There’s this ideal version of university life that campuses try to sell you—posters of a multicultural group of friends sitting in a circle on bright green grass, laughing. It seems utopian, when, in reality, most of uni is spent indoors. However, I’d argue that drama school is a utopia—unlike other traditional uni experiences.
My final day on campus began in much likeness to its predecessors. I woke up to my first alarm, only to open my eyes long enough to change it to “Just ten minutes more,” I told myself again. When I fully awoke, it was go-time. The perfectly-timed last-minute routine I’ve established of breakfast–skincare–teeth–clothes is executed to a tee—five minutes shaved off with now three years of trial and error. Those five minutes came in handy on a day like this—when my sentimentality found me stopping in my tracks all of a sudden to reflect. That makes me sound like a monk.
What I mean is that even though it feels like just another day, part of you knows it’s your last—and everything reminds you of how far you’ve come. How our morning lecturer was the same person who gave us our first lesson in first year and the room we had our final class in was the room we all first met each other in. Good ol’ MOS1. There’s a serendipity in somehow ending exactly where you started—but being so changed in between.
As the day goes on, there’s a panic in knowing there are some things you’ll never do again, some places you’ll never go again. I had my last katsu curry from Cafe 10, a final peach iced tea for old times’ sake. I was doing things for my old self, asking, “What would first year Fletcher want?” Even though I know he didn’t know much better than I do now.
You think of times you didn’t know were your last—when was the last time I used that specific vending machine, filled my water bottle at that particular fountain? I overcompensated by forcing myself to buy a sweet treat from Grindhouse, wanting to have some semblance of control on when would be my final time inside the building.
Eventually, you reach a point in your afternoon class when you realise it’s all ending. When your voice teacher brought you to the park across the street—the park in which your cohort shares many memories. And, even though you thought it impossible, you make some more iconic memories. Perhaps it’s the feral energy of the final day of classes, or the reminders of our youth when running around the park, but I’ll never forget my final day on campus.
A huge congratulations to my fellow 2024 graduates—to my friends.
The first play I ever performed in was when I was eight years old. I hadn’t heard the name of any drama school, I just liked playing pretend. The lead actor had dropped out a week into rehearsals and I was given his part. The first words I ever said on a stage were, “It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.” Cheesy, I know, but ever-so-appropriate for the final day on campus. Just as appropriate for drama school as was pretending to be birds in our final class. As appropriate as sitting on the grass with my multicultural group of friends, as we’ve done numerous times over the past three years—laughing.