The Mighty MA

The Mighty MA

Today is the move-in day for freshmen at my undergraduate college. The only thing I remember about my move in day (though, not my first semester, as I commuted for a bit first) was that I had gone out to buy blue and green tinsel to decorate my room with. Yes, blue and green TINSEL. Tinsel. Because of course that's what modern independent college-aged women decorated with, I was sure. And a string of blue fairy lights. I was so proud of that room! I don't even remember who my roommate was. I think she left in the first two weeks or something. It was a very lonely semester.

That got me thinking about going away to Newcastle for my MA (honestly, when don't I think about it?). This time, thankfully, tinsel-free. Instead, I managed to fish a blue direction arrow sign from a skip outside the local chippy and I cleaned it up and set it atop my wardrobe. I wish I still had it, that was a great little sign, even if a bit beat up. If I had the extra moolah, i'd buy one, that's how much I liked it. That wasn't so lonely as I had dear Nicole with me and what would turn out to be a great set of flatmates, minus the Swede.

In truth, we had no idea what the programme was going to be like. No idea. We were pretty sure we just got in because we were international and therefore, handing them big bucks. But for what? What did we spend a year of our lives and $80k in student loan debt for?

It was for being shocked to be served wine at orientation (both of us coming from the same christian undergraduate college[where I was once "grounded" for drinking wine in the dorm, but that's another story]) as we surreptitiously looked for wedding rings amongst our classmates. When the personality disorders began to surface we prayed to God that we had made good choices when it came to friends that we would either have to tolerate or try to ignore for the next year.

I was glad that our MA class wasn't composed of people who were used to being the standout writers. I would gather that the poetry section had a bit to be worried about, but the prose section was happily made of people who really just wanted to see if they could hack it as a writer for a year. Some of them i'm sure have since decided that they couldn't and have given up.

Most of the workshops are heavily focused on short stories and then once a semester an agent visits the class and tells you that story collections are completely unmarketable and no one will even consider publishing yours until you have a novel to back it up. If you're a poet, go ahead and stick your head in the oven now because the only way you're getting published is to print them yourself and even then you'll be lucky if you own mother buys a copy. And forget about entering contests or applying for the residencies that they're telling you about if you're American, because then none of that stuff actually applies to you because you're ineligible.

Beyond actually acquiring the paper diploma, it’s difficult to figure out if a tenure as an MA student is a success. It’s not like the degree is meant to help you land a well-paying job. I suppose you could base it on who you are still speaking to when school is over. When you arrive at the airport you have no idea where your flat is and so you try to call the phone number of the girl you're going to be sharing it with only she's out of cell reach and you end up talking to her grandfather who you can barely understand because it's been 27 hours since you last slept. After being deserted by your cabbie, you finally arrive at the flat and your flatmates' mum takes you on a wild joyride through the streets of your new city and you are absolutely lost but she takes you to a little corner store and you find sustenance until you can track the steps of people carrying Morrisons bags. Then you get your first flat mate, the gene-splicing Spanish goddess. Then the Swede, the only boy, who you'll never ever see do his laundry and his room will smell like it. Then the American-raised Brit finally moves in for good, and sooner or later you'll get the salsa-dancing Grecian doctor-type who takes over for the Swede when he skips out on rent and leaves town after a suspicious visit from the police.

For your classmates, first, there's that crazy preacher guy that you hated at the beginning of the year for being that guy who always asked the stupid questions turns out to be one of the most loveable and you really wish him all the best. Then there's that frightening ex-teacher who always knows when you're trying to avoid the professors eye and calls you out on it ends up with a book deal and you may or may not attend her launch and book signing. Next is the naughty actress that can not only write one of the best starts to a novel that you have ever read but also manages to simultaneously land a west end theatre gig at the same time, all while looking absolutely fabulous. Then there's inevitably some romantic fiascoes with the rich American tearing the heart out of the sweetest guy you've ever met who enjoys making out with the naughty actress and you may or may not have drunkenly kissed him at a house party once, or maybe you just lie on the floor in the kitchen as the Swede steps over you to make his dinner at 3am. I was lucky enough to have a best friend to have photo shoots and music videos with and make lemon squares and crack cookies with and share a bunk bed with during trips on the megabus and share the kitchen table with during those weeks leading up to our dissertation submissions. And who can forget when all of these people get together after handing in said dissertations and get properly drunk on cider at the Hancock.

Yes, this is exactly what i've spent $80k to experience, and it was worth every penny.