Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.
Will Rogers
The fall of 1970 marked a new adventure for me—I set out for more than a year of study at the University of Manchester in England. I had been accepted by several universities for a study abroad experience, but I chose Manchester since my adviser said it had the strongest math program.
I was initially excited to be there, but my enthusiasm quickly faded when I realized that the people in Manchester spoke with a different accent than those I’d become familiar with in Winchester and London. They were difficult to understand. Although the people were nice, they were also quite proper and formal, not warm or open. Within two weeks of my arrival, I was depressed.
In addition, I felt oppressed by my heavy mathematics course load. I was used to the variety of subjects offered at American colleges; the British system called for students to focus almost exclusively on their major. I was enrolled in Advanced Algebra, Math Logic, Numerical Analysis, Statistics, and Polygon Theory—five mathematics classes.
I soon asked my adviser for permission to drop one of the classes and take Classical Greek instead. After four years of Latin classes in high school, I thought I would enjoy adding Greek to my language base. My adviser somewhat reluctantly agreed to my proposal, and I became the only non-major in Greek I. A couple of days later, I decided that four math classes were still too many. I went back to my adviser. “Do you mind,” I said, “if I drop another math class?”
He frowned. “Now what do you want to take?”
“Anthropology,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, waving his hand, “go.”
There is a saying—“Variety is the spice of life”—that sums up my attitude at that time. Two weeks into the term, I decided that even three math classes were too many. I returned to my adviser’s office. “What do you want to take this time?” he asked with a sigh.
“The History of Russia.”
“Fine,” he said. I think I’d worn him down with all my requests. It turned out that the Russia class was full, so I signed up for independent study, which included a key to a small room at the library. My adviser may not have been thrilled, but I finally had a schedule that felt balanced.
My social life remained, on the other hand, out of balance. I had trouble connecting with the proper British students. I met a handful of international students I could understand and some nice deaf people, but it was a frustrating time. My frustrations deepened during the Christmas holidays. My friends from Beloit, Betsy and Joe, were in Africa with the Peace Corps. They wrote me a letter inviting me to join them in Amsterdam for the Christmas holidays. When I arrived, though, Betsy told me that their marriage was on the rocks and that they needed some time to themselves.
Suddenly I was on my own. I felt abandoned and hurt. Betsy and Joe should have contacted me and told me not to come. I walked the cold streets by myself, observing homes with gaily decorated yuletide trees in their front windows and families that had gathered for the holiday. I spent Christmas morning alone. Later that day, I again ventured into the streets and struck up conversations with strangers who didn’t look too busy. Fortunately, the people of Amsterdam were friendly. Thanks to their location in the middle of Europe, they were used to a variety of accents and languages. I found them easy to talk with and asked about the history and details of the buildings around us. Near a bridge over a canal, I spoke with one elderly woman who had survived the Nazi siege of Amsterdam during World War II. She described growing gardens and bartering with others to keep from starving. Our conversation somehow comforted me.
Those interactions got me through the Christmas Day holiday, but I yearned for deeper connections and familiar faces. I decided to travel to London and visit an Antioch acquaintance named Steve. I stayed with him for three or four days. We attended a church service and on New Year’s Eve visited Trafalgar Square with a group of his friends, some of them from Australia. I was surrounded by people, but I didn’t know any of them well and couldn’t communicate with them. I didn’t have the energy to teach them how to maintain eye contact with me and enunciate clearly. I felt terribly lonely.
My loneliness intensified after I returned to Manchester. In January, British postal service workers went on strike. Both the university and my “flat” offered no telephone options for a deaf person. In those days before the Internet and texting, letters were my only means of communication with my family and friends. I felt cut off from the world.
The strike extended through February and into March. I was so down and lonely that I decided to quit school. I wanted to go home. I learned that to leave, an “exiter” had to sign a form authorizing my withdrawal. I boarded a train and four hours later entered an overseas administrator’s office at the University of Essex. The official was uncomfortable talking with a deaf person and enlisted another Antioch student who happened to be studying there to “interpret” for us, even though she had no experience communicating with a deaf person. When the man understood what I wanted, he called each of my professors and my adviser. They were all puzzled. They’d heard nothing about my unhappiness and said I was getting As in my classes.
“Your grades are good. You’re doing so well,” the official said to me. “Why do you want to leave?”
“I’m homesick,” I said. “I want to go home.”
“Everybody’s homesick,” he said, shaking his head. “Go back to school. I will not sign the form.”
I had no choice—I went back to Manchester. When I saw my adviser, he said, “You should have told me. My job is to take care of you.” My professors were equally sympathetic. They all suggested that we meet after class to see how they could help. One even offered to meet with me once or twice a week for tea and a tutorial—I no longer had to attend his class.
The personal attention made me feel better. I realized I had been a poor communicator. I’d decided to leave and disappeared without seeking help or explaining any of my struggles. I began to understand that if things were going badly, it was my responsibility to reach out and try to make the situation better.
The postal strike ended in March and that also lifted my spirits. At about the same time, I saw a poster at the student union advertising a spring break trip for students from London to an oasis in the Sahara desert. It sounded like a great opportunity for an adventure and a chance to get some sun. I wrote to Steve, my friend in London, who agreed to go with me. Ten of us hopped into a van in London. We traveled through France and Spain to the Strait of Gibraltar, where we took a ferry to Morocco and then drove into the desert. It was a different world and I had a wonderful time. At the oasis, we camped under the stars, swam in a natural spring, and even studied for upcoming exams. More importantly, I had the chance to talk with Steve and a handful of the other students that I connected with. The shared experience made it especially fun. When I returned to Manchester, I was in a far better state of mind and my remaining time there was much more positive.
I further satisfied my itch to travel when my friend Tom and I spent the summer of 1971 in Europe and Eastern Europe. One country I especially wanted to visit was Russia. I had taken a course on the Russian Revolution that focused on the Bolsheviks and Karl Marx. I was particularly concerned about the exploitation of underrepresented people and found the idea of equal treatment and fair distribution of wealth appealing.
Tom and I spent three weeks traveling through the home country of the Soviet Union. What I saw and heard there did not match up with my idealistic vision of communism, however. Our Russian tour guide, for instance, seemed brainwashed. She said that Russia’s agricultural system was much stronger than America’s and described a nonexistent crop failure and famine in the 1960s that supposedly caused thousands of Americans to starve to death. When we told her this had never happened, she thought we must have been too young to remember it. She refused to believe us.
I was taken aback by other experiences in Russia as well. I observed long lines of people waiting to buy limited and inferior food and supplies. I met people who wanted to buy our things so they could sell them on the black market. The people were not as open and friendly as in other nations; many drank heavily. Police were everywhere. The flourishing country I had expected to see did not exist. Instead, the atmosphere was oppressive.
Despite this disappointing discovery, the trip was a great success. It was fascinating to explore different cultures firsthand. Once again, having a friend that I could communicate with easily made all the difference.
We returned to Antioch for the fall of 1971. Tom left for a new co-op job and I was stuck with a new roommate who had a negative attitude toward me and was almost impossible to understand. Because of my year in Manchester, I was also on a different schedule than my old P-Group friends—they were all leaving for out-of-state co-op jobs. Once more, I felt alone. I was determined this time, however, to do something about it. Tom had earlier introduced me to his folk dancing group, which included students as well as people from the community. On my own, I rejoined this group. On Friday nights, we would eat a healthy meal, dance at the campus Red Square (all the bricks in that area were red), and then go downtown for fresh doughnuts. I made several new friends, which helped renew the feelings of belonging and connection that were so important to me. One of them was a registered nurse employed by the college, Barbara Hardman. Near the end of the academic year, she sent me a copy of the best-selling novella Jonathan Livingston Seagull, along with a note that included these words: “[This] is a beautiful story of a seagull who was willing to take many risks to realize his potential. He reminds me of you.”
I was learning a great deal from my studies in mathematics and other disciplines, as well as about the larger world. Yet more important than all of that, perhaps, I was also learning how to take responsibility for my own happiness. I would continue to face situations that left me feeling cut off from others. To establish satisfying relationships and build meaningful experiences, I needed to take the initiative. As Barbara said, I had to continue take risks to realize my potential. It might not guarantee success, but it would make a positive outcome far more likely.