Walking through the Van Wickle gates on Convocation Day held a similar sensation to competing in Miss USA. A crowd of people cheering, flags waving proudly, and the glimmer of hope that my life was about to change—though this time, I was walking into classrooms rather than across a stage in 6” heels and a bikini while preaching about world peace. At Miss USA, I was surrounded by women who had been conditioned for the stage since they were toddlers, born to ambitious mothers who signed them up for baby pageants like “Miss Captivating Infant” in hopes of raising a future Miss USA. At Brown, my peers seemed to have been nurtured for the classroom, fluent in an academic language I was only just beginning to learn.
My path to Brown wasn’t straightforward. When I graduated high school in 2010, uncertainty was the only thing I was sure of. My parents were too preoccupied with their own lives to care about my whereabouts once my feet walked out of our front door. There was no Tami Taylor to chase me down at school and push me to attend college and aim high. (This is a millennial callback; if you haven’t seen Friday Night Lights, please, please watch it.) In fact, the only person who offered any words of encouragement in my life was a substitute English teacher in 10th grade who wrote “You should be a writer” on one of my essays. I was a middle-of-the-pack introverted horse girl no one expected would end up at an Ivy League.
While my friends and classmates were heading off to various colleges, I made my way to the land of make-believe, a city where no one cared about SATs or GPAs. Los Angeles was a runway of opportunity that flew beyond structured expectations and allowed anyone to shape themselves into whatever they desired. For many years, the city and I were best friends, embarking on new, glamorous adventures daily—storming couture runways, filming MVP Nneka Ogwumike at the WNBA All-Star game, or protesting climate change in DTLA—the city provided everything.
But as with any friendship, challenges arose, and I questioned whether or not our goals remained aligned.
Employed in the entertainment industry, I watched as strikes began to overwhelm studio sidewalks, media company mergers imploded crews, and CEOs were caught in a flurry of lawsuits while their employees signed up for unemployment benefits for the very first time, leaving much of LA brokenhearted. I began to question my own place in the city when the director of a feature film I worked on proudly declared to our office of underpaid and exhausted crew members that he would quit if our world-famous studio merged with another—this would have placed us under the rule of a morally corrupt leader who faced a bevy of sexual assault allegations. Just another day in Hollywood.
That merger was completed a few weeks ago. I wonder if the director quit.
The chaos of my industry pushed me to want something more. That’s when I discovered the Resumed Undergraduate Education program at Brown: a unique opportunity for non-traditional students to receive an exemplary education, with the perks of specialized mentorship.
When I told my friends I was planning to attend college in my 30s, the response was usually some version of “Good for you!” tinged with curiosity and confusion. Then came the inevitable, “To get your PhD?” to which I would fumble out, “No, no…for undergrad.” Their brows would furrow for just a millisecond before they managed to hide the mental math, seeking to piece together what exactly I had been doing with my life for the past decade.
Others were more blunt. “Why? Employers don’t care about a college degree anymore. The only thing that matters is who you know.”
When my partner shared with an old friend that we were moving across the country so I could attend Brown, the reaction was one of terror: “Uh, are you dating a high schooler?” To some, the idea that someone in their 30s would seek an undergraduate degree was inconceivable.
Spending over a decade engulfed by an environment where youth was the ultimate goal, I was unsure how the student body at Brown would react to a presence that was distinctly different from theirs. While on a mission to pick up my shiny new student ID, I was confronted with my differences immediately.
“You’re a graduate student?” The worker inquired with a kind smile.
“Undergrad,” I imposed.
“Oh, it’s at your dorm, then.”
“Ah…I…I live off campus.”
She’s confused. I’m confused. Everyone’s confused!
With my student ID in hand, TRUE Orientation provided a comforting space of similar backgrounds. The group of eight multifarious Resumed Undergraduate Education (RUE) students shared fragments of our backstories as we navigated moments of excitement and pre-Convocation jitters. Hailing from every corner of the country, our group welcomed artists, dancers, and international travelers—all of us just on the brink of a transformative experience.
As classes began, I knew I stuck out, and my six-foot stature didn’t extend any camouflaging techniques. In my former world of entertainment and pageantry, turning heads was a sign you were doing something right. Now, I was longing to blend in. “What year are you?” Classmates would ask with a tone of wonder. I’d respond with a jumble of words about how all RUE students begin at first-year standing, but I had transfer credits to bring in, though I was unsure where they would land me. I’d quickly realize they weren’t curious if I was a sophomore or junior.
“You just don’t…speak like an undergraduate.” Ah yes, they want to know my age.
“Let’s just say, I remember 9/11.”
It’s in moments like these that I found peace. My breadth of experience allows me to sink my fingers deeply into the soil of knowledge found across the Brown University greens. Truth be told, the degree isn’t even what matters to me. Of course, it’s nice, in the way a glittering crown and sash are, but it’s the pursuit of knowledge that is propelling me forward. To think in new ways, read literature I would’ve never considered, and hear the perspectives of classmates half my age from halfway across the globe. To sit with professors filled with care and consideration, who are committed to encouraging success in every student. To be in a space where imperfections and mistakes aren’t edited out in Photoshop or deleted on the cutting room floor—they’re embraced.
