R-Plates and Undergrads – Can A-Level students save us?

By Caitlin Small

The McClay Library, aka the epicentre for trauma endured during one’s stay at Queen’s, sees a shift in demographic come May every year. A mass influx of R-plates in the car park is the first telltale sign; the next, perhaps, are the abnormally capacious white boards that take up entire desks. Out with the old undergrads, in with the terrified A-level students.

It would be easy to view these poor, young souls (she says, being twenty-one) as though they infringe upon our workspace. This isn’t necessarily wrong, considering the key card to even get into the place costs over 4k a year. Nonetheless, contrary to popular opinion, there is an innate value in their presence.

Ever so quick to judge the poor souls are we. But they serve a purpose, at least to me. They grounded me during the troubling times of the final exams and impending deadlines, for I thought while glancing over, watching as they blurted entire CCEA biology specs, “thank God I am not in their shoes”.

Quite frankly, I would much rather have been in my position, pulling my hair out over how many ways I can rephrase “therefore”, before it gets old, or plucking out a niche case from the archives of Westlaw (those who know). My problems pale in comparison.

Thank God, it is not 2023, and I am not cooped up in my childhood bedroom, dealing with whatever Liz Truss’s resignation meant for my A-level paper, all whilst coping with an erupting wisdom tooth which arrived at a most inconvenient time… poor me. The mere sight of such students gave me a PTSD-esque flashback, picture That’s So Raven, to months of dry heaving and reading until my eyes forcibly closed.

In retrospect, did I overreact? Potentially. Considering I prayed to get into this university and then contemplated deeply on just how many classes I could realistically miss before things started to look a little dire. How well the balancing act played out will be revealed in due time, of course, not that I necessarily want to know, however.

Back to the apple of my eye, though, the A-Level sufferers. Gold medallists in the Agony Olympics, if you will. Yes, they indeed get to return home to their mother at 10 pm after their Life360 chimes, and yes, there will, you best believe, be a hot meal and clean sheets for the lucky ones. That same luxury does not extend to the early 20-something who is flung into the deep end, seeking comfort over the telephone.

However, where comfort lacks, motivation flourishes, or so I’ve told myself. Just think, two more weeks, and sweet, sweet release. This notion, dangled as a carrot on a stick, serves as a form of delayed gratification that will make all this worth it someday.

Maybe the A-Level student served a good purpose of some strange perspective by proxy, that the implications of my commitment pale in comparison to whatever they’re going through (despite the career-defining aspect I conveniently brush over).

Or perhaps we mourn the certainty of A-Levels that university lacks. We all know the joke that your most proud piece upon submission could be the greatest, categorical flop ever conceived, and the piece you scrambled together in two days is somehow deserving of a first class. The equivalence scale provides little clarity on what is needed from you. There is no longer a teacher you can confide in who knows your first name or who will take you through a past paper. After three years, it seems this is only clear now.

It’ll be okay, we tell ourselves; it could always be worse. If it isn’t the A-Level students at the heart of this discussion, we choose the next best targets: those poor actuary students.

At least if I squint correctly, I’m nearly done. They’re only beginning, however, which I mean sincerely, as someone waiting patiently and feverishly for their results email.