By Joe Hobby
Joe Hobby, Tribune Columnist
It was my first day of school and I was a bit unnerved. After all, it’s been over 50 years since I’ve taken a class at the University of Alabama. And in that half century, everything seems to have changed. While the old core of the campus is still familiar to me, I’m uncomfortable with a lot of the new academic sprawl. The campus has sprouted enough new buildings to make a second college. It appears that every empty space, no matter how small, has a new structure on it. I’m sure that’s because the student population has more than doubled since I last had on a fraternity jacket. Some streets I drove on don’t exist now, replaced by new ones that go to parts of the campus I’ve never been to before. Several of the old buildings have been refaced to give the campus a uniform look – but they’re almost unrecognizable to me. At least the Quad is still untouched – for now.
Since it was the first day of the semester, the whole campus teemed with students pouring in and out of classrooms. It reminded me of ants scattering from a freshly kicked ant bed. With that sense of discomfort and excitement, I headed to the graduate class I was auditing, Advanced Magazine Writing. Undoubtedly this must be how a 5 year-old feels on their first day of kindergarten.
However, I was ready. I had covered every detail to avoid making a mistake. I analyzed the parking options – even had a backup plan. I checked into what students were wearing and dressed to blend in; I didn’t want to look like a 71 year-old grandfather going to college – even though I was. I had a backpack and bought an iPad so I could do the paperless thing. Next, I consulted my son, a veteran of this particular building, to make sure I wasn’t going to look like a lost, senile doofus wandering the halls.
Finally, I tripled checked my schedule. Classes began on August 20, Room 338, 2 PM sharp.
Armed with the confidence that preparation brings, I easily located my classroom, arrived 30 minutes early, and settled in to do a little writing. Within a few minutes other students trickled in, taking seats and powering up iPads. Just before 2 o’clock, a thin man entered and began fiddling with some controls on the wall. Must be an AV guy, I thought. Almost immediately, the
front screen flashed to life, with the words: Advanced Video Editing. That was not my class. My stomach dropped faster than the stock market after Covid. I looked at my schedule again. Even though everything seemed to check out, I had no choice but to make myself visible.
“Excuse me. What is this class?”
“Advanced Video Editing. What class are you looking for?”
“Advanced Magazine Writing.” I checked the schedule on my iPhone. “It says 2 PM in Room 338, August 20.” But something was amiss, and I had the feeling that the amiss was something I had done.
A cute, blonde coed sitting beside me leaned over, pointed with a pink fingernail, and said,” I see the problem. The first day of the semester is today, Wednesday, August 20. Your class is on Tuesday, which means it doesn’t start until next week.”
Barbie just hit me with a kill shot. I wanted to crawl in a hole because my greatest fear was realized. I had taken every precaution to avoid making this kind of a mistake. From the clothes I wore, to the pack on my back, to checking and re-checking my schedule. I didn’t want to look like a geezer, and yet incredibly, I missed that tiny little “t” on my schedule that stood for Tuesday. No, Grandpaw wasn’t ready for big time. I felt my face explode in crimson. I grabbed my pack, turned to everyone and said, “What do you expect? It’s my first class in 50 years.” The room erupted in laughter, and I made a short, but humiliating walk of shame to the door.
Just like the senile doofus I tried so hard not to be.
