Until Next Time

Three weeks ago today I got handed a piece of paper and my degree at the University of York was over. There was a fancy outfit involved, not to mention a nerve-wracking walk across a stage to shake the hand of a man in a gold-tasselled hat, but essentially what the day boiled down to was the presentation of a certificate that was meant to quantify the last three years spent in this beautiful city.

Overall, it was a good day: I enjoyed wearing the dress I’d combed what felt like the whole Internet to find; I enjoyed reuniting with my friends and wearing my graduation gown. I even enjoyed the terror-inducing walk across the stage in front of a roomful of peers and parents. (Note: if I have to list a drawback, I didn’t really enjoy the hat. I now understand why it’s traditional to violently throw them when the ceremony is over.) The sun shone and York shone with it – and for those that haven’t seen it, York in the sunshine is the most beautiful place on Earth.

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However, I couldn’t help feeling that the whole ceremony, all the pomp and bluster of graduation, was somewhat disconnected to what being a student at York had actually meant to me in the three years I spent there. Yes, they were three years spent working (very hard, I flatter myself to think), to get a degree in English Literature: three years of seminars and office hours, of mild hero-worship of various members of staff. But they were three years, also, of moments spent in other places than the library, at other tasks than reading. Where, for example, was the piece of paper that quantified my excursions up and down the banks of the River Ouse, under gold skies or grey, strolling beneath sycamores to the city centre? Where was my certificate declaring my abiding love for the York Minster: for standing in its colossal shadow amid the tolling of its bells? Where, I ask, was the formal acknowledgement of all the bar crawls over cobbles? The deeply personal attachments formed to York’s bookshops and their proprietors? Where was the paper goodbye that I was promised?

Looking back over my time at university, a piece of paper and a handshake was never really going to cut it.

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I arrived in York three years ago wholly unprepared for the ordeal of moving away from home and starting my adult life from what felt like scratch. I was so overwhelmed on my first night that I didn’t even make it out for the first night of Freshers Week. Sleep-deprived and overly emotional, what was supposed to be a sik club night transpired as many hours of hysterical crying on the phone to my boyfriend. There are many explanations for this, the main one being that, while I may have looked (arguably) like a young adult equipped for change, I was actually a tiny baby in a grown-up-human suit, who felt wrenched up by the roots from everything that made me comfortable. After a summer in which I’d never not been busy, being without a foundation of people who knew me and cared about me, not to mention living in a place that I’d only visited once before was paralysing. I felt miserable – and, ultimately, embarrassed. Embarrassed that I could go from being someone who rarely cried to someone who cried nearly every day; embarrassed that anyone was seeing me like this, let alone forming their first impressions of me on this basis; embarrassed, most of all, that I was not having the uni experience everyone expected, and which everybody else seemed to already be enjoying.

IMG_3148.JPGTo cut a long story short, what followed this initial grieving period was me growing the fuck up. Instead of crying about the things that stressed me out – the main one of these being, predictably, money – I made proactive steps for the first time to be on top of them (in terms of the money, it was very sophisticated; there was a spreadsheet involved). I became more independent in other ways: I explored my new city alone, carving out familiar paths through unfamiliar streets, falling in love step by step, oddly-named passage by oddly-named passage. So much of my development into a somewhat-functioning human being happened in York; so much of my personality is coloured by its streets and students that leaving, much like arriving, felt somewhat like a bereavement.

IMG_3153.JPGPeople often push to define university as just one thing – for example, politicians currently seem to be going for “financially crippling” – but the truth is that three years is a long time. It’s easy to look back at my memories of my first night on York campus and to feel that it was wasted time, to paint my first year with the brush of misery and vow never to speak of it again, to imagine that it got better like a light coming on at the beginning of second year. But that’s not the way it was. Yes, my debut at Freshers Week was a teary disappointment, but the next night I went to pre-drinks in the grotty dining room next door, stayed out til 4am and, actually, met most of the people whose company would see me through the next three years. Yeah, I still cried the next day, and the day after, and for a good few days after that probably. To be honest, if you had to take a bet on what I was doing on any given day in October 2013 you’d get good odds on “having a little sob.” But my time at York, despite or even because it began so miserably, turned out to be the best thing that’s happened to me in my life so far, and has meant so many different things. Inside its walls and out, York was the scene of so many intrigues and triumphs and elations and commiserations, so much of my growing up, that it’s no wonder all of them didn’t fit under the roof of Central Hall – a building only a stone’s throw away from the bedroom I thought I’d never learn to love, in the place I thought would never feel like home.

On my last solitary walk through York the day after I graduated, feeling the farewell left unsaid at the ceremony, I kept asking myself how it is that you say goodbye to a place that has meant so much to you, that has so much of you in it. I went to the pub with my friends still wondering, and remembered after a few weeks apart from them how easily they make me feel better about everything, in this case my imminent departure from the best place in the world. There’s no piece of paper that can sum up everything I’ve learned in York. How will I say goodbye to this amazing place? Short answer: I won’t.

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“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place, I told him, like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place because you’ll never be this way ever again.”

– Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran

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Routines, rituals, and revolutions

Youth culture, in its short history, has accepted few lasting icons, but the vinyl record is undoubtedly one of them. The unmistakable crackle of the needle coming down; the loaded silence, like a drawn-in breath, before the first note: this is the siren song of the teen age, the call to find yourself, by whatever means necessary. And it has remained so, despite its having been long outmoded.

For me, I think the fascination with vinyl largely comes from movies. From William’s sister’s proclamation in 2000’s Almost Famous that “This song explains why I’m leaving home to become a stewardess”, to smitten zombie R bonding with his human captive-slash-love-interest Julie in 2013’s Warm Bodies, the message is clear: vinyls were damn cool in the seventies, and their damn coolness will definitely survive the apocalypse. But this fascination does not end with (spoiler alert) audiophile zombies finding love and becoming human again: vinyl sales were up 52% in 2014, with much of that surge coming from the under-25s age bracket. The demand for new records is reaching fever pitch, so high that it’s putting a threatening strain on the industry, and becoming known among bewildered observers as the “vinyl revolution”.

Many articles have put this so-called revolution down to the tangibility of vinyl in comparison to digital music, and indeed, there is something to be said for the almost larger-than-life quality of a vinyl record. For a generation for whom vinyl was never the default, the physical quality to records and listening to them is a novelty. Unlike a 79p download that is easy to buy and easy to forget about, they’re a conspicuous investment: you’re investing not only money but physical space in your life, as well as the time and effort put into playing the thing. As Alice Cooper put it to Billboard: “the kids … [are] tired of buying air. They don’t get anything with it.”

But there’s something else about vinyl too, not entirely unrelated to its physical-ness compared to the download. There’s an almost religious feeling to playing vinyl: entering into the vinyl mystique, a willing believer, carefully drawing the disc out of its sleeve before laying it on the altar to be traced by the needle. That’s a pretty dramatic rendering, but it’s not totally unfounded: Dominik Bartmanski, a sociologist at the Technical University of Berlin, put it to CNN that “Digital music […] is now a standard and thus routine way of consuming music on everyday basis. Analogue music requires more elaborate ritualized attention. It is routine vs ritual.” Listening to music on vinyl is ultimately an act of confirmation: of your own love, of the realness of the thing you love, and your dedication, over and over again, to its preservation and reconfirmation over time.

Perhaps that’s partly why the vinyl has been such a staple of teenage Hollywood fantasy for such a long time – isn’t this ritual the most quintessentially teenage thing? Nowadays, “fangirl” is a dirty word, but the rawness of teenage enthusiasm is what makes it so beautiful, and so easy to miss once you’ve grown out of it. That feeling of loving an album so much that you don’t just want to carry it around in your pocket, but to come home to it, to really own it, in its most beautiful, multisensory, and enduring form.

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To me, nothing drives this home quite as much as listening to my mum’s records. Dug out of the garage a few days ago and dumped into my arms, they are the remnants of a time it is otherwise hard for me to conceptualise properly. Before my mother was my mother – before I was anything at all – she was an excited fourteen-year-old running home to listen to her new David Cassidy record. I superimpose the memory of my teenage enthusiasm for All Time Low and Scouting For Girls onto the cover of Cherish and feel a strange companionship. It’s a similar feeling to when I stood beneath pealing bells in Florence last summer, the city she’d insisted I go to, in the shadow of the beautiful cathedral, watching the thriving life of the piazza. There was a familiarity to the smallness I felt beneath that tolling colossus, a familiarity that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with that sense of my mother, much younger, larger than life and looking up. It’s a feeling of proximity, of hidden similarity: companionship across time. Watching the first record she ever bought revolve on my record player elicits a similar kind of warmth.

Entering the next stage of my life, the scariness of my twenties, feels like a welcome moment to feel this kind of connection. In a lot of ways, vinyl coming to my attention now is very opportune. Its steadiness, its realness, its requirement of a love for and focus on what you’re doing right now, feels good for me. It’s a way to connect with the teenager just departed, a girl who cried when she met her favourite band and saw her favourite songs performed live. I see her in my mum’s records, and at the same time I see a vague ghost of the future, in the refusal of these records to ever really go away. There’s a sense of continuum to co-opting this classically teenage medium at the start of my twenties. The sense that, while there are new routines in store that may be daunting, and old rituals (like getting tearful over musicians with elaborate fringes) may be done with, I will find new rituals, and finding these new rituals doesn’t have to mean never looking back.

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