I wrote a blog back last October about revisiting Montreal. A city I spent one of the most formative years of my life. I hadn’t been back since then, and it was both cathartic and, as I wrote in that blog, really hard to leave again at the end. It turns out I’m not done with that place.
Coincidentally, a few months later, I found myself visiting Nottingham, a city I hadn’t visited since the year after I graduated. I say haven’t visited, I spent about 3 hours there about six years ago for a job interview. For various reasons (literally only going to the interview and a Cafe Nero, trying not to throw up the whole time), that doesn’t count. I almost came back for hockey this year, but I’m glad I didn’t. Because I think I needed to do this first.
So I was back for a conference, which meant I had the evening I arrived and the second evening to see some of the city I called home once upon a time. And it had interesting results.
When I talk about my Uni experience, or specifically living in Nottingham, I always say the same ‘I had a nice time but I didn’t need to stay.’ I always thought about the place, a nice place to go to Uni, but gave me no particular reason to stay there. Had I got a job there for some reason I would probably have just…stayed. But without that job or any other ties there, I was happy enough to move on. A couple of times, like that job interview, I applied for things there in desperation for a job any job as a job somewhere you know is at least better than starting fresh.
Within a few hours of being back, I had an overwhelming and simple thought of: good decision. I didn’t hate it, I didn’t hate that I was back…but I was so happy I didn’t live there. I could not imagine present me living there. I couldn’t imagine a version of me as I am today who came of living there. And that’s all because of what I said above really I think, some places are for a certain season of your life. For me, it was fine for Uni. A nice enough city, just the right size for me, for Uni, and now we move.
For those reasons, the city centre was a fun nostalgia romp. Familiar shops are still there, and familiar bars still (people apparently still go to Pit and Pendulum, you ok huns? Also, The Horn in Hand is a great pub name still no notes). Everywhere was the same-ish, if a little more tired and worn (aren’t we all). The only real note of sadness comes from external factors; the array of flowers currently outside City Hall for the people tragically murdered a week ago. The sobering element of shared experience with those students, and the place I called a largely safe home being not so for them so tragically.
External tragic events aside, I found myself feeling very little for my former home. Just an array of ‘huh cool that’s still there’ combined with general observations about the erm, nightlife of Nottingham (still a mix of more Emo kids than most places and a hint of Northern very dressed up style, all a bit alien after years in Cardiff). What did strike me this time was a reminder of how nice the people are as a rule. Perhaps it’s because, in terms of UK travel outside of Wales, I’m only really used to London now as a regular destination, but everyone was beyond friendly and helpful. People in shops, restaurants, and bars were chatty and kind. I also didn’t feel unsafe or weird being alone on my travels. And it was nice, people being nice. Ay, up duck and all that.
That was my evening in the city centre, my second evening. I ducked out of the conference dinner (pro tip, my neurodiverse introverts, never do the conference dinner. You’ve seen those assholes all day anyway). And it being summer, I decided to get a tram (we have TRAMS in Nottingham now, that’s a novelty) and walk across the University campus, through my old home of Beeston.
Here the nostalgia was stronger, obviously, it’s where I spent most of my time. But it quickly also turned into a ‘this is where I cried’ tour. So to save us the long version a highlights reel;
The arts centre, where instead of signing up for theatre auditions, I had a panic attack, and then booked a coach home….on my first weekend at Uni.
The chapel, where not through religious crisis but because I couldn’t do the choir piece as well as everyone else, and the conductor lost patience with me.
The toilets on the open day that I came to on crutches, and had to hop around campus until my hands bled.
The library (need I say more
)
One really innocuous spot that struck me was a bit of carpark between the Trent and Portland buildings. It’s actually where I got my degree results. Because I’m old enough that they were still posted in hard copy. There I didn’t cry, but I felt like it that day. Because I never should have passed that degree. I struggled so hard, with no support. I got to third year with withering commentary that my work was ‘careless’ and that I needed to ‘proof read more’. I struggled with the work despite constantly working. Everything was so hard (I did, however do well in exams). In my final year, one tutor suggested I get assessed for dyslexia. I always assume he was too as he was great at recognising it, or maybe he’s just caring and good at his job. Either way I got assessed and diagnosed and got some accommodations. I now know there was much more going on but that one thing at least saved my degree. I managed to pass because I got the bare minimum in accommodations that let me scrape by. And I think that makes me emotional about my degree; the amount of work I had to put in just to scrape by.
I remember another tutor making a pointed comment that one girl in our group must have done all the work as she was known for being very talented. She was very talented, but I think of all the hours of work I put in on that project and I’m still angry at that comment. I think of all the house of work I put in on group projects only to not get credit, I think of all the work I put in all the knowledge I absorbed only to be knocked back for ‘carelessness’ or ‘bad proof reading’ or for not expressing it in the right way. I think of thinking how hard I worked compared to others for less results. And that’s what makes me cry about Uni.
After campus, and a nice stroll to the History department, which is in fact, filled with many happy memories for me. Despite it all I did love my subject, and that department always felt safe and supportive. Maybe because it’s housed in a little house at the edge of campus. Maybe, except for one that I can think of, they just attracted a nice crowd of lecturers. Maybe it was just the one thing I got right picking that subject. Who knows?
Beyond that I strolled through Broadgate the halls of residence I lived at my first year. And I was hit by a wave of sickening nostalgia at the sight of the main building where we registered and got our keys. A perfect memory of the day I left home. In retrospect, I wasn’t ready. I had just turned 18 a few weeks before (hello, end of August, baby). In retrospect, I was autistic as fuck and the change was hard. In retrospect as much as moving might have been ‘good for me’ maybe also it wasn’t. Maybe I shouldn’t have just moved away as it’s what you did. Regardless of ‘should’ we don’t have to pretend it isn’t hard, that not everyone enjoys it. That day was hard, that year, those four years were hard.
Parking too my autism that I now know was always there. I’m also an introvert and one who doesn’t love clubs and drinking and sex with strangers. Which is (sweeping generalisation alert) a huge part of UK Uni culture. And that’s great, you go drink, dance, and shag…genuinely good luck to you. But if you’re an introvert who doesn’t like all that it takes time to find your place. And first year, in particular, was a struggle for that. I’m lucky I had a job outside of Uni where I found good friends who were similar, I found places like a choir where there were like-minded people. But that drink-dance-shag phase was hard. Walking through those flats the feeling of everyone partying without you came flooding back.
From there I walked into Beeston- a place I fondly remember. It’s a suburb of Nottingham next to the Uni and it’s student-y but not that student-y. I lived there the whole time I was in Nottingham, but no house has a stronger memory than the one on the road in. I talked in the Montreal blog about not being sentimental about houses. My Montreal flat and this house are the exceptions. Maybe it’s because those two years were hugely formative a lot of growing up, a lot of hard things a lot of sad things, but also a lot of joy. This house housed ten people when we lived there and actually was the easiest living situation I had…more people actually meant less intensity. I had my closest friend from Uni in the next room and it worked well.
But that house feels fraught with emotions. Me and that friend went through a lot that year and the year beyond in our individual lives, and that house embodies those memories for me. Both of us lost our dads within a year of each other. That’s a bond you don’t particularly want to have. On top of that, I think that year was the year I struggled most with Uni, with life in general. I have clear memories of sobbing on the floor of my room to my mum on the phone over an essay I couldn’t do. Of repeatedly feeling like I was so utterly useless. I was taking and failing my driving test over and over. Failing to ‘adult’ as the kids say, failing my degree…generally failing.
But that house also is my fondest of Uni memories. Of parties I enjoyed. Of the ridiculous stories from housemates, of endearing international roommates (including one Mormon!) and a time that I felt I had friends. Which was a rarity for me in Uni. I felt alone most of the time I lived there, but I remember feeling less so in snapshots of time in that house.
I got a bit emotional on this walk through my past in Nottingham. Seeing places so unchanged some (gulp) eighteen or so years later is odd. Beeston is now hipster and bougie, but the same kebab shops and dodgy pubs endure. It still happily also feels like home.
Nottingham won’t ever really feel like home again. But that walk-through was a good reminder. It is a reminder that it was harder than I perhaps gave it credit for. I dealt with the death of a parent (and grandparent but in fairness, the woman was 98), and all the general growing up moving out Uni shit. I did all that as an undiagnosed autistic with ADHD on top of dyslexia we discovered too late. It’s ok to say it was hard.
Another thing I was at this time was Queer and in the closet. People look at me now and think I must have always been out. But 20 years ago things weren’t that easy. And for someone who (again, we now know) was also Asexual, it wasn’t as easy as ‘find a queer club and go for it.’ for a multitude of reasons, I wasn’t ‘out’, I wasn’t sure, I wasn’t anything really. And that’s a hard thing to be while everyone is finding themselves. Now, things would be different with a rainbow outside the Portland building.
All too often, we’re sold the idea, much like high school that we should all want to go back to Uni and relive those glory days. And don’t get me wrong, I had fun, I loved studying a lot of the time too. I’m so glad I had that experience. But it doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.
That walk taught me that it was harder than I gave myself credit for. To quote Mother (Taylor Swift)
Long story short, it was a bad time
Pushed from the precipice
Climbed right back up the cliff
Long story short, I survived
Thats what Uni felt like, pushed from a precipice and climbing up a cliff. But I survived.
I needed that nostalgia walk knowing now what I know about myself. It’s been a wave of discovery these last two years; Asexuality, ADHD, Autism (All the As go me!). If I’d gone back before knowing that I’d have just felt angry. Angry, I ‘wasted’ a degree not doing that well, angry I didn’t have the ‘expereince’ I should have had. Instead, now I understand past me. I understand why it was so hard. I understand that she shouldn’t have done as well as she did with everything against her. I understand she was doing much better than I gave her credit for.
And she did climb up that cliff and survive.
Having done all that, Nottingham can be a city in the East Midlands with a hockey team that my team will inevitably beat (it’s pre-season, we talk a big talk ok?). But, on a serious note, I now know Nottingham can change what it means to me. Now it’s a place I’ll go to for hockey. It’s a place I’ll hang with my hockey family, drink beer and shout at men in knife shoes. It can just be that now instead.
Also, once in Nottingham, I went on two not-dates but not-not-dates with guys skating. One of them was fucking smug he could hockey-skate. Next time I go back, I’m taking my skates and just proving to myself that I’m a better skater than that asshole ever was.
What, we can’t be petty about men 20 years on? Did I not just quote Taylor Swift…
Nottingham. You were good to me (apart from that one job interview). But it’s now time for you to mean something else.
p.s you can pre-order my new book ‘Gay Aliens and Queer Folk, how Russell T Davies changed TV’ now (link)
I love this! Thank you for sharing such vulnerable moments
Oh Emily, what a GREAT piece! It has given voice to a lot I never really worked out about my experience there too. I always wished I had a blast at Notts Uni like so many seemed to - but my experience wasn’t ideal either. Apart from my fellow X Files mega fan in the next room in that house in Beeston 😍