This is a picture of my hand holding a picture of my hand. How’s that for meta?
When I went to university, I was a slow learner. I had to write essays. I was a poor BA student.
And I mean metaphorically and literally.
No multichoice for me. Things may have changed, but I doubt it. C’est la vie…
I didn’t even take film studies. Close though. English literature major.
Nothing wrong with BA students, mind you.
Bob Jones always liked BAs because they could write. That meant that they could think. And that meant he could train them to run his businesses.
That was back in the days when he used to fly in commercial airlines, but after he punched the journalist in the face who disturbed him trout fishing in Turangi.
And long before he was called out for racist comments in a national newspaper.
Anyway.
It took me three years to learn how to write. I was totally unprepared. This is mainly due to the fact that I thought I was above average at English at High School and I thought I had above average teachers.
I got a scholarship in English in 7th form, you see. It was worth an extra $150 towards my studies at the time I think. IKR…?
So I declined. I grew my hair long and joined a rock and roll band. Actual about 5 different bands. It’s a blur now.
And after three years of selling guitar strings in Taupo, I realised that my best years were probably behind me now.
That international tour to Norfolk Island with the Wairakei Country Music Club.
Those cassette tape recordings of the original music my friend in the goth band wrote and we performed.
Coming second in a talent contest with another mate who sounded exactly like Dave Dobbyn but was never gonna win because the winner and the judges were all family members.
Those drunken 21sts.
The biker club in the industrial area with the spiked corrugated iron fence (whose idea was the whipped cream…?).
Good times, but my best years were behind me and I needed to move on, find another life, settle down.
Get a haircut, eventually. Regrow those brain cells.
So I had to learn to write essays about 21st-century literature.
And I could read but I couldn’t write.
It turns out that my scholarship in English was suspect as well. Possibly fraudulent.
I blame the NZQA. And my high school. It was their fault.
My test results for English had been scaled as part of rather dodgy norm-referenced testing.
In other words, my score was almost above average. But not exceptional.
It was just that everyone else in my cohort was crap and I was the least crap. Plus they had already allocated a scholarship to the school from the year before that had to be used.
Ka pai me…!
But back to the writing. I got Bs. I got the occasional B+. It was hard to rise above this level of mediocracy.
In the end, I got help. Professional help. From someone who KNEW.
Her name with Judith. She was very old. And she had her own office. I think the university had forgotten about her, because it was in a really obscure location.
I’m not sure what she was supposed to do. And I can’t remember how I met her. Or if she was paid.
But she would interpret the scratching on the bottom of my essays and tell me what they meant. It was like reading tea leaves. She was my medium.
And it worked like magic. Judith was my saviour.
One of my lecturers would write something like “This is Ok, but lacks cohesion”… I was always “Whuh…?
But even when you go and talk to these pillocks in their office hours they just say more of the same thing. Meaningless drivel.
That’s when I began to develop a deep-seated suspicion of academics. I mean, as a species they are kind of cute. But we should be sceptical of them. Just sayin’.
Thanks to Judith, though, I started to learn how to write. She showed me the basics.
Like how to understand the topic or question. How to plan. And then how to write.
And then… Dulce decorum est…! I started getting As and then A+s. It was a freaking miracle.
To be honest, it was a little mindless after a while.
To start with I was so jazzed, I’d print out every A+ on a sheet of golden A4 paper on my new Cannon Bubble Jet printer that I’d paid ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS for.
And I’d put them up on my wall.
Soon the whole wall was covered. And by soon I mean relatively speaking.
But it got embarrassing so I took them down and wrote a book about how to write essays instead.
And this book, I got designed and commercially printed. And I even sold a bunch at the unofficial student bookshop where they always had all the second-hand books that no one really wanted.
That’s the cover in the picture up above. I kinda feel that I started to find my voice when I wrote this book.
Unfortunately, that was the voice of a snarky arrogant git. Funny though.
Here is one pearl:
Always give a monkey a banana
…your tutor, teacher, lecture – whoever set the assignment – is a monkey. What you have to do is give them a banana – that’s your essay. What’s important is that you give them the right kind of banana. Probably, this person is an academic. An academic is just a monkey with a degree and it’s the job of these monkeys to make difficult things more complicated. He or she won’t just come out and tell you what kind of banana they want. However, as you work through our method, you can increase your chance of dishing out the right kind of banana.
It’s a bit cringy now.
But I wanted to share it because it illustrates a point. And this is… that this is what is wrong with our education system.
The current situation with NCEA comes to mind. This kind of strategy still works. You can try it out.
The skills you need to get through are not the same as learning the content that you’re learning to navigate.
But don’t let that stop you from getting those A+s… Download link below for the full unexpurgated version.
