I remember the first time I went through the gates of my university as an accepted and legitimate member of the establishment.
Ah, University…. that glorious tipping point in-to adult-hood….
It was such a fascinating environment. I saw my peers inter-acting freely in day-wear, wearing make-up, strutting about in stilettos etc.
Wow, this was…. FREE-DOM.
I was FREE.
No parental control, no rigid monitoring, I could go to a party now and stay out till the wee hours of the morning. No teachers asking me why I am wearing pink socks to class. I could wear heels now and walk up to any Teacher!
Ohh sorry, they are called LECTURERS.
And we do not have three terms any-more, it was now two SEMESTERS.
I had just been re-leased from the secondary school prison. That chasm over which lay the transition-from-child-hood-to-teen-hood gang-plank; where we journey from the pre-adolescenct era right through to our late teens. Ah, secondary school…. that exciting institution that told us what to wear, how to talk, how to think (well, they tried to any-way), when to sleep, what to eat, when to eat it, and the quantity to eat. That incubator that prepared the foundation for the quality of Women we will be-come in the future. I went to an all girls’ school, so I would always speak from that con-text. As I can-not re-late to the gender structuring in any other academic institution at that phase of my life.
I guess the years of sub-lime brain-washing in secondary school had been rather effective in that regard.
Any-way, let me focus on my track , so, I do not I de-rail…..
Where was I?
I was driven in-to school by my Mum. I was looking as hip and as fly as I possibly could, I mean this was UNIVERSITY!
I was now a big girl…. who was being escorted to school by her Mum.
I wore a dark grey hooded jacket with a large logo on the back that had deep green and red in it (I’ve for-gotten what it was). I wore a red tee in-side with an inscription on the chest area (I’ve for-gotten what it was) and deep dark green leather and suede belt with subtle studs, a dark blue pair of Levi’s denim pants dropped a little low on the waist so it bunched slightly on my pair of block heeled pure black leather semi plat-form tasselled loafers. I had on a big swatch wrist-watch hanging on my wrist, right at the spot where hand met wrist. I had my Oscar de la Renta silver cat frames on as well with deep dark maroon lenses. And oh, let us not for-get of course, the thing that differentiates Fashion from Style, the most important accessory of all : ATTITUDE. The kind of Attitude which is bourne out of the conviction you have in your appearance that lends fluidity to your swagger when you know you looking mad good. I even had some mascara and lip gloss on as well!
For a thirteen year old, I was not doing badly in the style department.
So, we (Mum and I and the driver) drove slowly through the campus gates. I was feeling so hip; I had on some Snoop and Dre in the tape. Leaning side-ways to-wards Mum on my right, I began to nod my head hip-hop style. Intermittently moving my head to-wards the left to look out of the window, then turning right an placing my chin on the pad of my thumb while using my number one digit to periodically stroke my upper and lower lip.
Ah, the ignorant joy of pseudo-maturity! Great times, I tell you!
As I looked around me at the eighteen year olds, some nine-teens, seven-teens, they all seemed so… mature. Cool, I had some older friends back home in my neighbour-hood so I believed I was not going to be intimidated by this mature uni folks.
I also noticed there were lots of fifteen and six-teen year olds on campus as well…. I had a feeling these will constitute the majority of my peers here.
I was REALLY looking for-ward to stretching and prancing through the meadow of freshly grown Free-dom and rolling around in the grass.
It sounded like fun!
It sounded AWE-SOME FANTASTIC!
And so, my journey in-to the world as an independent entity began…..
This piece was written by: Omo Faith Oshodin (I Am I)
You can see more of her writing at: www.thepathofomo.blogspot.com