The one where Phil is a lecturer
How lecturing my first university course messed me up more than turning thirty did.
I turned 30 last year. I had no crises, I shed no tears. This, frankly, surprised me. I had expected to feel something about hitting this milestone. Why? I blame Friends.
I binged Friends when I was 13 — another age that was supposedly momentous. I never saw the show on air; I only watched it by way of those colorful DVD box sets. The earlier seasons I asked for as birthday gifts, the later ones others I impatiently spent my allowance on.
Amidst the highs and lows of the show (and its current of homophobia and transphobia which now leaves a cigarette taste on my tongue) one episode lingered in my head: “The One Where They All Turn Thirty”. The premise is simple: we see glimpses of the group’s 30th birthdays. Monica gets drunk in front of her parents. Rachel panics and breaks up with her boyfriend. Joey pleads with God to not let him age.
When 30 arrived for me, it was utterly unremarkable. I had no crisis of age. If anything, I relished it, told myself I was still young. I laughed at my own naïveté and derided the sitcoms that made me expect some inner crisis.
Then, nine months later, as I prepared to lecture my first university course, I finally had my “I’m 30” epiphany.
Why? My own undergraduate years were not so very long ago — or so I felt. So who was I to be offering supposed wisdom to students? When I thought of professors, I conjured an image of New York-living, grey-haired and bespectacled lecturers — the ones I had in my undergrad years. The twenty-year-old me thought they were so much wiser than I was, that they all had real lives.
Me, now? A lecturer? I can put together a good outfit, but I hardly felt as official, as real as the professors of my memory. “I’m only thirty,” I reminded myself. Truthfully, yes, I could safely assume that I was one of the younger faculty members. And I could do the math: certainly I was closer in age to my students than some of the older lecturers.
So I worried: would these students take me seriously? I imagined them as intimidating, all with that distinct, Euphoria-laced Gen-Z brand of cool. Would they even listen to what I had to say?
Around this time, I caught up with a friend from my undergrad years. He’s a teacher too, so I shared my anxieties. He laughed, then reminded me that I was a decade older than most of my students, and that a decade seems like a long, long time to someone on the cusp of their twenties.
It was true. Even if my undergrad years didn’t seem so long ago, a lot had happened in the ensuing decade. I counted the changes. Two new cities. Four apartments. At least 7 jobs. Journeys to Patagonia, to the Philippines, to Hong Kong and to Cape Town. A master’s degree. A novel. A wedding.
I realized I was much closer to the image I had of my professors than I had thought. While turning thirty reminded me that I’m still young, lecturing reminded me that I’m not as young as I may want to believe. (And truthfully nor would I want to be that young again… save for being spared hangovers and retinol routines.)
When I lectured, my students listened. I enjoyed teaching, as I knew I always would. And I think, I hope, they enjoyed it too. And I look forward to doing it again — without a crisis of self-doubt this time.
What I’m reading: Laura Warrell’s Sweet, Soft, Plenty Rhythm is beautiful book, and it makes me want to spend all my evenings at jazz bars. I thought Booker-shortlisted The Trees by Percival Everett was certainly bold and great for discussion — but as a novel, I felt like it buckled under its own verve.
What I’m watching: Triangle of Sadness seems to be this year’s polarizing Oscar contender. (God help me, I was tempted to write Marmitey, like the Brits.) But I’m firmly on Team I Love Triangle of Sadness — and Dolly De Leon. Spending lots of nights at the cinema lately, so I’ll have to save a longer discussion for a future letter.
PS — I have book news, but you’ll have to patiently wait for the next letter to learn more.