There is no easy way I can describe the sheer pandemonium taking place around me right now. The Adams Building lobby is choc-a-block full of students, mostly pouring through doors and rushing down the hall and into the doors flanking the ends of the lobby, but others stop in the dead center of the floor and block the traffic while they consult papers in a confused, anxious stupor. I have no contemporary reference, of course, but it feels like the first day of classes with a quarter of the students completely mystified about where to go.
Here I sit, like a frightened child, watching the goings-on from one of the benches lining the front windows, the one closest to the corner. It’s safer in the corner, here at the place above where I appeared over two days ago. In all my life, I have never seen a cacophony of sights and sounds quite like this. Certainly the Donaldas don’t attend class with this unrefined flurry, and I’m fairly positive the men at McGill—my father’s McGill, not this—do not either. Shocked beyond all means, I am glued to my seat as I watch everyone around me—trying to look inconspicuous, of course. The events have swelled to a crescendo since eight o’clock when students first started trickling onto campus.
Conversations, laughs, and shouts echo off the walls and building into a great thunder. More spectacular than that is the range of languages I hear; besides the usual English and French, I’m hearing Chinese, Russian, Indian dialects, Arabic, Italian, and some others which I can’t identify. They’re combining to make a whirl of words even a trained linguist would struggle to navigate.
Perhaps the biggest surprise of all is the presence of not just male students here, but so many women also. Mixed in. Together with the men, as if they’re about to walk into the same classroom.
And then they do exactly that.
This single observation has almost paralyzed my brain.
The girls are carrying the same textbooks and are well-prepared with bags filled with composition books, pencils, and more textbooks. I can barely keep breathing in astonishment. What a change from my classes. No separation between the sexes, it seems. Are we equals? How incredible that all of these students are talking together about their classes.
“What the fuck, yo?! How the hell am I supposed to find this fucking FDA1 if there aren’t any signs in this shit hole?”
My head jerks like a shot toward the origin of that foul language. I’ve never heard Father’s colleagues or students, not even when they’ve broken a piece of equipment, talk like that. How could those words have streamed out of that young boy’s mouth? He can’t be older than eighteen, and this must be his first year at McGill since he doesn’t know where to go. His blue pants are tight from his waist down to his sleek and shiny black pointy shoes, and his black buttoned shirt has tiny silver threads that trace parallel lines up and down his chest and arms; the effect is odd to me.
The boy’s eyes, bright blue underneath stiff spikes of his hair, catch mine and he growls defensively, “What?”
I stammer in a low whisper, “No-Nothing.” I’m sure he doesn’t hear me. I must have been gazing wide-eyed at him in a perpetually appalled stare. It’s all I can do to push my lower jaw back up.
“Freak,” he mutters as he turns down the hall with his friend.
My eyes widen as I sink lower onto the bench. Is this what people are like here? Suddenly I’m not sure I know humanity anymore. It’s a strange sensation to be alone amongst a horde of people. I want nothing more than to crawl between the cracks of the floor tiles and disappear into the basement, becoming small enough that no one will be able to find me; maybe I’ll somehow morph my body back to 1906 that way.
Wishful thinking on my part. Impossible, desperate thinking.
And then, in the form of a perky, smiling brunette comes salvation.
“Hi!” she says brightly, stopping to stand directly in front of me. “I saw you from over there,” she continues, pointing to the opposite end of the lobby at the library entrance. “You look like you have no idea where to go. Do you know where your first class is?”
Her question is sincere, her voice caring and helpful. Her kindness takes me aback somewhat, after what that boy said to me.
“I, ah . . . well, I don’t really know.” Ugh, I don’t want to sound like an idiot, but I can’t think on my feet fast enough to reply coherently. But now my mind is spinning like a top, churning possible stories—believable stories—to explain to this girl what I’m doing here.
She cocks her head at me curiously, as if I’ve said something really nutty. I put up my guard again, fearful that this girl, too, will call me a freak. Then with relief I see her crack a smile; she must have been surprised to hear my accent.
I breathe deeply. The moment has finally arrived, sooner than I thought it would. I need to decide my path right now. Do I go along and play like I’m one of these students to try and figure out why I’m here and how I can get back home? Or do I run away and hide like a fugitive on the loose, trying on my own to find my way back?
Then the most sickening thought comes. Will I ever be able to find my way back on my own?
“No, I . . . I don’t know where my classroom is.”
“Oh, you must be looking for B10, then, like a bunch of other people around here, probably.”
I return her smile and nod shyly. Hopefully I’m convincingly playing the part of a novice, lost student.
“Great! I’m going there too, and I actually know where it is. Here,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her. “Come with me and we’ll get good seats before everyone else squishes us to the front row.”
“Thanks.” My feet are unsteady, but somehow they manage to step in front of each other, obviously calmer than my ferociously beating heart and shallow, nervous breath.
This girl is already chatting away and coaxing me gently along by my elbow.
“I’m Lindsey, by the way. It’s my first year too.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Eileen, but everyone calls me Elie.”
“Elie, cool. There’s nothing worse than being late to your first class on your first day, especially one in a big auditorium like B10, right? Can you imagine walking through those huge doors and having to find a seat with 150 people watching you?” Lindsey grimaces and laughs, a mature but very female giggle exuding a rare mix of confidence and humility.
A light bulb turns on in my head. “An auditorium?”
“Yeah, an old one, but pretty big. It’s actually in the building through those doors,” she explains, pointing to the doors opening into the old chemistry building, “but it’s really close. I found it ten minutes ago, but came back up to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh! I know that room!” That particular lecture hall is familiar to me, my father having taught a few classes there over the past few years. At least I won’t be immediately stepping into the unfamiliar.
“Then you know where you’re going after all. Are you excited? Survey of English Literature is supposed to be really good for a first-year class.”
Literature! You stepped into a lucky series of events, missy.
Now I smile wider and nod in return. “Lucky us!”
“Say, where are you from? Judging by your accent. . . .”
“New Zealand,” I blurt automatically. The truth.
“Oh, awesome! You’re a Kiwi, then, aren’t you?”
“Yes, that’s what we call ourselves. After the bird, of course, not the fruit,” I tease, trying to relax myself. It seems I’ll be inventing my cover story right now, but we’ve settled into seats near the center of the auditorium; the busy-looking academic at the front—Professor Badgely, Lindsey tells me—is preparing to hush the horde of students before him. It seems I’ll have the next hour or so to mentally formulate my ersatz life story.
“Well, I’m from Orangeville, Ontario, but we don’t grow any oranges there. Or birds. But how cool that McGill has so many international students. Goes to show you what a small world it is, eh?”
And here I was beginning to think it was actually very, very large. . . .
*
* *
I suppose I had already chosen my path this morning when I had decided to venture into the lobby instead of hiding in my little secret room. I was partly curious to see what a Monday morning was like, since I had figured there would be students milling about on the way to and from classes, but I had also been a little scared my room was actually used. I feared someone with authority—the authority to throw me in jail for squatting or telling ridiculous stories—would burst through the door looking for an old desk but come out with a vagabond girl from another time instead.
I had also started to fear something else this weekend: if I hid, I wouldn’t learn anything about how to get home.
Rain yesterday had kept me inside, so my morning and afternoon were spent wandering all the halls again to better acquaint myself with all the passageways. I had finally gotten my bearings no matter where I was, but I sketched a detailed map of everything anyway. I went even further: I marked the location of the most remote washrooms—including one conveniently close to my room, which I felt I’d be able to use safely without attracting unwanted attention. I don’t want anyone to find out I’m squatting here, after all. I had played memorization games in my head, studied the windowed labs as best I could, tinkered with bits and bobbles in the basement labs, and read far into my Donalda class texts out of sheer boredom.
By the evening, I had concluded this will be no way to live. I’ll be able to live here in secret for a while, but I’ll have to figure out a permanent arrangement sooner or later, if I can’t get back to 1906 immediately. Not that I managed to concoct a plan for achieving that, of course, but I did resolve to make myself available to every opportunity thrown my way. I figure, naively perhaps, that if I keep my eyes open and keep searching for a way back, eventually the way will open up in front of me and bang: Bob’s your uncle! I came here by happenstance; perchance I can likewise return.
Well, it is naïve of me, I know, to imagine it’ll be that simple, but I do know I will achieve nothing if I hide in that little room all day. It’s a perfectly fine place to sleep and write in my journal at night, but I need to navigate life in 2006 if I am to have any chance of going home. And that’s how I managed to trudge downstairs to the Adams building lobby half an hour ago, despite the gargantuan knot twisting Olympic somersaults in my stomach as I had approached the growing crowd of unfamiliar and very foreign faces.
*
* *
“He doesn’t pause for a second, does he?” Lindsey whispers, leaning over so close our shoulders are touching.
I can’t believe she’s talking right in the middle of class! My level of astonishment is waning, however; nearly everything surprises me because everything is very different from what I’m used to, so much so that I’m ceasing to be surprised anymore.
“Ssh,” I whisper back discreetly.
“I’m sorry; you’re trying to follow him. I’ll shut up.”
“No. I mean, yes, I’m trying to follow him. I don’t talk in class—it’s disrespectful.” Inwardly I cringe as I’m breaking my own rules of decorum.
“Oh! You’re right.” She blushes, then goes back to taking notes.
For the past fifty minutes, Lindsey, her roommate—who came in right as class was starting—myself, and 150-some-odd students have been jotting down notes faster than I have my whole life. This Professor Badgely is quite the talker, and I’m writing down every word he’s saying. I know I’m not technically in this class and I shouldn’t bother taking notes, but since I’m playing the role of student, I might as well play it full-tilt. As it turns out, this class is quite interesting—naturally, since I’m taking the same subject in the Donalda Department at home—and I’m fascinated by how this professor teaches it versus Professor Boddington, my British Literature professor back home. Since this class is enormous as opposed to having only a dozen students, there are no intimate roundtable discussions or individual readings aloud, only the professor lecturing straight and asking the occasional question of us. It’s an intense method of instruction, but not unenjoyable.
As I sneak a sideways glance at other students, their eyes are straight toward the professor as well while their hands scribble madly on their notepads. It may be early in the morning, but everyone is invigorated by taking their first university class. However, there are a fair few chatting to neighbors every now and then. The hushed tones make a low but distinct background buzz, but Professor Badgely seems not to notice, curiously. If students did this in one of my classes back home, they’d receive a severe lecture, perhaps be kicked out of class for a repeated offense. Trying to drone it out, I concentrate extra hard on the lecture.
In spite of my role playing, I’m finding it effortless to be a student here.
Yet the unusual mix of men and women discomfits me, but it doesn’t seem to bother anyone else. In fact, they talk together so casually and sit together so haphazardly that I wonder, distractedly, exactly when this mixed-gender studying began.
More snuck glances, in between scrawls in my composition book, reveals a superficial difference making me as self-conscious as if I were sitting here naked as a jaybird. I am sticking out like, well, exactly like someone who recently time-traveled from a hundred years in the past. There is perhaps one other girl wearing a skirt down to her ankles, but hers is white and layered with delicate eyelets all over while mine is black and heavy and plain. On her feet, like nearly all the other girls, are strappy sandals while I’m wearing my usual low-heeled buckled shoes.
At least my top fits in so I don’t look completely dowdy; it’s a small, thin white cotton shirt with sleeves ending far above my elbows with the words “Je me souviens,” or “I remember,” in French, across the chest in dark blue. I found it discarded on the floor of the Macdonald basement yesterday and washed it in a bathroom sink, all in an attempt to wear something which would help me fit in. I certainly would look like such a slob in 1906! Yet Lindsey and her roommate, Isabelle, are wearing similarly graphical shirts. They’re both wearing khaki-colored short pants above their knees, which I imagine must be quite wearable during the summer, although I’m appalled at how exposed their legs are. Again though, it doesn’t seem to bother anyone else, so this must be normal. Not that I would be caught dead in a casket wearing those, but they do look lightweight and comfortable. . . .
“And that’s as far as I would like to go today. I’m sure you all won’t complain,” says Professor Badgely from the podium. “I don’t want to overwhelm you on day one of our semester with too much Eliot and Austen. See you all bright and early on Wednesday!” He bids us goodbye with a wink and a reminder of assigned readings.
“Wow, that was great,” Lindsey remarks as we stand up and file down to the exit.
We all agree and chatter on about Professor Badgely’s thought-provoking analyses, then laugh a little bit about how intense his delivery style is. I get caught up in the conversation as if I belong with them. This is easily the most relaxed I’ve been since late Friday afternoon.
“Do you have Intro to International Development in Leacock right now too, Elie?” Isabelle asks once we return to the lobby, her steering our little group out the front doors to a wide footbridge leading to the green. Sunlight, already warm for this early in the day, bathes us, making me suddenly glad I’m no longer wearing my old long-sleeved shirt.
“No,” I say automatically. Never having heard of a Leacock Building, I don’t have a more convenient answer ready than, “I don’t have another class right now.”
“Boo! Both of us are heading there right now. Do you have Twentieth Century Novel in an hour? I think it’s back here in an engineering building, for some silly reason.”
“They must have run out of rooms in the Arts Building and Leacock,” Lindsey interjects. “Or else we’re slowly driving them off campus. Bummer, though, because there are an awful lot of cute guys over here.” Her gaze follows a group of French-Canadian boys approaching the FDA building and giggles. Isabelle joins in, but I was too distracted to hear what Lindsey had said.
I can learn about twentieth-century novels, yes. I recall Professor Boddington once telling me the best way to learn about a society is to experience them through their writing.
“Yes, I do. I can’t remember what room that class is in though. Is it there on your schedule, Isabelle?”
“Umm, McConnell 301, wherever that is.”
“We’ll find it,” I assure her, not giving away yet that I now know exactly where that lecture hall is. “You’d both better hurry to your next class.”
Lindsey smiles widely and gives me a wave goodbye. “We’ll meet you here after our class so we can sit together again?”
I nod with a grateful smile, and I mean it. “See you then. Have fun in class!”
I’m on my own again, now floating out of my heels. What a change in events from an hour ago! I have definitely started down a path which may prove difficult to step off of, but it’s oddly comfortable for the moment. The sense of belonging, however deceitful, is too strong to turn down.