My parents studied at Oxford, which meant I knew Oxford before I knew myself.
The university found a way to fill each nook and cranny of my life before it even felt like my own. A hand-drawn map of Jesus College was hung in our downstairs bathroom; my eyes were level with front quad any time I washed my hands. My interest in philosophy was supplemented by my dad’s old tutorial essays and reading lists, leading to debates about Kant quickly dominating our after-school chats. He seemed unphased that I was thirteen; he was glad someone listened to his thoughts on obscure ethics with the same eagerness with which he spoke.
Crucially, this bright, richly academic childhood kept Oxford close to me. Small paintings scattered throughout the house and quiet quips about college life meant it felt like a viable destination for study rather than a distant, dream-like city of spires and snoots. I am entirely aware of the privilege of this perspectiveI am entirely aware of the privilege of this perspective. The reason I am at Oxford is due in no small part to my parents’ encouragement of my academics, and I am indebted to their continual support.
I am also slowly realising how Oxford connects me to my parents. With no close extended family, it was difficult to picture my parents as anything other than my mom and dad. Despite my best efforts to bring them into focus, they remained blurry. What Oxford crucially offers is a point of contact, where our lives exist in parallel. My mom talks of fond nights at “The KA”, and I smile because I too am partial to an overpriced pint there. Now, every pub trip there makes me think of her. In this small world, I find parts of them which exist beyond their parental outline.
And yet, this city also is a reminder of our distance. Though I walk the same path, my footsteps do not fit perfectly in prints first left by them. In unassuming conversations, I find reminders that my days do not look like theirs. My dad, with a mix of humour and sadness, explains that he was too anxious to ever step foot inside of the Rad Cam. I respond that it is one of my favourite places to study, acknowledging the gap between us. It is on my quiet days, when I am too depressed to get out of bed, that I feel most distant. I wish I knew what they did when they were sad. How did they fill the silence, which streets did they walk? Ghosts linger around Oxford and I can neither outrun and ignore them, nor embrace them, pulling them into a hug. It is hard to know what to do. Sometimes too hard. Late one night, I walked to Jesus College, sat down on the pavement steps outside and cried, confused by the strange weight this city has come to hold, as well as its emptiness.
What I do know is that a man reading PPE and a woman reading Music met at Jesus College, Oxford, in the 90s and quietly fell in love. Eighteen years later, they dropped their daughter off at Balliol College for her first term of university. It was a sunny day in October, and the sun shone kindly on their faces. I know that when I received my Oxford offer, my dad rushed upstairs, grabbed his mortarboard and placed it on my head; he was beaming, slightly teary-eyed. In amongst these memories lies disconnect and confusion, but also gentle warmth and understanding. These contradictions are testament to the city’s ability to hold it all, each moment, feeling and everything in between. That certainly feels like a good reason to smile and give my parents a call.
