Ugly Duckling to PhD – Part 2

At the ripe-young age of fifty-six, I tripped over a low table at my place of employment (which shall go unnamed), jammed my ankle, and sought medical aid when I found walking problematic. My boss’s response was to change her Worker’s Comp insurance and demand the keys to the office. What? Yeah, you can do that if you have under six employees in Oregon. Ugh!

Enter my knight-in-shining-Dockers with the royal pronouncement that I was returning to college. Teary-eyed, I replied that the royal coffers were sorely depleted and now, with my meager contributions halted due to the troll-under-the-bridge, his statement, though well-intended, made riding a flying-unicorn akin to a walk in the park and did he notice I couldn’t perambulate?

And yet he persisted… “You got eight children through school and now it’s your turn.” There was something in the tenor of his voice, not to mention the already-filled-in application, that moved me from despair to merely hopeless disinterest. “You just have to write a paragraph”, he could have said I just had to climb Mt. Everest. But I did … write the paragraph that is. Everest is still out of the question.

And thus, began my twelve-year journey from Ugly Duckling to PhD.

After being accepted as a student at Clatsop Community College, I remember standing on the hill outside the Math Department and looking out over the Columbia River, Megler Bridge, Washington foothills on the other side, and the Pacific Ocean on the horizon stage left. I inhaled and said a prayer. This is where I belong. This is fulfillment of my dream. A voice whispered, “But how?” I knew that I could attend approximately one semester without a scholarship Yes, we were that broke.

Fortunately, a Find-Your-Scholarship program in the Women’s Center in which you typed in any relevant information you could think of regarding your life, experiences, genealogy, military (married to, daughter of), and any other random or stray straw available. The computer computed and spit out nearly 300 available scholarships. I narrowed them down to about 80 and then seriously eliminated another 70+. Only one really caught my eye, a Jack Kent Cooke Undergraduate-Transfer Scholarship of $30K per year for up to three years. This would be totally perfect. The following conversation ensued.

“Who are you kidding?  Questioned my negative self.

“What would it hurt to try? A tiny inner voice asked.

“But, you’re fifty-six! Get real.”  Quipped Ms. Negativity.

 “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”  The small voice was persistent.

Choosing to follow my inner child, she’s little but formidable, I spent the next weeks finding, filling out, and assembling the necessary paperwork. I found the CCC advisor, Professor Julie Brown, who was contact person for the college, but who had never done this before, so we embarked on this journey together. And, waited.

Portland State offered me their Laurel Scholarship. Yippee-skip! I was over the moon but concerned with the 90-mile commute each-way. I figured I’d work it out somehow and at least now I had a place to go to continue my dream of advanced education. However, this was not to be.

A few days later during an English class, Prof. Brown announced that we were all going to the lobby to view an installation pertinent to that day’s lecture. Must be a great display, I thought, when we entered an overflowing lobby. Prof. Brown thanked everyone for being there and then turned to me. “You still don’t know why you’re here, do you?” My stomach jumped as I was singled out. I like to think I’m not completely oblivious to the world around me but quite often am. My face flushed and I shook my head. She turned to the audience and pulling out a letter, announced that I was the first-ever CCC recipient of the prestigious Jack Kent Cook Under-Graduate Scholarship, granting me $90K for three years at the university of my choice!

Someone got me a chair.