This weekend was a momentous occasion for me.
Sure, I passed said momentous occasion by sitting on my couch (read: futon) with a glass of Pinot Noir and this month's Vogue (damn, Rihanna is hot, and awesome, and I love her, and I shouldn't read fashion magazines for a reason - in fact why do I read them? I don't actually look at the fashion) because I was too sick to leave the house all weekend - but no, the momentous occasion was not having my first ever Friday night home alone, though that's a pretty big deal too.
No, this past Saturday, in a tiny industrial town in the Victorian region of Gippsland, at a university campus that has been the destination of many half-faxed essays and panicky emails over the last five years - I was awarded my university degree.
Actually, that's degreeZZZ, bitches.
Turns out - and I had no way of knowing this, as the good folk at Monash don't believe in sending you emails once you graduate, which makes me presume they would've had to send me an old-fashioned postal notification of this fact - that my in absentia graduation application was granted - for March 26 or thereabouts. Meaning lucky I hadn't hinged on doing the old cap and gown thing during the April session if I'd made it home for a visit - as clearly the Monash grownups had other plans.
Either way, I'm hoping the cardboard cylinder containing a concoction of blood, tears and chocolate crumbs along with the pieces of paper that will somehow determine my life are on their way to my parents' address in Melbourne. Because after keeping 7-11 in business with that much chocolate and shedding that many floods of tears... well, you'd kinda hope I got something out of it.
Which brings me to the New York translation: Apparently, in this side of town, undergraduate degrees just don't go.
The minute university studies are mentioned, especially for someone above the age of 22 - it's automatically assumed to be a masters. Forget the stress and robbery of adolescence that is VCE; the relentless academic rigor that is Australian universities: All of a sudden, in the big city, your BA is equivalent to whipping out a Certificate II from Sunshine TAFE (though of course not to shun the high educational quality of Sunshine TAFE and environs). Even a lady like me with my BA and BBusCom (read all those letters, please, kiddies), is suddenly missing the M and the A and a whole lot of qualifications.
So, here it is, New York. My fancypants Monash University degreeZZZ will be on their way to these shores momentarily. And I dare you to tell me I need to haul my ladyness back to school for another piece of paper, because that's not happening for a while yet.
Other expats to the shores of the USA, I'd love to hear from you: Have you struggled to translate your Australian or European qualifications to American standards? Leave me a comment below or throw me a tweet @rishegee.
Sure, I passed said momentous occasion by sitting on my couch (read: futon) with a glass of Pinot Noir and this month's Vogue (damn, Rihanna is hot, and awesome, and I love her, and I shouldn't read fashion magazines for a reason - in fact why do I read them? I don't actually look at the fashion) because I was too sick to leave the house all weekend - but no, the momentous occasion was not having my first ever Friday night home alone, though that's a pretty big deal too.
No, this past Saturday, in a tiny industrial town in the Victorian region of Gippsland, at a university campus that has been the destination of many half-faxed essays and panicky emails over the last five years - I was awarded my university degree.
Actually, that's degreeZZZ, bitches.
Turns out - and I had no way of knowing this, as the good folk at Monash don't believe in sending you emails once you graduate, which makes me presume they would've had to send me an old-fashioned postal notification of this fact - that my in absentia graduation application was granted - for March 26 or thereabouts. Meaning lucky I hadn't hinged on doing the old cap and gown thing during the April session if I'd made it home for a visit - as clearly the Monash grownups had other plans.
Either way, I'm hoping the cardboard cylinder containing a concoction of blood, tears and chocolate crumbs along with the pieces of paper that will somehow determine my life are on their way to my parents' address in Melbourne. Because after keeping 7-11 in business with that much chocolate and shedding that many floods of tears... well, you'd kinda hope I got something out of it.
Which brings me to the New York translation: Apparently, in this side of town, undergraduate degrees just don't go.
The minute university studies are mentioned, especially for someone above the age of 22 - it's automatically assumed to be a masters. Forget the stress and robbery of adolescence that is VCE; the relentless academic rigor that is Australian universities: All of a sudden, in the big city, your BA is equivalent to whipping out a Certificate II from Sunshine TAFE (though of course not to shun the high educational quality of Sunshine TAFE and environs). Even a lady like me with my BA and BBusCom (read all those letters, please, kiddies), is suddenly missing the M and the A and a whole lot of qualifications.
So, here it is, New York. My fancypants Monash University degreeZZZ will be on their way to these shores momentarily. And I dare you to tell me I need to haul my ladyness back to school for another piece of paper, because that's not happening for a while yet.
Other expats to the shores of the USA, I'd love to hear from you: Have you struggled to translate your Australian or European qualifications to American standards? Leave me a comment below or throw me a tweet @rishegee.
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