The Oxford Life – An Introductory Note, by Annick Labadie

I should probably put all of this into context, before it starts making even less sense than it should.

I write from Oxford University’s engineering library, once again doing what I feel like doing instead of what I ought to be doing. Next to my desk, windows frame the skyline of a small British town whose aesthetic value far surpasses its functionality. Oxford has a slight (read: gargantuan) slant for form over function. There are 1600 “listed” buildings in this city. Their architecture cannot be modified, and students regularly walk outdoors to reach the toilet from their respective rooms. Those two facts might or might not be related. In any case, it’s always great to put on a raincoat at 2:00 am because you have to pee, and the weather outside hovers around one-part Baufort-scale-busting winds, two-part Monsoon rainfall.  I know, I complain a lot. But, it’s what we Oxford students do best.

I’ve been living here for a year now, sometimes studying, but mostly procrastinating to avoid studying. I get excited whenever it’s just cloudy outside, drink warm beer at pubs where Tolkien and Lewis once argued over the logistics of Mordor, and far too often, I eat food that would turn anything Stouffers into choice delicacy.

While studying in Oxford, my daily schedule has inevitably involved dealing with an amalgam of traditions the university community has kept on respirator for a couple of centuries now. Which is probably why they’re called traditions. A few examples: I must wear an academic uniform called “sub fusc” to take my exams (“examinations” in British) and to partake in official college¹ dinners, which are eaten in halls that look more like cathedrals than cafeterias. I can’t walk on the grass of my college’s grounds; only the professors (“Dons” in British) can do that. My peers are somehow convinced that they enjoy cricket, Royal Ascot, punting, her Majesty the Queen, Henley Regatta², and raiding a local store called Primark to dress up for weekly theme parties (bops in British). Proverbial themes range from cross-dressing to cross-dressing, with the occasional superhero inspired cross-dressing thrown in. British men, it turns out, love wearing wigs, eye shadow, pastel-colored leggings, bras, and strapless dresses. Might be a boarding school thing, but I can’t be sure.

My identity as an Oxford student has partly been shaped by a never-ending feud with our British academic arch-nemesis, Cambridge University. Since my arrival over here, I’ve developed irrational hatred for anything related to that institution, even deleting Jane Goodall’s Wikipedia page on a few occasions.

I’m probably lying. I don’t really understand rivalries. Well I do, and that’s why I don’t.

Antagonistic dispositions toward Cambridge are reified each year through a more provincial and refined version of every noteworthy American college football rivalry. Since 1829, both universities fight in a boat race along a 4-mile stretch of the Thames River, for a chance at unabashed supremacy. Fans trade shirtless obesity and face paint for a suit and bowtie, and the can of Budweiser for pimms’ and lemonade. Athletes swap shoulder pads for one-piece lycra suits. Oxford always wins, I’m told. Even when they lose. In case you own a television, Red Bull used to feature the race in an advertisement.

I have also fought my own battle with Cambridge, as I play basketball here. Or some British version of that sport anyway. Since it’s about as popular as log throwing in this country, my team shares one turquoise multi-purpose gym with 87 other sports clubs, ranging from ballroom dancing, to archery, to korfball.

If you’re wondering why I’m here, you’re not alone. As the story goes, I somehow managed to convince a group of 7 Canadians into giving me a Rhodes scholarship back in October 2007. Still not sure how I managed this.  I’ve now begun work on a PhD in biomedical engineering after finishing a master’s degree in the same discipline in August 2009. Although I like to whine about the UK, life is actually pretty good (read: amazing) over here. And while I still occasionally think of my presence in Oxford as the product of a clerical error (said thought process occurring whenever I take a break from engineering to repair my apartment shower and cause a flood in the basement) I can’t say I’m too mad about such feelings of inadequacy.

My previous stop was Seton Hall University, New-Jersey, thanks to a basketball scholarship awarded by a head coach named Phyllis Mangina. Read again.  I spent most of my undergraduate years 2 blocks away from the blooming cultural epicenter that is Newark, accompanied by (and sometimes running away from) a mob of BET-addicted athletic girls who filled their workdays with intro to tennis lectures, naps, and AIM sidekick conversations between one another while sitting at the same dinner table. I loved them, but we had about as much in common as coconut oil and backgammon.

Now, I spend most of my days with people whose physical talents would make Stephen Hawking look athletic, and who enjoy discussing zombie contingency plans over a pint of beer. (Note: That description might or might not refer solely to my next-door neighbor). Anyway, you can imagine the contrast. It’s a welcome contrast.  And what you’ll read in the coming weeks is my attempt to chronicle my experiences before all of it starts becoming too normal. I’m not exactly sure why you should care about any of this, but I’ll try and make it worth your time. Perhaps you can begin to see Oxford beyond the Hogwart-esque imagery it normally induces.

Next week, I’ll talk about Oxford’s final exam rituals, fish, and the combination of the two. Stay tuned.

¹I’ll discuss the term “college” in its entirety at some point, if I can somehow find a way to make it sound remotely interesting. For now, let’s pretend Oxford is divided in 44 colleges, each having unique, distinguishing features. Students are both members of a college and of the university. If you’re familiar with Harry Potter (HP), it’s like being part of Gryffindor or Slytherin House and attending Hogwarts, without the sorting hat ceremony. If you’re unlike 30 million Americans and don’t know anything about HP, the sorting hat is a fictional magical object choosing one’s house (college) based on visceral personal characteristics. My college, called Wadham, is known for its communist tendencies. Again, I repeat, without the sorting hat. I’m reminded of the Communist thing every time I open emails from college representatives, who typically use “Comrades” as a salutation.

²If you don’t know what any of this is, that’s ok. My point: things are different here.

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