March is the month of autumn and the month of postponed reinstatement of commitments. Among all the beginnings, the one with the classes is the one that truly makes a difference in the rhythm of the days. In this climate, the academic memories themselves return, boosted by the fleeting fashion in social networks of those who debut in university life.
I am not surprised to find enormous differences with my student days; It worries me to think where the study time of today’s university students remains among so many stimuli.
To the youth of yesterday
I came to Córdoba to study and I lived my first two years in a pension. The owner was concerned with all appearances, even conceptual ones, and she preferred the term “residence for ladies.” We were just seven girls of the same age and from different provinces.
Parents sent money – I also had a job part time− and sometimes boxes with merchandise. So it was a party for everyone. The recipient opened the package and took out wonders from the store that, in general, were off limits to us: sweet cookies, homemade milanesas, top-brand noodles, dulce de leche, candies, herbs, and grated cheese.
Most of our budget went to photocopies and food, all peppered with a few luxuries like coffee and an alfajor at recess.
We had a routine that made adjustments bearable. On Saturdays, following dinner, we would go as a group to have an ice cream and watch the people go by. Sometimes, someone might not afford it and another invited her or exchanged it for another equally valuable asset, such as a bottle of Coca Cola.
Small misfortunes happened to us. Close the bottle badly and lose the gas of a liter of soda; accompany the last hamburger with a puree made with the last potato, which was mistakenly added to yogurt instead of milk; running out of text messages to write to the guy on duty, and the worst horror of all: a classmate who ate other people’s food without permission.
Despite some coexistence frictions, we all got along well. It was the best group to cry over the big mouth in a subject, a discussion with a boyfriend and vocational uncertainties. If a cold weekend made us sad, we would put together a few pesos and make sponge cakes or popcorn.
We were not at all lightly envious of our college mates who lived in apartments, and especially those who lived in Córdoba with their parents. We listened to their stories, fascinated by a world that was unfolding behind our backs.
They were students who didn’t have to juggle money; they might study in the silence of their room; They didn’t have to go to a cyber to connect to the internet or do practical work; They hadn’t left a boyfriend 700 kilometers away, and they ate roast on Sundays.
We mightn’t believe when we heard the lightness with which they announced that they were leaving the race because it was too much, that they were going to take some time to think. We lived and studied under the pressure of a cost meter hidden in our parents’ pockets. Every day and every purchase from the supermarket increased an overwhelming debt.
We did not consider ourselves really poor; neither part of a comfortable economy. We belonged to a different class. We protested when we ran out of money on the 15th of the month or when a note had cost twice as much as expected and we saw the irony that knowledge impoverished us.
At the end of the day, misfortunes made us laugh because we knew that those deprivations protected us from what was truly complex: an eight-hour job, motherhood, caring for a sick family member, or marriage.
digital etchings
This month, videos in which girls (the very low presence of boys is something to investigate) showed what they bought to start university, became popular on TikTok. They proudly display backpacks, stacks of colorful notebooks, pastel fiber packs and travel-size designer perfumes.
I have known many of them for several months because they share their study routines, a category that fascinates me. Actually, what grabs me the most is seeing what life they lead as college students.
They all live with their parents or in well-equipped apartments. They have a microwave, a Nespresso coffee machine, a cat or a small pet dog, and a double bed. They have avocado with scrambled eggs for breakfast, buy organic products and take away the sadness of bouching a subject by buying at Ricky Sarkany. They attend the gym, the bowling alley and the hairdresser’s with strict regularity; they use imported perfumes, high-end cell phones and drink matcha tea at the bar of the moment.
They have a desk and a laptop to study, and an imported candle to create a climate of concentration. Much of the time they dedicate to studying is spent filling out forms where they record how much they have read, if they have to review it, and when.
They carefully choose the color palette with which they will decorate their abstracts and underline the photocopies with at least four colors, leaving very few blank lines. They are masters of the studio bureaucracy.
At the end of the day, they review how many steps they took, as indicated by their smartwatch, and how many they should take the next day. They segment, measure, count, compare and record each day.
The end justifies the means
In the residence for ladies, you studied whenever you might, while one ate among the other’s notes or while the noisy display of washing clothes by hand was heard in the background. At the time of paying finals, distractions were cut and the only table we had was the place of collective commitment to the same cause.
I don’t know how I would have been as a student having the chance to go to shopping to buy and not to take advantage of the air conditioning; maybe I would have spent it on books, as I did every month that I fell short on budget.
More than once, I saw my cohabitants open the notes on a Saturday or Friday night simply because there was no plan tailored to our budget.
Since I don’t have friends who are university students, I would like to at least see on TikTok those who live in a pension and share the table with six other people who drink mate, think aloud or get up every five minutes to stretch.
I would like to know if you are interested in joining this TikTok trend or if you prefer to listen to the stories of your partner’s town. I wonder if they take advantage of the remote occasion when they are alone in the pension to record a video or if they prefer to savor the silence, a long shower or simply put on music.
I don’t believe in romanticizing restrictions as a means to strengthen the spirit and forge an authentic experience. We were not good students for eating essentially rice and having little social life. It is true, however, that very few stimuli were vying for our attention, a paucity that reminded us that we were mainly there to study.
At least I think that was the balance of the calculations we made in silence, when we lay down on the bunks to think regarding everything we needed to do.
