On the first day of the semester, I arrived five minutes early to my poetry class and found that two individuals were already waiting in the room. I was eager to prove to them how friendly I could be, so I immediately struck up a conversation. Both informed me that they were fellow English majors, which gave me an immediate sense of relief.
I pictured them spending their summers dancing among flowers, admiring the sky and writing sonnets about wheat fields.
To my surprise and disgust, however, the one to my left described his trip to China in which he taught English to young children. Rendered speechless, I could only tilt my head toward the one across from me, clinging to the hope that she was similarly appalled with this outrageous display of charitable activity. Instead, she recounted her humanitarian efforts in Brazil before returning home early for her 10-week internship at Goldman Sachs.
Now, I don't consider myself a jealous or competitive person, but when you spend your summer selling corn and tomatoes at a roadside produce stand, this is the absolute last thing you want to hear. Helping children to read and building bridges in the jungle somewhat diminishes the valor of teaching middle-aged housewives how to pick out a ripe cantaloupe. It seems that some English majors have forgotten the unwritten rules of conduct that have helped us blissfully wallow in self-loathing for countless generations.
First of all, any type of business internship or spiritual gratification has no place in the English department. If you're not planning on being reduced to a life of staring at the ocean while emerged in tragic introspection, then you can just get the hell out.
We are enlightened creatures, raised far above such trivial matters as "money" and "other people." You only need to look out for your own well-being, or, more accurately, your own inner demons. Let the fools of the overly ambitious, money-grubbing Wall Street fat-cat world have their homes, cars, spouses and happiness. We know that the true secret of existence is found in deciphering 19th century French poetry, and when we find it, we're not sharing it with anybody. While the masses are out selling their souls to the corporate machine, we're heroically chasing white whales and huddling around flaming garbage cans for heat.
While at my produce job, a number of customers would ask me about my education. I would proudly tell them that I was an English major at Duke University. Here are some of my favorite responses: "I majored in English. Worst decision I ever made in my life"; "English? So, you're going for that whole 'unemployed' route"; and finally, "Why don't you be a doctor and actually get something done?"
Get something done? Please leave my vegetable stand and take all of that conservative, money-hungry, productive nonsense with you. I didn't become an English major to serve some faceless slave driver. I live by my own terms, and right now I feel like rattling off a few stanzas about the puffiness of clouds, just because I can.
My favorite people are the ones that decide my future for me. When I tell them my major, I most frequently receive: "So you're going to be a teacher." Not as a question, but as a statement of fact. Thanks so much for saving me all that aggravation of deciding on a career for myself. I was afraid I'd actually have to apply for jobs and search the market. Now, I can look forward to keeping the toxic crayons out of toddler Jimmy's mouth or telling tortured adolescent Katie that she needs to eat something besides Splenda before she dies of anemia.
Wherever our future takes us, fellow English majors, the most important thing we need to remember is to never sell out.
Forget about Habitat for Humanity or interning at Citibank next summer. You're going to sit alone in your room and whimsically observe the puddles outside collecting rain, damn it. Don't let your parents seduce you with the devil's tongue of "minoring in Econ" or "getting your life together."
You've got your life right where you want it, unbound by the cruel shackles of commerce. So the next time you feel the cold hand of a Markets and Managements certificate around your neck, don't panic. Take a deep breath, shake out your arms, and write a haiku about a stone you once threw into a brook. By the time you're done, I promise you'll feel better.
Steve Brown is a Trinity junior.
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