Educated

I’d chosen it because I’d heard of Shakespeare and thought that was a good
sign. But now I was here I realized I knew nothing about him. It was a word
I’d heard, that was all.
When the bell rang, the professor approached my desk. “You don’t belong
here,” she said.
I stared at her, confused. Of course I didn’t belong, but how did she know?
I was on the verge of confessing the whole thing—that I’d never gone to
school, that I hadn’t really met the requirements to graduate—when she
added, “This class is for seniors.”
“There are classes for seniors?” I said.
She rolled her eyes as if I were trying to be funny. “This is 382. You
should be in 110.”
It took most of the walk across campus before I understood what she’d
said, then I checked my course schedule and, for the first time, noticed the
numbers next to the course names.
I went to the registrar’s office, where I was told that every freshman-level
course was full. What I should do, they said, was check online every few
hours and join if someone dropped. By the end of the week I’d managed to
squeeze into introductory courses in English, American history, music and
religion, but I was stuck in a junior-level course on art in Western
civilization.
Freshman English was taught by a cheerful woman in her late twenties
who kept talking about something called the “essay form,” which, she
assured us, we had learned in high school.
My next class, American history, was held in an auditorium named for the
prophet Joseph Smith. I’d thought American history would be easy because
Dad had taught us about the Founding Fathers—I knew all about
Washington, Jefferson, Madison. But the professor barely mentioned them at
all, and instead talked about “philosophical underpinnings” and the writings
of Cicero and Hume, names I’d never heard.
In the first lecture, we were told that the next class would begin with a quiz
on the readings. For two days I tried to wrestle meaning from the textbook’s
dense passages, but terms like “civic humanism” and “the Scottish
Enlightenment” dotted the page like black holes, sucking all the other words
into them. I took the quiz and missed every question.
That failure sat uneasily in my mind. It was the first indication of whether I
would be okay, whether whatever I had in my head by way of education was