Desmond and Maya

Applications take me back to my time as a student. What I knew then was barely a thread in the tapestry of knowledge I have now, but I excelled at creative reasoning. Lecturers scolded me when I couldn't answer their questions and it was rare for me to be near the top of my class in exams but, at my graduation lunch, I caught the world-renowned Professor Dawson and asked him for a position in his research team. He accepted my request, conditional on me solving a simple problem. Of course, the problem was simple to state but, in its solution, was a vast forest of complexity. I gave myself three months to work on the problem, deciding that I would give up and work a soulless job in the city if I failed, just like the bulk of the other graduates.

A little under two months into my challenge, I had an idea. It was like I'd found a great track in the middle of the forest, leading all the way to the other side. There were a few bumps in the road, one or two fallen trees, but I had a complete solution within two weeks. I spent my last few weeks letting the professor think he had me beat, before handing him a short thesis, so impeccably written, that he'd have sooner given up tenure than given up having me on his team. At least I thought it was that good. It took him a week to hand a thesis of equal measure consisting of corrections and criticisms. He did concede, however, that my solution was essentially correct and complete and he admitted that he had not expected me to solve the problem, as it was one no one had solved before.

But that was decades ago. Now I prefer to rest in my kingdom of knowledge than to venture blindly into the forest of the unknown. So I teach and I edit and I sit on panels and sign grants and help those below me with their proposals. It's a comfortable life and, for the most part, I'm quite satisfied with it. 

Anyway, this little chapter of my life wasn't really about me. It was about two applicants, hoping to join the university as undergraduates.

Having reached somewhat dizzying heights of prestige in my field, despite relative difficulty in my own years of study, I am remarkably in tune with some of the more challenging students. I enjoy battling their low confidences or creating stimuli for their scattered attentions, I prosper with those who think the wrong way around or who feel like they have a thousand conflicting minds at war in their own heads. These are people who find the world hard and who need a little more but, with the right guidance, give so much more back.

Unfortunately, this means I am left to choose from the students who are rejected by the other staff members. I don't mind so much, for people of such intellectual regard, they are remarkably incapable of recognising true intelligence. On this occasion, in fact, I was more than delighted with my choice of pupils, I was far less delighted by the situation surrounding applications.

I was in my final academic year teaching at the university. Come August the following calendar year, I was to move on to so-called semiretirement, in which I make the occasional guest lecture and otherwise wander the staff room telling the old stories and feeding the fish. I was to be, in effect, a living memorial to my professional self. So I wanted my final student to have my full attention and to be my best yet.

The box of applications could easily have been mistaken for recycling by the time it reached my desk. Pages were torn and crumpled. Some pages bore rings of tea or coffee, one smelled suspiciously like whiskey. Several were hastily stuffed in sideways after other staff members had clearly changed their mind on which students to take. The box was already in protest against order, so I turned it over and watched a storm of potential underlings shower my desk.

I spent hours searching through the pages. It was easy to disregard a few applicants, people who were more interested in the university experience than in study, or who wanted wealth in money over wealth in knowledge - there's nothing inherently wrong with these, I just know we wouldn't get on. One of these stood out like a golden tooth, Desmond Griffith. He is the son of the then chancellor of the university. He seemed to believe that this granted him a free position at the university. His grades were the lowest of all applicants and he wrote his cover letter in one long paragraph - the first sentence read "What can I say except I'm awesome." I set his application aside for my own entertainment.

A few hours later my picked up Maya Smith. After the golden tooth, she was an unrefined diamond. She had three older brothers who all followed their dad into the family car shop. Being a girl, the best people hoped for her was to marry up. She wrote that, against expectation, this made her happy, because it gave her the freedom not to be a mechanic or salesperson. Instead of a preview of a preordained future, watching her dad pull engines apart and put them back together became engineering lessons, cooking with her mum became chemistry lessons, she was free to write and draw and craft to her heart's content.

She intended to join the University’s summer schools. This was the most common route for students, but she went to a state school and state schools can’t afford to send their students. She certainly couldn’t afford to pay her own way - she spent her summers working to pay for the clothes on her back. Her family weren’t well off and hand-me-downs leave an only daughter looking somewhat out of place. Given the cost of living, I imagine she was paying for more than just her clothes. 

I began to wonder why such a driven individual had made it as far as my desk - surely anyone would be lucky to have her. Then I saw it. Her mother died a year ago. She was left to look after the entire family. The freedom she’d enjoyed had been ebbed away by cooking and cleaning and caring for four grown men. It wrecked her grades.

She didn’t have to say it, she was trapped. I suspect she made the application in secret and that university would be her escape. I don’t mean this in judgement of her family, you understand. I doubt that they intended to trap her or would even discourage her from applying. It is the pressure she puts on herself, that her brothers accidentally reinforce by complimenting how well she cares for them, that is trapping her. If she chose not to have dinner ready when they get home, they would struggle not to grumble, and she would cave in with guilt, but if she couldn’t make dinner, because she was at university, then they’d learn to look after themselves and it wouldn’t be her fault. 

A student like this is a gift. Someone who has suffered is willing to suffer for their work, because they can and because they fear suffering again. I decided there and then that I would pick her.

That night brought an end to my plans. The chancellor, Desmond’s father, graced me with a call. 

“My son is applying to your department,” he said without a word of greeting, “and I understand that you are the last port of call for accepting students.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t imagine he get as far as you but, in case he does, I won’t tell you how much your department could benefit from my goodwill, or how much it could suffer without it.”

He hung up. It was a threat. Accept my son, or your department suffers. My stomach began to grind against itself in anger, disgust, disbelief, resignation and, finally, disappointment. I had always respected myself and now, at the end of my career, commanded the respect of most people I met, and my final act would see that fall apart.

I wanted to accept Maya. She deserved it and, as demonstrated on this very night, the world is rigged against her, but I cannot stand against the world on my own. I thought about my colleagues. Some just starting their new lives in my world, others who had helped propel me to where I am and many who are just waiting for their big idea. It may seem like nothing, but the loss of the chancellor’s support would be devastating to them. The lucky ones would get jobs elsewhere, but that would only make things even worse for those who stayed. I had to accept Desmond.

The next day I started emailing around. I begged the department to let me take on two students, but they said funding had already been fixed, so I implored the other staff members to take on Maya. They said they felt for her, but a sob story didn’t make up for bad grades. This was the moment when I realised, we were all part of the rigging that pulled against people like Maya. All these academics, good people and more than aware of their actions, chose easy candidates. The chancellor, not a good person if I’m any judge, thought he was doing right by his son. Even me. I would choose to protect my department, out of fear, instead of giving someone the opportunity they have ground themselves to the bone for. 

So I chose her. If the department can’t look out for her, I won’t look for them. 

The department no longer exists. At least not as it did then. After the staff numbers fell by half, it seemed like it would fall apart, but I stayed my retirement for a few years. I became head of department and pulled in more favours than I realised I had left. We survived the chancellor’s reign then moved to a larger campus. Maya excelled and, though she hasn’t got her Nobel prize yet, she did have her own big idea, then a dozen more. When I finally retired, I gave her my office. I needed one Desmond Griffith from the admin team to sign off on the office transfer. He tried to say no and I threatened to pull the funding that I had left the university. 

I offered to see Maya into her new office with a glass of champagne. We reminisced over her years as my student and we watched Desmond himself change the name on the door. I began to laugh. She eyed me curiously. 

“What’s so funny, professor?”

I realised she never knew about Desmond and the chancellor. 

“Just remembering my own name going up,” I lied.