by Fiona Scott-Norman @fscottnorman
PHOTOS BY JAMES BRAUND
A
few months back, in the grip of Lockdown 4: The Existential Horror Returns, I decided to Shake Things Up and apply to do a Masters. You could argue that studying at university isn’t precisely a radical departure from teaching at university, but with international travel being what it is I had to press hold on my Plan A of “move to New Orleans, hang in jazz bars and contribute to the hollowing out of one of the most culturally and creatively vibrant cities on the planet by being yet another white person to turn a shotgun house in Tremé into an Airbnb”. Maybe next year. To my surprise, I got my application in despite a book deadline and a smidge of depression, and was accepted. Bloody hell. I am now three weeks into studying a Masters in Directing (Theatre), full-time. That’s right. THEATRE, darling. Given that I last studied full-time in the 1980s, in Perth, around when Dave Dobbyn spent four weeks at No. 1 on the charts with ‘Slice of Heaven’, it’s a shock to the system. Hello tsunami of assignments. Looking forward to punching out that 2500‑word essay on *checks notes*, blinks, *checks notes again*, “In which ways are Queer Theory, Normativity and Phenomenology coterminous in relation to Sarah Kane’s 4.48 Psychosis?” Things have changed. I wrote all my assignments by hand in the 80s, usually on all‑nighters fuelled by No-Doz (colloquially known back in the day as the “truckies’ friend”). The active ingredient is, oooh, so edgy, caffeine, which gives a jittery high when, like I did, you ignore instructions to the contrary and pop them like candy. Many a time I’d drop my handscrawled‑in‑blue‑biro‑on‑lined-paper essay off on the deadline knocker of 8am, vibrating like an electric fence. Good times. I now get a migraine if I push working past a sliver after midnight. The toilets are a revelation. At Curtin Uni in WA, where I did my BA, I have no
recollection of the dunnies, so I presume they were bog standard (brief pause to allow you to marinate in awe at that wordplay). At my current campus they’re a centrepiece. A lifestyle magazine centrefold. Clean and nicely scented, pink‑walled, gender-neutral and VERY well stocked with condoms. So many condoms. Like, half a wall. Yay for contraception/disease and virus barriers (also lube), but who has time for contemplating a wall of options when you’re a) urgent with desire and b) halfway through an essay on the modalities of noesis and noema? Given my advanced years and clear comfort in rocking a lanyard, I’m often presumed to be staff rather than a student. It’s an interesting space to grapple, being mature age. Several of the teaching staff are my peers, a couple are close friends, and the cohort is young and serious enough that I’m still seeking common ground. The women are quiet, and I want to shake them and yell “Speak!” The dudes, quelle surprise, are confident in contributing to every discussion. They are…not alone. I definitely talk too much. I can’t stop. I talk because others aren’t, and I feel for the teachers. I ask questions because WTF is noesis? I talk because I’m learning, because I’m excited, because my brain is fizzing like sherbet, and I have to put it somewhere. I talk because I’m an older woman and I refuse to be quiet, screw the patriarchy. I talk because beneath the veneer of prestige, this university is still systematically underpaying their staff. You bet I talk about that. On reflection, the only thing I’m not talking about is Existential Horrors, so…I made the right move. But if you run a university? It’s nice to have showroom dunnies, but I’d prefer it if you TREASURED YOUR TEACHERS AND PAID THEM WELL.
Fiona is an author, comedian and Masters of the Uni Verse.
01 APR 2022
All Class
I talk because I’m learning, because I’m excited, because my brain is fizzing like sherbet, and I have to put it somewhere.
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Fiona
