The Signs in the Cloister Lights

Winter in Scotland is a dreary affair; it invites along a type of cold that finds home in your bones. A November evening in 2016 found me outside the University of Glasgow with my mum, the sky an inky black canopy over the twinkling city lights. I was in secondary school and the lecture was only a taster session.

As we stepped out, arms linked, huddling together, she fussed over me, adjusting my scarf and woolly hat, shielding me from the chill emanating from the ancient stone walls. The cloisters stretched before us, but there was something different tonight: their Gothic arches were softened by pearly strings of bright lights. As we lingered, mesmerised, I suddenly heard her voice beside me, quiet yet steady: ‘You’ll go to this university,’ she said. I laughed. Yes, I was a good student, one who may indeed attend university; however, the University of Glasgow was out of my league. ‘Mum, don’t get your hopes up!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’ll go here,’ she repeated, smiling, as if she’d read the signs in the cloister lights.

I wanted to believe her, but I come from Glasgow’s east end, a place where dreams are often tempered by reality. The historic University of Glasgow stands proudly in the west end whose streets of grand Victorian terraces and boutique shops exude a quiet affluence. This part of the city always felt like another world to me. My visits were mostly for museum trips, and I couldn’t shake the feeling I was trespassing in a space not meant for me.

The east end, in contrast, with its high-rise flats and rows of sprawling tenements like matches in a box, is a predominantly working-class area. My family is a long line of working-class people who left school to join the workforce, rarely by choice. Yet, my parents conceived a different course for me — one built on curiosity and learning. They had worked tirelessly to escape their own poverty and were determined to give me the choices they never had. My childhood was filled with Sky History and National Geographic, from Charlemagne to Attenborough. I grew up with a love of history and nature.

Their sacrifices meant everything to me. For many, university is a rite of passage; for me, I would be the first in my family to attend, carrying with me not just my own hopes, but the dreams of those who had worked so hard to make it possible.

Two years later in the summer of 2018, I awoke to the sun in my bedroom and the sound of my parents in the living room. A letter had arrived. I nervously tore open the exam results. It had happened. I had been accepted to read English literature and History at the University of Glasgow.

In my four years there, winter became my favourite season. Whenever I walked through the cloisters, the glowing lights greeted me, a comforting reminder of that night, of my self-doubt and my parents’ faith in me.