Taking the decision to spend at least four years studying for a degree I didn't know if I could use took a number of catalysts.
The first and most important is my daughter. She was born 4 days before my 30th birthday. I want to raise her to give her the courage to be whatever she chooses to be, whilst smashing down any barriers in her way. I think that's something most parents have in common. She's a bright little thing and I want to give her every tool she needs to succeed. One of those should surely be a good example to follow. So as I looked back at my own life with the string of opportunities not taken, barriers left unsmashed and potential unfulfilled, I became a little despondent. I often refer to my twenties as my doldrums, a stagnant decade of mental health crises. Perhaps I could turn my life around to show my daughter what is possible.
Of course, changing path is rarely easy and many fail. I'm reminded of a J.M Barrie quote from Peter Pan.
Mrs Darling: “There are many different kinds of bravery. There's the bravery of thinking of others before one's self. Now, your father has never brandished a sword nor fired a pistol, thank heavens. But he has made many sacrifices for his family, and put away many dreams." Michael: "Where did he put them?" Mrs. Darling: "He put them in a drawer. And sometimes, late at night, we take them out and admire them. But it gets harder and harder to close the drawer... He does. And that is why he is brave.”
I may yet be pushing my love of the ancient world back into a drawer, but at least now it will have a Bachelor's degree in it.
Secondly, I had two colleagues who became dear friends. My parents and husband have been endlessly supportive and encouraging, but sometimes one needs a push from someone who isn't so close. My friends were recent archaeology graduates and we had planned a trip to Campania. I offered to take tour guiding duties as neither had studied much of ancient Rome, I'd been a couple of times before and this was my 'wheelhouse.' I planned a packed itinerary and set to work with trip prep.
There's a discomfort that comes with autodidactism. The autodidact is not graded. There is no certificate, no review system, no affiliate access to knowledge. The autodidact scrounges what information that they can find, and patches it together with varying degrees of success but with no benchmark for comparisons. With this also comes a strong urge to prove one's worth, so I hunkered down. I read every book on Pompeii and other Campanian sites that I could find. These ranged from guidebooks that consisted of 75% restaurant and 25% sunbathing recommendations to monographs with a narrow focus. Nothing in particular was aimed at the arm chair historian. So I made my own comprehensive guidebook. I scoured the internet and made spreadsheets galore. One had 1500+ pieces of graffiti from Pompeii and Herculaneum, complete with translation, location and sorted by theme. Another for epigraphy. One spreadsheet listed every building in Pompeii, complete with type, date of construction, date(s) of excavation, notable finds etc. When we were there, all I needed was a regio number, insulae number and door number and I had everything I needed at my fingertips. I noted which of Wallace-Hadrill's quartiles each house belonged to, as well as making a booklet of floor plans, construction methods and decoration styles. I pinpointed objects, graffiti, mosaics and frescoes to specific rooms. I knew how many skeletons and body cavities were found, and knew locations for most. Then I sorted them by location at time fo death, as well as stratigraphical information so that I knew who died at varying stages of the eruption.
In the end, 2 bulging folders of print outs were stuffed into my suitcase, and my phone was preloaded with excavation photos and spare notes. After a week, my friends gently pointed out that this was not normal holiday behaviour. I'd known that they would underestimate me without even an ancient history GCSE to my name, but I'd overcompensated. What it did prove, at least to them at first, was that I was capable of research and capable of relaying my knowledge in an engaging fashion. On our last night they got drunk on Aperol spritzes and pestered me to do a degree until I agreed, because as much as my work had been an attempt to be taken seriously, I'd genuinely enjoyed it.
So I weighed my options, which were few. After all, I was oooold. I had a preschooler. I had zero UCAS points and A levels. The only Latin I knew came from aphorisms. I'd need to study part time. One place ticked all the boxes - Birkbeck College University of London. I applied the moment I got home.
As a teenager I didn't even dream of studying Classics. The trend of offering Ancient History degrees without language modules hadn't really yet taken hold, nor had teaching languages to students from scratch. Coming from a comprehensive school that only offered history, I'd made the unconscious decision not to bother knocking on a door that was bolted shut. Birkbeck was founded to leave the doors flapping open, and suddenly not only could I study what I loved, but I'd be in classes with people of all ages and diverse backgrounds. I would not be the black sheep I dreaded being.
I initially started the degree to see if I could achieve a degree. What followed was unplanned. I saw a degree as a climbing of Everest, not as a stepping stone to anything else. But I've well and truly caught the bug, and want to go as far as I can. Definitely an MA, hopefully a PhD. I still have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do after I've finished, but that will no doubt be the subject of another post.