Matriculation

And so we rose, earlier than usual, to a grey morning. Clouds hung over our little house, over the yard littered with apples fallen from our tree. A very English morning. We dressed with laughter, tights, sub fusc, advanced student gowns, and carried our mortarboards into the street. Our heels struck the pavement with echoing rhythm, gowns behind us in the wind; we pondered the use of the hanging fabric and remarked that nobody on the street seemed to notice our strange appearance. That is simple, here in Oxford, academic dress is no surprise.

We were a long procession, led across the bridge and down the High Street, past Magdalen and Queen’s, the Examination School and University. Turned, crossed the Street and through the lane of Catte Street, past the Vaults, past the walls and gates of All Soul’s, where none of us were likely to set foot. We peered inwards. Past the Camera and the Bodleian, up to the gate where a man in bowler hat stood guard. Our conversation was light: of places to eat and drink, of prices and of studies. I remarked how very strange the moments were, something so old, a tradition that had been carrying on for over five hundred years, streams of students, eager and intelligent, entering into Oxford. She replied, wondering how many more would come after us, down those cobble-stoned streets, talking of these same things that our ancient and esteemed colleagues would have discussed. Five hundred more years of wondering where to get a cheap pint and organic, vegetarian food.

The tourists with their cameras. And we felt watched, somehow set apart by their lenses, a different set of people than we had been that morning. Those gowns made us up anew. And as we walked into the theatre, past prying eyes and away from the movement of time, I was overcome, something about the smell, the small stairs, the sound of our footsteps on wooden steps that carried us along with so many who had come before. And so we sat there, galleries of students in academic dress, and listened as we were inducted, matriculated, accepted into Oxford. The Latin phrasing, the lifting of a cap. It was done, it was small, but we were changed.

We took the long way home, winding through lanes too narrow for cars, just crowds of students laughing and chattering home. We were part of this now, bigger than ourselves, still the same but different inside our own minds. And going home seemed so wrong, to change out of those robes and into our jeans, to sit down at 20^th century machines and write down all of our thoughts. So we went down the road to a 20^th century pub and drank 20^th century champagne in our own honour. And then went home, to change back into ourselves, and ventured out in search of good times, as I am sure that, five hundred years ago, students did the same.