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I was offered a place on the condition that I completed four online prerequisite courses. I duly signed up for these with the best intentions. They were courses in abnormal psychology, learning theory, statistics and psychometric tests and measurements. However, I had not realised how time consuming the courses would be, nor how boring. Abnormal psychology was the exception. It was very engaging and I completed it. A 500 page text book accompanied the course. It is the only text book I have ever genuinely enjoyed reading. There was something fascinating on every page, e.g. that there is a phobia known only in Japan - the fear of offending other people either by one’s physical appearance, or one’s own perceived deformities, or by blushing, or by emitting an offensive bodily odour. It is called taijin kyofusho.
The abnormal psychology course was examined by a number of online multiple choice tests which I could do in my own time. I was allowed to use the text book and, since all the answers were in the text book, it was possible simply to use the index to look up the answers. I completed the course and concluded, based on the laughable way it was examined, that it was surely a mere formality.
The other courses were not as interesting. Learning theory was simplistic to say the least. Every week you had to do some online reading on a particular psychological school (eg behaviourism, cognitivism etc) then answer the following question in less than 200 words: Discuss how (insert psychological school) relates to your own understanding of the therapeutic process. Every week I pointed out that I have very little understanding of the therapeutic process; that is, after all, why I want to study here. The limited understanding that I do have is based on psychoanalysis which is really fairly irrelevant as far as most of the more recent schools are concerned. That’s pretty much what I wrote week in, week out.
So, based on my experiences with the abnormal psychology and learning theory courses, I approached statistics and psychometric testing with a fairly lackadaisical attitude. The subject matter was not as dry or as dull as I had anticipated – I could actually see the point of it. However, the nature of the course was regrettable. I had to watch hours of online Powerpoint presentations of statistical methods, delivered in a monotonous drawl by an instructor who frequently, and unsuccessfully, attempted to stifle his own yawns. Hardly very inspiring. On top of that, trying to do the homework on a Word document to email to the instructor was a nightmare. Word was not made to deal with numbers, fractions and a plethora of different statistical symbols.
I read the relevant text books but decided not to waste my time with the homework. In the first few weeks I was still doing some work related to the publication of my novel, then I had a wedding and a stag weekend in Spain, and a birthday weekend in Italy. I had moved out of my flat at the beginning of July and I share the view of Kipling’s Kim:
'Kim considered it in every possible light...a boy's holiday was his own property.'
I was, however, punctilious about transferring the first term’s fees to the university.
So, upon arrival in San Francisco I was aware that I had not completed the courses, but I really didn’t think it would matter very much. In fact, I wasn’t even sure that the university would know. Furthermore, I knew that all incoming students would have to sit a statistics and writing diagnostic exam during the first week. Anyone who failed either of those would have to take remedial classes during the first term. Having seen last year’s exams I was pretty confident about passing. And if I didn’t then I’d take the remedial classes. Big deal.
I went to the university campus to introduce myself to the woman in charge of international students on the day before orientation was due to begin. I had spoken to her on the phone in April and we had nattered at some length; she had told me that she was going on a tour of the gardens of Kent in May. I found her room, knocked and introduced myself to a likeable silver-haired lady. We picked up where we had left off, discussing the glories of Lady Churchill’s roses at Chartwell, when the door burst open to reveal the ashen-faced but still rather pretty Director of Admissions.
- You haven’t completed the online courses!
- Ah yes, I know. I was meaning to talk to you about that.
- What happened?
- Well, I was rather busy with a book tour (self-aggrandising lie), and then I had my wisdom teeth removed (bigger lie), and…
- You will not be allowed to enrol! Your visa will be revoked! You will have to reapply next year!
Well, you can imagine the rest. This was, apparently, a BIG DEAL. The Director of Admissions made an appointment for me to see the Dean of Admissions upstairs. I sat in a chair in the corner of the silver-haired lady’s room, mentally reeling yet managing to maintain a cheerful auto-pilot patter about Kentish flora.
After twenty minutes or so I was led upstairs, essentially to plead for my life. The Dean of Admissions was an imposing, middle aged black lady. Lady of colour, as they insist on saying here.
I sat down. I apologised. I explained. I lied. I requested. I entreated. I cajoled. I besought. All to no avail. She was adamant. I could not enrol in August. I would have to enrol in February and start studying then. That means my visa will be revoked and I will have to go back home, I said. And I no longer have a home, I added pathetically. For some reason – I am still not quite sure why – the Dean decided to call the silver-haired lady at that point. It was a glimmer of hope. The Dean was silent on her end of the phone for a long time. Then she replaced the handset and said, You can enrol now, but you will be on the moderated course (less modules in the first year), and you will have to retake the online courses.
Thank God for Lady Churchill's roses.
Lady Churchill's rose garden at Chartwell
As I walked out I felt a rush of gratitude for the Dean too. And now, thinking back, I find it quite extraordinary how she made me feel just like a little boy again. A little boy who has been naughty. There are perverts who would pay a lot of money for that. Independent, 30 years old, validated by my creative output…how quickly it all crumbles. And when I say rush of gratitude, that is probably not quite honest either. I felt a sort of love, a small boy’s love for the mother who doesn’t reject him.
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