Into the Black

Isabelle was used to formality because of her experience with Cranbrook. But, as she put on her Matriculation attire, it seemed different. She stood in front of the full length mirror and looked at herself dressed in the black skirt, white blouse with black tie and her black academic robe. Isabelle’s room. This was Matriculation Day at Christ Church. She left her room and proceeded to the quad where others had already gathered to prepare for the walk to the Sheldonian Theatre.

As they walked across the quad through the stone archways, Isabelle could not help but think about the fact that her father had walked these same paths and sat in the same theatre. She and her classmates filed in and stood in front of wooden pews as a pipe organ rang out the music of Bach. The music seemed to lilt into the air and surround them. Once the professors and administration of Christ Church arrived in a prosessional, they sat and a man in doctoral garb began to speak in Latin. The way he spoke, the antique scent of the inside of this cathedral made Isabelle realize that her life was going to be very different now. She was alone and could do whatever she wanted to with her life. Suddenly, she felt a lightness within her, as if she was rising or having an out of body experience and was looking down upon herself in that moment.

Yes, this was the beginning.

Sherry, Jane Austen and an Essay

Isabelle had heard from other students that the first meeting with a tutor could be quite intimidating and even overwhelming. But, on a Monday, she walked across the courtyard into the limestone building that housed the Tutor offices. The regal buildings here seemed to comfort her, though, because they very much reminded her of Cranbrook back home. She wore her black skirt, white blouse and black tie as requested, and in doing so, felt as if she was the heroine in some Victorian novel. Once inside, she found his office: John Grant, it said. She reluctantly knocked on the door and was greeted by a man with a very kind face. He looked to be in his mid fifties and stood about 5 foot eleven. The first thing that she noticed was his black hair that was graying at the temples and framing his face. He smiled warmly and asked her to sit in the wingback chair next to his. She slowly sat down and smiled back in a very stiff manor.

“Welcome to Oxford. I am John and I will be working with you for the remainder of your time here at Oxford.”

“Hello, my name is Isabelle,” she looked at him directly, but her air of formality seemed to melt a bit after a few moments.

“According to my review of your information, it says that you are here to study English and focus on writing. Is that correct?” he asked.

Isabelle nodded her head.

“Can you tell me what writers you admire and why? One of the most important parts of becoming a good writer is to be well read and I assume you have gone through the reading list that was sent to you once you were accepted after the interview.”

For about three minutes, Isabelle sat in silence looking down at her shoes.

“I…I did read the list and…well…” she stammered.

Noticing, Isabelle’s apparent unease and seeing that it was four o’clock in the afternoon, John got up from his wingback chair and went over to a kitchenette area.

“Can I offer you some tea or some sherry?” he asked.

Isabelle looked up, unsure of what exactly it was that she wanted.

“How about some sherry. It always helps me to calm a bit and focus on my thoughts if I am a bit nervous.” he said.

With that, Isabelle smiled realizing that he understood her plight. John presented her with a small cordial glass of sherry and one for himself. Her first sip tasted stingy and sweet. As she swallowed, her throat filled with its warmth. As she got ready to speak, she made eye contact with John and smiled.

“Thank you so much,” she said sincerely and continued,” The writer that I seemed to connect with the most was Jane Austen. I know everyone says that, but it is her understanding of how human beings really truly are that gets to me. Not that I didn’t enjoy Shakespeare, Chaucer and Shelley. It is just that I feel I can relate to her point of view when she writes.”

“No, Isabelle. There are no wrong answers here. I want you to be decisive in your opinions about what you read. The most important thing to remember is to support your ideas with examples from what you have read and to be as thorough in your research as possible. We will discuss the lectures you attend and you will write two essays a week for me based on those lectures and your assigned readings.,” John explained.

“How long do the essays need to be?” Isabelle asked.

“About eight pages each,” John replied.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea and excitement swept over her as she realized that all of her time here was to be spent writing. What would she say? This was more rigorous than Cranbrook had ever been, but, at the same time, it was more openended and allowed her to follow her own inclinations. She had two lectures a week and met with John once a week. So, the rest of the time could be spent immersed in writing. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“Isabelle? are you with me?” John asked.

“Oh yes, I am sorry… I was just thinking about the essays.” she whispered.

“This week, I would like to have you write about Shelley and whether you think his poetry has the characteristics of a Romantic poet or a Classic one and why. I would also like for you to write about Jane Austen and expand on what you shared with me earlier,” John said.

“Yes. I will do that,” Isabelle said, “Thank you.”

As Isabelle left the Tutor building, she slowly walked through the quad. Reality rested heavily upon her shoulders and she began to realize that this was the beginning….the beginning of understanding what it is like to think for one’s self.