I imagine that many of those who began studying at USyd in the post-COVID era have at some point lamented a dearth of that elusive vibe… anything that falls under that catchall moniker, ‘campus culture’ — which, at this point, has been beaten to near-death. Ask yourself, what did you expect?
It might have been a vision of dancing and drinking before eventually retiring to a gutter and eating a kebab. Or, you imagined sitting around an overcrowded dinner table populated by roommates and half-empty bottles of wine.
Whatever form it took, I’d be willing to bet that you had some idea of university life, and in some way, you were disappointed. That perfect friend group didn’t spontaneously solidify from the amorphous blob of your cohort; you spent more evenings on the bus or train home than you had anticipated.
Detractors might say that these notions were powered by fiction hailing from Britain or the United States, and that the reality of campus life had to be swallowed at some point. I admit, I am not immune to the power of Brideshead Revisited.
Although there is an undeniable gap between fantasy and reality, I disagree that all that there ever was was a daydream. My mother went to USyd in the late eighties and has relayed to me halcyon days of campus life that she enjoyed, where classes were punctuated by beers at Manning. Is my disappointment really unjustified, when I spent my first year in a disjointed rhythm of nascent friendship with my peers, with the flow constantly thrown off by those dreaded, discordant words, ‘I probably have to go home’?
When everyone works, or is exhausted from working whilst studying, going home is either mandatory, or the path of least resistance. Coming back out can feel like an insurmountable task.
So, what happened? When did things stop being so effortless?
To state the obvious, campus life was turned on its head by COVID. But some issues loom ever larger, and continue to strangle campus culture.
The state of campus culture was laid bare to me, in a manner laughably on the nose, while I was lining up for the ‘Sauls’, the St Pauls party held on Wednesdays. There it was, through the high fence, the very expensive corner of campus where it seemed like all the ‘campus culture’, the parties, camaraderie and fun, had been sequestered.
The very existence of the colleges is intrinsically in opposition to the provision of affordable student housing. Accommodation continues to grow more expensive, with some student rent prices having increased by more than 35% since 2019, forcing students to live increasingly further away from campus. Predictably, this makes it difficult or impossible for the vast majority of students —who cannot afford to live in colleges or even residences around campus— to say ‘yes’ to society events, or to stay out when the last train home is leaving in twenty minutes and you have work the next morning.
Colleges present a pay-to-win system, where one ‘prize’ is campus culture. Sure, it sounds great for those who can afford the $21,497 per semester fee (the first year semester fee for St Andrews college, as of 2024). Most students are being priced out of partaking in their own university life, which in turn chips away at a local campus culture until it only lies in the hands of a privileged minority. It is appalling that students are being left behind for the benefit of an elite few solely for the sake of greed, and in turn, student enjoyment and quality of life suffers and the dream of ‘campus culture’ slips further away.
Abolishing the colleges for the purpose of affordable student accommodation is one step towards democratising campus culture. But in the meantime, I think there is some value in accepting and adapting to the fact that campus culture might not look the same or be as effortless as it once was. I don’t go to college, and I work. However, I live with my parents, closer than many to the university. In that first year, I let my initial dejection about the state of campus culture overwhelm me, and I succumbed to resignation. I failed to see the advantages I did have, and did not put up any resistance to that voice saying ‘just go home’ after class.
If I could speak to my previous self, and those in a similar position, I would tell them to resist that resignation, and take advantage of the privileges we do have. Resist the idea that university life, your early twenties, and campus culture is reserved for an elite minority by having fun, while the efforts to attain affordable student housing continue. As things stand now, the sacrifices of time, money, and effort are often borne by those who live further away or face chronic illness or disability, but those resources are finite. If you can, I urge you to put in that little bit of extra effort to push through that post-tutorial tiredness, or the discomfort of sleeping on someone else’s floor rather than leaving early for the last bus back to the city.
If we want to discover the people and places that we have been led to believe are locked away by reason of circumstance, those who are able must try to arrive in the middle, and then we can start to foster campus culture. Granted, it relies on the willpower and efforts of those who live closer to university and are not affected by illness or disability. But it works. I learnt this lesson painfully, through many nights in, wondering where I went wrong. Now, I love my hard-won ‘campus culture’, and regret the time I spent in the easy embrace of despondency. So, give a second thought to the pub you suggest, could someone who lives in Bankstown make it? Be willing to offer up that floor to sleep on, and be willing to sleep on it.
