2007 ~ 2012 |
A NEW CAMPUS AND THE BIRTH OF SASS
I probably should’ve tried
Rashaad Ali
The Consultant (2018). ▶
84
Marx has
a funny
way of
sneaking up
on you
when you
least expect
a revolution.
Everyone has 20/20 vision in retrospect. Nearly ten
years on from graduation and deeply entrenched in
the transition into Middle Age, from playing football to
watching football and from avant-garde to dad rock,
looking back on my time at Monash is as much an
exercise in nostalgia as it is a reflection of “oh god,
why was I such an idiot”. A reflection of equal parts
pleasure and “uggghhhhh”.
How can any reasonable 18-year-old thrust into an
environment of opportunity expect to behave with
even a small semblance of responsibility? I have
tended to not blame myself too much for treating my
studies as an afterthought in the pursuit of a ‘holistic
university experience’ that in the end didn’t leave too
much to the imagination, not unlike a B-grade coming
of age movie. Watching Napoleon Dynamite in my
very first class did much to set the tone for the rest
of my undergraduate years, along with the wafting
smell of cigarette smoke from the guy sitting next to
me who would go on to become one of my principle
co-conspirators.
As it was every semester for three years, academic
enthusiasm gave way to an urgent need to copy
Caleb’s notes. Caleb’s a good guy who’s doing well
for himself, proof that if you pay attention in class (or
attend at all) it will eventually get you somewhere. We
still keep in touch. Mostly.
It took the completion of a whole other degree for me
to realise just what I had back in Monash, and how
much of it I squandered. I remember distinctly in one
of my Masters introductory classes, the professor
mentions Frantz Fanon in a sentence. Fanon! My mind
stirs. I put up my hand to answer. Midway through
I realised, nope, Fanon is just the name of a guy I
should’ve paid more attention to back in undergrad.
I’ve since bought a copy of The Wretched of the Earth
which sits across me as I type this. I’m not sure why.
A large part of my laziness back then was arrogance.
That stupid, unwavering self-belief that only infects
those between the ages of 17-21, telling me I’m
smart enough to skip class and that my long hair is
really cool. I should probably also pierce my ears and
play in a band, preferably on the drums. To be fair, on
many an occasion the belief was backed by ability:
last minute assignments scoring HDs, getting through
exams by studying hours before. There were also
times when these same methods had me struggling
for grades in a couple of classes, but we don’t talk
about that. I choose to think of my 21-year-old self as
a story of unfulfilled potential rather than about a guy
blunderbussing his way through a degree.
Fast forward some years and I now find myself working
in academia (or at least, in a research/academic
capacity). It might seem a laugh now, and my inability
to do my citations correctly is surely hilariously sad,
but it does feel like things have come around full circle.
For all my griping and inattentiveness, what I enjoyed
most about my time in Monash was the intellectual
stimulation as cringeworthy as that sounds. The
realization that comes with understanding Foucault and
biopolitics. Discovering Paul Auster as my favourite
author of all time. Wondering why Judith Butler had
to be so convoluted in her approach. Being able to
harness what I learned and use it to MAKE MONEY
was something beyond my limited imagination. Who
would have thought there was money to be made in
academia? There isn’t really. But here I am with a roof
over my head, food on my plate, some publications
to my name, and I have yet to be fired. Not bad for
someone who gave Dr Yeoh a visible shock when I
turned up for a talk on pursuing an honours degree.