Well folks, I’m back in the classroom.
Except this time, I’m not standing at the front of the class, I’m sitting in the seats.
As a student. I’m a student once again. For the first time in 15 years.
Yesterday I began my one-year Master’s program at the University of Madrid (UAM).
A lot has changed since I graduated from UC Santa Barbara.
For one, my area of studies. My bachelor’s was in Japanese. Now I’m switching it up. To English. More specifically, English linguistics.
I may not know what the hell a “linguistics” is, but I’m sure gonna learn. I hope.
I felt a little bit like a fish outta water yesterday, but I trust in my learning capabilities. Plus, I wasn’t the only one who seemed confused by some of the terms the teacher was throwing at us. “Syntax.” “Suggestopedia.” Etc.
My class composition is as such: there are roughly 20 of us in the program. There are three Americans, two Turkishes (Turks?), and the rest are all Chinese. One Chinese student named Jacob and me are the only boys in the class. Everyone seems to have a varied academic background. Some came from English backgrounds, some Spanish. Some have zero Spanish skills, which is fine since the program is taught entirely in English.
There is a girl from Memphis who sat next to me and her name just happens to be Darby. Also, we both share the same professional goals and a love for horror movies.
The department head is named Laura and she seems like a wonderful woman. She is teaching a class on language and creativity in the second quad-mester (classes are 6 weeks long).
Having such a short time span for classes means that when we DO show up for a class, it is long. How long? Four hours long. Although I suspect they will let us out early occasionally, and grant us a little break in the middle. All classes are held in the same classroom, which I suppose could lead to some cabin fever eventually, but to counter that, all classes are held at 5 PM. Meaning, no waking up early, ever. The campus is a little bit on the outskirts of Madrid, in a place called Cartoblanco, and this requires a special suburban train called the Cercanias to get there. The Cercanias station is a 10 minute walk from my house, and the train takes about 25 minutes to get there. A 40 minute commute is not bad, at all.
The teacher for our first class, which I am forgetting the name of but has something to do with research methods, is called Jesus. I don’t know if I should call him Mr. Jesus or Mr. [whatever his last name is]. He has amazing sideburns, and seems sharp as a tack. His teaching style seems very hands-off, and he gave us a good portion of the class to break off into groups and discuss whether certain research questions were worded well or not. There is homework, in the sense of reading material, but there are NO TESTS to be taken. I repeat: NO TESTS. The grading evaluation comes in the form of written papers and data collection.
While I was taking notes in class, my hand started to hurt, and I realized that hand-written notes may not be the modern approach to learning anymore. Several students had their laptops out and typed everything. These are the type of changes that happen when you aren’t in school for 15 years.
Well, that’s about all I can remember from my first class. My second one is tonight, and the other one is on Thursday. Class three times a week, with a break in the middle. And three day weekends. I think I’m in love.
Oh, and here’s a picture of me and my new best friend.
