I got this pen as many people get many pens- as a promotional freebie at an event. The kind of pens that aren't valuable or special; wrapped in a stupidly wasteful film of plastic and loaded with a miniscule amount of ink. If you dared to take it apart, you would probably strip or shatter the plastic threads on it, rendering it utterly useless. It would likely be taken home and thrown in a drawer, or left in an old mug, or dropped on the floor and rolled under a desk until a future spring clean led to it being found again. Best case scenario, it would be used here and there to scrawl and scribble some notes on a post-it or the back of a used envelope. I usually hate these things, but alike most of us, I took it with me anyway, bound to the illusion that it will eventually come of good use.
But this pen is a bit different.
Well, yes, it did go through that whole process of scribbling a few notes here and there, before slightly breaking and getting lost, but it's a bit more special than your typical promotional pen. I'm not usually the sentimental type- I favour keeping things simple and clean than keeping unnecessary things- especially when it comes to pens. But this pen means a lot to me, yet it took almost four whole years for me to find such meaning in it.
Let's rewind to 9 weeks ago, in early September. I'd only just begun teacher training at the University of Cambridge, and the first day had gotten to me quite a bit. The week and weekend before was busy enough for me (I just moved into the city the day before!), but I was hoping that all of this would make the initial rush of the course feel less impactful.
It didn't.
Or, at least for the first day, it certainly didn't. It was ferociously hot for early September, I felt a bit unprepared and even though my course tutors were telling our class not to lose ourselves in impostor syndrome, I had begun to already. Possibly because the mere mention of the word 'impostor' really caught my attention. The blinds rattled on the wall, with more and more hot air coming into the room. Despite the size of the room, it felt cramped in there and although everyone seemed to be cheerful and interesting, I felt out of my realm. Even a nice and warm evening bike ride- one which I had done with the intention of relaxing and would usually love- felt taxing after the day's worth of work.
I returned home following my ride, and slumped into bed to get some sleep. I went again the next day, and it was a little better. The next day was slightly better still. Then there were plenty of rapid ups and downs, like those of a rollercoaster sadistically designed to make you throw up, but the overall trend was a positive one. The doubts still lingered here and there, but they were nullified, largely because of the amazingly supportive and fascinating people I've met during my time here, partly due to simply getting stuck into it and partly because of a simple little pen.
You see, I was sat at my desk after a few weeks of starting the course and my other pen had just run out (because, well, I'd been writing notes non-stop for days on end!). I looked over towards my stationery mug* in search of a replacement. I reach over fairly carelessly to pick out one and test it out, and then I realise something. The pen is a purple one- my favourite colour- and it is strangely familiar. Emblazoned on the side of it are the half worn words "University of Cambridge".
Yes- I now remembered where I got this pen. It was on an open day for the Faculty of English here in Cambridge back in 2019. The day consisted of a few lectures, the chance to speak to members of the department and students and visit some of the colleges in the city, such as Claire, Pembroke and Emmanuel- which was my personal favourite for its small yet mighty atmosphere and aesthetic beauty. I turned up thinking that I wouldn't get into the University, but might as well go for the experience and the off chance that I might manage to do it.
Within a week, I had decided not to apply there, and the pen had vanished somewhere among my possessions along with my hopes of attending this University. To be fair, I genuinely wouldn't have gotten in regardless and was glad that I decided not to try applying. The University which I applied for and attended instead (York) was brilliant to me and I loved living and studying there. But a little bit of my heart sank perhaps in the idea that I would never attend such an institution as amazing as Cambridge. I wasn't really allured by the name and the prestige of it, but I did see it as a truly amazing place to learn and a missed opportunity to explore my potential.
But here I am. Four years on, and here I am. Sitting in my room late in the evening after a long day of teaching, a Cambridge student and member of Emmanuel College. This pen was forgotten to me like my hopes of going to Cambridge, but both of these things have now strangely resurfaced. Coming here, I hadn't really grasped what I'd done for myself, and I still haven't to be honest! But looking at this little piece of plastic and ink, I think about how much has changed in just a few years and how seemingly unachievable goals can be reached if you continue putting time and effort towards achieving them.
Now I suppose I just have to crack down and get writing...
*a much loved birthday present which broke on the floor after just one week of owning it, yet was repairable with some super glue and demoted to its current purpose. It's a Better Call Saul mug, which majestically adds to the irony of this situation, as one title card of the TV series shows a mug falling to the ground and smashing. Weird that.
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