Mirrors to Windows and Words by Susan Mellsopp
Secondary school was not really fulfilling, although I did enjoy English and geography and achieved high marks in these subjects. Excused from mathematics classes at the beginning of the fourth form, I proceeded with English, history, geography, biology and French until my final year. Then I dropped French and added typing to my subject list. All sixth and seventh formers were required to take at least five subjects for the University Entrance examination, Bursary or Scholarship.
I always had a dream. English and geography would provide the basis of an arts degree at Auckland or Otago university. In those days, one had to do nine papers over three years to achieve a Bachelor of Arts degree. I studied the regulations voraciously, ordered the yearly calendars to be delivered, and soon worked out the other subjects I wanted to study. While living in Auckland or Dunedin seemed scary, I was determined on a BA without any real thought for what career this would lead me to. I just wanted to study and learn. An avid reader, I envisioned devouring books and coming top of my classes.
My world came tumbling down when my mother, a widow, in the days when this was unusual, announced she could not afford to send me to university. This was strange as she had offered to enrol me at a Presbyterian private girl’s college as a boarder for my secondary education, so must have had some funds. Adopted, I was still unaware I had emanated from a highly academic family with theology, music, law and teaching degrees. Devastated at this change of circumstances; this was before students worked part time to help with their fees and other expenses and I could not afford to fund myself. Sinking into a deep sadness, my dream had been stymied in an unexpected way. Why had I not realised that studying at university was so expensive, or why I had expected to be supported through three years away from home? Decades later, my mother told me that the Returned Services Association would have paid for my higher education as I was the daughter of a deceased returned soldier. The failure to explore this option still hurts me today.
Option B then had to be put into action. A lover of books, I had a career in librarianship as my other major goal. A school career advisor told me the subjects I had taken were of no use unless I was able to move on to tertiary education and also focus on other subjects apart from those which I loved. Explaining my dreams, she felt I would not even be accepted for library school; her negativity could have set me up for failure. Finally finishing school, most of my fellow female pupils moved on to very ordinary and normal work: nursing, teaching, office work or dental assistant. I was the only one aiming for something different. A few of the boys in my class were encouraged to enrol at university, one eventually doing a PhD at an Ivy League college. Girls would just get married, so why would they need to bother with education was the predominant attitude of the day.
Following an interview with a terrifying head librarian, I was accepted for training at my nearest big city library. I found the work both interesting and at times difficult. As someone who was shy and not prone to talking about herself, I found it hard to assimilate with some of my more outgoing colleagues. Several used my quiet demeanour to threaten or snap at me.
Twice annual sojourns away at library school in Wellington proved very exciting. One of our male lecturers was gorgeous; he had been a Jesuit priest in Hungary. Now married to a beautiful blond woman, I am sure she realised we were all smitten with her husband. The subject matter did not really prove much of an intellectual challenge, but I gradually moved through the levels at the library, working in reference, which was my favourite, cataloguing, the children’s section, and mending books. I quite enjoyed this as the older women in the workroom treated me as an equal. They opened a window for me on what married life was like, having children, and the necessity of gaining an education so not to find myself unemployable in the future.
The final course saw me get excellent marks and pass my New Zealand Library Certificate. My mother travelled to Wellington for my graduation, unaware that I had new plans for my life. Although I continued to work in the library, the boredom and several overbearing staff finally assailed me, and I found a position working in a bookshop selling children’s books to both customers and schools. Travelling around in the business car to visit primary schools and sell sets of books covering all subjects and topics, I experienced an adult freedom which had previously evaded me.
A growing relationship with a local farmer who, after his family discovered I was adopted and tried to break up our relationship, persuaded me to elope. They were of the belief I would bring ‘something bad’ into the family. I often wonder what they would have thought if they had known what an outstanding, well-known family I emanated from. Unaware of the disaster this marriage would descend into thirty-one years later in an acrimonious split, I embarked on married life with the same enthusiasm I had for reading a good book. Yet the dream of attending university still filled me with expectation and desire. As new babies arrived just 21 months apart, four in all, I continued to send for the Massey University calendars. I drooled over the increasing number of courses available, but knew that study was not possible at this busy time.
Deciding to enrol at the New Zealand Correspondence School, taking a basic course in German, I was roundly told off by my father-in-law. He rudely stated this was not something I should be doing; it was not appropriate and my children should be my priority. They were, of course, but so was my enquiring mind. Forced by this outdated attitude, which was supported by my husband and the rest of his family, I let the German course slip and returned to my ‘housewifely duties’. He also criticised the books I read, asking his son why he let me read books like The Gulag Archipelago. Many years later I purchased a ‘teach yourself German course’ but work and other responsibilities again made it difficult to continue with this. The course manuals look forlornly down upon me as I write on my computer. Perhaps writing about this will encourage me to go back to some level of language study.
As the soft blue university extramural calendars arrived in the mail near the end of each year, I devoured them, becoming increasingly drawn to the humanities. Determined to study for a Bachelor’s degree, despite several people saying I was not bright enough, in the year my youngest child started school I enrolled for two-stage one papers, sociology and English. Degrees had progressed from requiring 9 full-time papers to now 21 papers over three years, most of which were still year-long papers. Semester papers were not introduced until I was nearing the end of this degree.
I set myself up in an empty bedroom, soon filling one of my children’s bookshelves with textbooks and a plethora of other books borrowed from the university library. These were all posted to us free of charge. I put my rather ageing typewriter on the desk, and with huge joy opened the first of the large-print study guides to arrive. On hot days when the sun poured into my office, I repaired out to the long veranda and disappeared into wonderful textbooks while eating huge plates of vanilla ice cream.
Studying English had changed dramatically since I had done so well in the subject at secondary school. I thoroughly enjoyed learning to read The Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English, but struggled with poetry, which required deeper analysis than I had ever undertaken before. Not having other students to discuss it with in tutorials made the poetry more difficult. Sociology absorbed me, and I was fascinated to use my new knowledge to analyse the society around me, which was in a particular stage of political and racial flux.
My son unfortunately became very unwell with pneumonia and spent time in our large base hospital. Unable to keep up with the requirements of two papers, a family and farm work, unfortunately I had to drop the English paper. I never went back to it, preferring social science and other subjects such as history. Now I sometimes consider doing an English paper for fun, but somehow prefer to just read important novels and try to analyse poetry from my own perspective.
With my studies now underway, I also had to cope with the lack of support from my husband. He was not happy that I was spending so much time with my head in academic books and study guides. Apparently, I was meant to be at his beck and call. When a social worker assigned to my disabled daughter arrived one afternoon, she complimented me on finally doing something just for myself. The response from my spouse was, “And if I don’t want her to do it I will stop her.” Silenced, we both cringed. Many years later I worked for the same organisation, but unfortunately the social worker had left and failed to reply to my messages. I soon learnt to moderate the time I spent studying, and with quiet observation be alert to when I might expect spousal interruption.
I had to become incredibly organised to ensure I got my essays submitted on time. In the days before computers, all essays were either handwritten or typed. Without the internet or email, they had to be posted to arrive on time. Living in a rural area, this meant either leaving the essay in an envelope for the mailman to collect, or hoping we made a trip into the country town in time to post the essay to the lecturer. All students were required to attend lectures held at the university, in a city five hours away from my home, usually for three or four days in the May school holidays. Someone once asked who would mind the children while I was away. “My husband,” I replied. Enquiring if the same question would be asked if he was going away, which he did quite frequently, there was a deafening silence. Given his reluctance to allow me to study, I felt it was my due that he assume responsibility for ‘his children’ for several days a year.
I loved the courses, the university atmosphere, the feeling engendered living in the dormitories and eating at the cafeteria. I often found myself having lunch with a group of senior policemen, or a group of wonderful Maori women studying a variety of interesting subjects. Talking to lecturers who I had previously only known through letters and the occasional phone call offered ongoing connections. Essays which were due around the time of the courses could be delivered by hand and were often marked and returned to us during our sojourn in Palmerston North. One essay, with a very good mark, somehow was returned to me via Australia. Another, which I sent in three weeks early as I was leaving for a trip to Australia, was mailed back with the comment that perhaps I would like to take another look at it and resubmit. Posting it straight back by return mail, I explained I would be away when it was due, so please accept it now. When I returned, it was in the mail waiting for me, marked with an A.
Approximately halfway through my Bachelor’s degree my sight began to deteriorate rapidly. I was given an initial diagnosis of macular degeneration, which ultimately turned out to be incorrect. After much discussion with my ophthalmologist, he encouraged me to continue with my education, saying if I really needed to discontinue my study we would cross that bridge when we came to it. So now I had the support of my daughter’s social worker and my eye specialist. Determination filled my soul, and I forged ahead with what one friend described as my Christmas tree degree given the wide range of interesting subjects I was exploring.
During this time, a computer took up residence in our home. An early user of this amazing piece of technology, it still had many faults and caused stressful interactions. Completing an essay one afternoon, somehow I accidentally pressed delete. Weeks of research disappeared into the ether, and my loud reaction to this disaster was heard by the neighbours. The rewrite was not as good, unfortunately. Technology revitalised my writing, and essays could now be printed and posted looking much more professional. Unfortunately, this was before the real advent of the internet, so research still had to be undertaken by requesting books and journal articles from the library.
Proceeding with alacrity at two subjects a year, I took a Chinese history paper, compulsory statistics, media studies, New Zealand history including the Treaty of Waitangi, psychology and women’s studies. During the thirteen and a half years it took me to complete a Bachelor of Arts in sociology, the university again changed its system for awarding degrees. 21 papers became a points system, which left me two points short of completing my qualification. After much discussion with the university, I soon discovered I was not the only person who had started a degree requiring 21 papers. We were all awarded our Bachelor’s degrees under the paper system.
Deciding to attend a graduation ceremony in Auckland for Massey students, I took two friends with me along with my husband. None had any idea what a graduation involved and were quite scathing of the Latin. I think I was the only person there without flowers or a gift, so one was hastily purchased at a book shop on the way home.
Shelving my textbooks and deciding to keep the peace at home, I took a year off studying. This was received with the casual but hurtful remark; “I have got you back again.” I am sure I was just being seen as a wife and unpaid staff on the farm. Soon the thrill of a good mark and of learning about new topics drew me back in. Enrolling for a Postgraduate Diploma in Arts, I focused on women’s studies, which I had found particularly riveting in the previous few years. It consisted of six papers over two years. On the whiteboard in my new office, I had now taken over my sewing room, I wrote A+ six times. I only failed this once, getting an A-. This brought intense derision as I was verbally criticised for not getting the full set of A+’s.
Attending a class at Massey in April for the final paper, which consisted of an individual choice project we had all undertaken, I was horrified to discover that almost two-thirds of the class had done research on suicide. This was particularly painful as I had already struggled to attend the sessions. My son had committed suicide just four months earlier. The temptation to get up and run was overwhelming, but I stayed and listened to their analyses. The next day I explained to the lecturer the impact the lecture session had on me; he was incredibly sympathetic.
Concluding the diploma by being awarded a prize of $3000, with which I purchased a new computer and paid for some air travel to the university. I was feeling very successful as I had already topped a sociology class for which I received a congratulatory letter. I was now determined to enrol for a Master’s Degree in women’s studies. Interesting phone discussions were held after I chose the head of the Social Science school to be my main supervisor. The head of the women’s studies department was my second supervisor. As I was changing school within the university, my proposed degree became a Master of Philosophy rather than a Master of Arts. It is only in recent years that I have learnt that this is the highest level of Master’s degree which can be awarded in New Zealand, and I received one of the highest marks ever given for this qualification.
Reluctant to allow me to attend my Postgraduate Diploma graduation, my husband did everything to discourage me from going. I had invited my very elderly mother who declined, so I invited my disabled daughter when someone pointed out that it was cruel to prevent me attending. A supervision session was held the next day, which was overseen by said spouse, although my supervising professor had insisted that he leave.
So began a long and difficult journey. I had decided to do the degree over two years, the first year being research, the introductory chapters, and interviews. A woman who read an article about me online offered to proofread for me, so I sent her my chapter outlining my reasons for choosing the topic, ‘The Impact of the Health Reforms on Disabled Rural Women’. I mentioned my own history in this section and that I had been misdiagnosed with macular degeneration and have myopic degeneration. She crossed this out and changed it to muscular degeneration. I never approached her again.
The first year of my studies went extraordinarily well, and the chapters started to become a reality. Finding disabled rural women to interview was not easy. Eventually I enlisted the support of a large local newspaper. After interviewing me at home, I then had to travel to the nearest city to have photographs taken for the article. As a result of this approach, I finally gained the six women I was required to conduct in-depth interviews with. A seventh applied but was related to one of the other participants so had to be excluded.
All interviews were done by phone as the women were quite widely dispersed. This was a difficult process given the severe disabilities some of them experienced. Only one believed she had received adequate support from the health system; all the others felt very let down by many of its different departments. One interviewee, who was being fed by a machine, despite running a small farm, insisted that if she had not found better support by the time she turned 60, she intended committing suicide. This stirred up many deep feelings for me. At my next supervision session, I explained to the supervisors how it made me feel, particularly as they were unaware of the death of my son.
At the beginning of my second year of studying for my Master’s degree, my marriage disintegrated and ended in anger and overwhelming fear. Fleeing to the nearest city, I had to inform my supervisors that there was a possibility all the previous year’s work could be lost if my husband decided to delete everything in my computer. Easing my worries, they explained this was not the first time something similar had happened and they would do everything to support me. Encouraging me to believe that at least I was safe, everything else would follow, eased my mind. Eventually, after much scrambling to try and find all the work I had sent to them, my computer was delivered to me with my research intact.
I had temporarily moved in with my elderly mother who felt that plugging in a computer to her phone outlet was not something she either understood or approved of. This made it difficult to continue with my studies, as journal articles were posted online. I had to make do as best I could.
Due for a visit to the university for supervision, I was granted a free airfare due to my difficult circumstances. As I waited to meet with the two women who I knew would support me in my unexpected journey, nerves were overwhelming. As Jenny rounded the corner, she walked over and hugged me tightly. A plan was instigated so I could continue my studies unencumbered by the marriage breakup. We were also having to take into consideration that I was in urgent need of an eye operation to correct a macula hole and retinal detachment. At this time, the unknown factor was could sight be saved in my left eye. How I would cope with extensive research, reading and writing, and whether I could even continue with my advanced degree was a concerning unknown.
Returning to my flat following supervision full of excitement at the prospect of completing my education, I underwent the unusual surgery. Despite not fully coming around from the anaesthetic for almost two months, I found myself a couple of weeks later returning to transcribing interviews. I was very lonely in the dank flat I was sharing with a deaf woman who recycled food, often for weeks. Fearing severe food poisoning, I began to cook a main meal at lunchtime, which helped me to concentrate. My mother had not enjoyed having me live with her, and I had been forced to take this rather unsavoury option.
My first guide dog, who I had puppy walked myself, was away for some assessments, but was returned to me as she had become very ill. As we crawled into bed together to heal, I had to acknowledge this journey to my independence was becoming far more difficult than I had ever anticipated. The end of my studies looked an impossible distance away.
Soon Chocolat and I moved, escaping when the flatmate was away on a trip supporting a deaf child on a school trip. My counsellor, despite my independence and courage I needed someone to talk to, had found a flat under someone’s home for me. Trish and Joe soon became supportive friends, and some months later after Chocolat left again to continue with her training, I immersed myself in my thesis. Meals were forgotten, words filled my head, chapters emerged and were written and rewritten. Each one was ticked off by my supervisors, the finish line was within reach.
Then disaster struck again. Surgery to remove the oil tamponade from my eye after the retinal detachment and macula hole surgery did not go as planned. Within a few days my eye pressure reached 60, and I was nauseous, unaware of my surroundings, incredibly unwell. My counsellor, who by now had become a friend, rushed me urgently to the ophthalmologist. We sat there all morning while I was filled with drugs intended to bring the pressure down. Nothing worked. Sent off to eat lunch, which I was unable to do, we returned early. The doctor took one look at me, sat me in his examining chair, and said, “Sit still, don’t move.” With that, he inserted a needle in my eye, and all the excess vitreous fluid drained down my face. I felt instantly better, hungry for the first time in days. A small portion of oil remains in my eye; every so often it slides past my little remaining vision and gurgles and bubbles upwards.
Calls to my supervisors meant another delay in the due date for handing in my thesis. Both commented they had never had such an exciting time fitting in eye surgeries with completion of a degree. Eventually my pressures stabilised, and I was able to return to my writing. As another year dawned, I could finally envision submitting my thesis.
I found the continual editing overwhelming. With my two-and-a-half-year journey almost over, I began to realise my academic life, which had lasted almost eighteen years, was ending. I worked on revising my thesis much of every day. Sending chapters in to be signed off was exhilarating. I had to remind myself to go out, exercise, and sleep. Desperate to read something not related to the New Zealand health system and its impact on disabled rural women, I joined the city library in anticipation of borrowing large print books, which I could still see well enough to read.
Chocolat was finally returned to me fully trained, although with some dog distraction issues, which were worrying to the instructors. Mornings were now spent training us as a guide dog team, a process which is both exhausting and expectant. Learning routes, new areas, catching buses and negotiating traffic islands became a daily experience. I just rejoiced in having my beloved Chocolate labrador back with me again. We were soulmates.
Arranging for a friend who was doing her PhD to proofread my large tome, which was in a larger font due to my poor eyesight, she did an excellent job finding few mistakes. When all corrections had been made, I took it one sunny afternoon to be printed — two copies, spring-bound for marking. The longed-for day arrived. Inserting them in a large courier bag, the guide dog instructor and I went to the nearest post shop to send it to Massey University. This was a very momentous day as Chocolat and I graduated as a guide dog team. After a nice lunch, leaving me was something the instructor was reluctant to do. Worrying the conclusion of two long journeys plus the huge personal changes in my life might be too much for me, she lingered. Finally waving her away, I knew I was now on my own and determined to thrive.
The following week I began the search for a home of my own. Within a very short time, I found a townhouse which was in the early stages of being constructed. A new project to occupy my inquiring mind. Building a home was quite different from days spent studying, and I revelled in the freedom I now had. This was of course tempered by waiting for my results. I wondered who was marking my thesis. Eventually I received a phone call and an official letter. I had passed my advanced degree with distinction. When I received my marking sheets, I was astounded to discover that each marker had deducted just one mark due to my ‘economy with words’. One wrote that she had found it very difficult to find anything wrong with my thesis and struggled to even deduct the one point. To this day, as people celebrate passing their degrees, my ego often surfaces as I ask them if they got 98%. Most have no idea it is possible to get such a mark.
Letting people know what I had achieved was bittersweet as many had little idea of what my result meant to me. One family member, when asked by an acquaintance what I had passed, apparently said, “some sort of certificate.” I found that quite depressing and sad that even my own family had no idea of my achievements.
As I arranged to have three copies of my thesis bound — one for keeping in the social science department, one in the library at Massey University, and one for myself — my only option was to go to the printery at my local university. When receiving the copies, I was incredibly disappointed to discover they had printed one page twice. After all my work, and the size of the publication due to the large font, I felt this was rather denigrating.
Having always hoped I could carry on and do a PhD, I realised this was no longer going to be possible as I needed to work both for an income and self-satisfaction. Putting aside this long-held dream, which occasionally comes to the fore again, I began to answer advertisements for employment. Despite my professorial supervisor offering to be a referee for me, finding a job as a visually impaired person was incredibly difficult. I was either too qualified, didn’t have the right qualifications, and had little work experience due to living on a farm for decades. There was also the assumption that blind and visually impaired people were unable to hold down a job properly. I applied for over 70 positions, eventually obtaining employment on a Friday as a school archivist.
One bright light shone above all else. Graduation day! Flying to Palmerston North, I had arranged to stay in the disability flat on campus. The disability office also asked me if I would assess the various features of the unit as they had received several complaints that it was not as accessible as was claimed. This was interesting, especially finding things like the microwave was on a shelf at right angles to the bench and far too high for someone in a wheelchair to reach. I received a book voucher for $50 for my report.
The graduands’ dinner was a real highlight. Never having been to one before, I found myself in a room with not only those who had achieved a certificate, but several with PhD’s. The chancellor and vice-chancellor were there along with other staff. It was an evening to highlight the achievements of many people. When giving his speech, the chancellor described the difficult trials that we had all been through to be at the point of graduating the following day. Telling a story about a woman who had to fight to enrol and study at Massey due to the indifference of her husband, she left him. He explained that she finally graduated with honours. As they passed the microphone around for all the major graduands to say something about their achievements, there was much laughter when explaining I had also left the husband for similar reasons, but in his place I had brought my guide dog. Afterwards, all the senior staff came and spoke to me saying how inspirational that was.
Scheduled for a morning ceremony, I booked a taxi very early to make sure I was definitely there. The town hall was welcoming, and despite intense nervousness, I found myself seated next to the graduating PhD students. As all the other students graduated, I became increasingly nervous until finally my name was called. As my guide dog Chocolat and I walked across the stage, my two supervisors stood and clapped in acclamation of my success. The Chancellor also gave my dog a special ribbon for having sat with me through so many years of study. Only once did she fail, when she chewed up a library book, a sin which was forgiven due to her special status. It was wonderful to hear a hall full of people acknowledge me after all I had been through to get there.
I had no family there to support me, and some friends I had invited failed to arrive due to one of them having a daughter who had gone into labour. My supervisors, the school secretary, and several other staff took me out for a fabulous lunch. I was also invited to dinner at one of their homes where, to my surprise, the vice chancellor was present. This made me nervous, especially when she offered to drive me back to the disability unit afterwards.
Instead of returning my cap and gown, I obtained permission to take them home to show my mother. I had also arranged a ‘graduation dinner’ to which I invited people who had supported me in my many years of extramural study. This included my retinal specialist, who had always hoped I could continue. Unfortunately, he could not come, but informed me later he wished he had as the other event he was obliged to attend had bored him.
My academic journey was now at an end. Although I was still seriously contemplating work and study for a PhD, I knew this would prove very difficult for me. As I look back on the many years of thoroughly enjoying studying, pouring over books and textbooks, all of which I still have, I did miss it dreadfully. It was definitely a time of change. The skills I obtained are priceless, especially the ability to think and analyse writing and opinions critically.
Despite starting work as an archivist, I never found employment commensurate with my qualifications. Moving city for a dream job was suggested, but I had built a townhouse, have a disabled daughter I am responsible for, and was settling, putting down roots. Eventually I found work as an archivist in two more schools, and also as an accessible transport researcher with a disability organisation. I administered Facebook pages for the same disability group, supervised exams and wrote two school history books. I tutored international students from my local university. One was writing a thesis, which was in a shambles. With my help, she turned it into a prizewinning piece of research, which won her a trip to Britain. Using my research and thinking skills, I now write for a monthly New Zealand magazine and volunteer widely in my local community.
So, is my dream education wasted? Hopefully not. I could have had a twenty-year career in the government but chose differently. I was even offered the opportunity to apply to attend Oxford University. Education is so precious, so important. I truly value mine and the wonderful journey it has taken me on. It is my greatest achievement.
