Journalling: Reflecting on Exams

I’ve been journalling since I was eleven.

When we first took off on our crazy bicycle trip across Europe and beyond, I was given a little black moleskin journal and a mission: to document famous historical characters we encountered along the way, from Churchill to Caesar Agustus. Well, I did document those guys, I even drew them with colored pencil, but I also wrote something like 4 pages a day in super tiny cursive because I had read all these old travel books that were in a journal-style format and I was obsessed. Whenever we’d stop for a break, whenever there was time in the evening, whenever we were eating lunch at a museum, I’d get something out on paper.

I haven’t actually seen that first journal in years – it’s in storage somewhere – but I kept on going when we came back to the States and all through our continued adventures. Now I have my own little home in Ontario with my best friend, and on my shelf are TWELVE journals. Eleven are complete (about one a year), with one still getting a new entry every couple of days. I no longer write four pages a day. I have no idea how 12 year old Hannah found the time and motivation for that. But I do jot down little things, and those books are now the greatest treasures I have. It’s amazing to be able to flip back and see where my mind was at on any given week going back through my teen years. A little ‘cringey’ too, honestly. It’s given me maybe too much insight into my own flaws and insecurities. So yes, cringey. But still good.

Today I was flipping back to see what my experience of first year at university was like, and I found this.

I was 19. I’d just come home from my first set of final exams, and I was feeling exasperated and completely weirded out – like I’d just touched base on an alien planet. I thought you’d get a laugh out of it. Three years later, I’m a semester away from graduating, and I still think tests are bogus. My grades aren’t what I’ve gotten out of university, but that’s what the world looks at to see if I’ve learned anything. Weird, right?

Exams, exams. I do not understand them. The way they are structured makes no sense to me. Write 3,200 words by hand. Answer 60 multiple choice questions. Do this in 3 hours. During this time, sit quietly in the gymnasium at your numbered desk. There will be no talking, humming, or muttering. Sneezing is frowned upon. You will recieve a Scantron card. Fill in the bubbles completely and correctly with blue ink or pencil lead and you will be rewarded with a number which will determine your social status and future. You will sit under softly buzzing too-white lights and obediently complete your booklet as harpy-like proctors, all nearly-identical old women, stalk along the rows of desks. 27 rows. 21 desks to a row. 567 students reciting the knowledge they were instructed in, the knowledge deemed suitable for them to know. I am in a factory which spits out citizens.

 

Otherwise, this is a lovely evening. Christmas music is playing, the house smells like cinnamon, and Will is visiting. Tomorrow, Gabe comes home. Here, I’ve drawn what my cold feels like in my throat.”