dreams and pride to stay in the culture I loved were a necessary part of sifting my character. I needed to learn how to not find my self-worth and value in my performance, in what I achieve, what I do. Finding my value in who I am in Christ, in being simply a child of God, looking at his promises and what his word says about me has proven to be enough, more than enough, and the only thing I can't lose when life doesn't turn out how I planned.
I find myself this week marking undergraduate term papers and attending an academic conference in Konstanz. That confused, -40 winter in Quebec City with my Bachelor's degree in a cardboard envelope at my feet, I would never have guessed I'd be here in Germany, doing this, exactly a decade later. I still have that envelope, it now houses a few more Very Important Things and has proven handy as I traipse across borders. There is an upcoming crossroads, and again my career could take several diverse turns. The pathway to your dream is not always straight or without delays, and sometimes the way you end up taking is the way that took you. Rarely is it the way you once thought would best get you there. The destination, the dream, often grows up along with you.
