What Do You Do With a BA in English?

I had a conversation the other night with a friend. It went something like this:

Him: I've never understood liberal arts degrees.
Me: What do you mean?
Him: Well, I just don't understand why someone would want to major in writing or history or something like that.
Me: Why not?
Him: There just doesn't seem to be anywhere to rise to, no higher levels to achieve.
Me: You can teach.
Him: Do you want to teach?
Me: No.
Him: Case in point. I mean, I majored in nursing, will further hone my nursing degree with a masters in anesthesiology, and then I will be a nurse anesthetist. Simple, logical, surefire. I will climb the steps until I achieve my ultimate goal; a goal I knew all along. I guess that's why I'm a Republican. (That comment fit in with an earlier part of the conversation, although it sounds somewhat random here.)
Me: Well, for me it's not about money or success. I'd rather be doing something I love.
Him: I get both.
Me: Well aren't you lucky.

The two of us are very good friends, although we disagree on just about everything political and professional. Opposites attract? I don't know. We drive each other nuts sometimes, I think. But anyway, this post isn't about politics or anything like that. (Thank God! I've had enough of that in the last week.) It's about why I'm an English major.

In true "Laura" fashion, I had absolutely no rebuttal ready for my friend's challenge. However, I got to thinking about it and have now had time to formulate an answer for him and anyone else who wonders why some of us would pick a career path that almost undeniably leads to a life in a cardboard box. Or at least a roach-infested apartment.

... Or our parents' house ...

So, why was I an English major? Well, the easy, totally honest, practical answer is that I love to read, and I always have. I'm a decent writer. I hate memorizing facts. Science and math make my head spin uncomfortably fast. And while I was interested in psychology, I didn't want to do labs. So I figured I could just apply simple psych to literature and call it a day.

The more analytical, English-major answer is more complicated. I like to think. Let me qualify that: I like to think creatively. Now, this is not an acceptance of the common misunderstanding of liberal arts students to be a bunch of egotistical elitists who sit around making up BS all day and calling it knowledge or fact. 1) It's more complex than that. 2) I, at least, have never claimed that the theories I came up with about Moby Dick's incapacity for humanoid intentions or Dr. Jeckyll's relation to the Ego or Id are fact. Not even that it was the author's intention.

You see, the liberal arts are about creative thinking--critical thinking. Saying, "Bakhtin had some interesting thoughts on the grotesque. How could his theory be applied to Tristram Shandy?" (Yes, I'm aware that I just outed myself as a complete lit. theory nerd.) The way you learn to think and analyze is completely different than memorizing facts and regurgitating them in a little blue book twice a semester. In fact, I would argue (completely biased, of course) that it's actually more practical in real life than a lot of other disciplines might be. Or at least that it is more practical and valuable than commonly given credit for.

Liberal Arts students are constantly bombarded by professors or classmates saying, "Well, that's one way to look at it, but think about this. Isn't it just as likely? Or maybe even more so?" Professors constantly urged us to "Think harder!" To really dig in and not just gloss over the obvious points.

Now, forgive me, but I feel a spurt of politics coming on. I'll try to keep it tame.

For me, at least, I feel that learning to think in this way gave me an incredibly valuable tool when it comes to dealing with the people and situations we encounter every day. Yes, to me this particular situation might come off in one light. But if I stop and consider the circumstances, I can come to realize that the other person's point of view is equally valid. Or at least I can understand where they are coming from and how to better communicate my thoughts and ideas with them, without coming off as a hard-headed egotistical jerk.

So, if any of that made sense, and you made it through my obnoxious literary allusions (sorry, I'm going through a spurt of learning-withdrawal at the moment), then you have my answer as to why I was an English major. Or at least, that's what I got out of being an English major. And if you're still skeptical, then let me leave you with this:

At least I wasn't a philosopher major*!


(*Sorry Kate and Eric, couldn't resist it!)

A Walk in the Woods

I went for a walk in the woods today. It wasn't a long walk, but it was nice. Sometimes I get too caught up in my mind. It's a dangerous place to be, I tell you. Today was one of those days, unfortunately. Election day was getting me thinking about the innate greed and self-centeredness that corrupts the political world. The ignorance and basic racism I find even here in Wellsboro (perhaps especially here, in Wellsboro?) was getting to me. The fact that the average, good-hearted American doesn't have the ability to get people to listen to reason and the truth, unscarred by political agendas was eating at me. And then there are personal issues that don't really need to be discussed. My brain was being tugged at in all directions, and there didn't seem to be a single answer in sight. No solutions, very little hope.

When I get like this, little things set me off. So naturally, I got unnecessarily upset that we weren't having pizza for dinner like I had thought. And when Dad wanted me to help research recipes for this non-pizza dinner, well, I was about in tears. Don't get me wrong: I know it's stupid. I knew then that it was stupid. And of course it had nothing to do with pizza. But the tears were threatening, and at that point there's no turning back. So I took a walk in the woods.

I wanted to feel my nose run in the cold, the numb, leathery sensation of the wind on my face. The slight burning in my legs as I climb the hill, and the jelly-leg weakness as the leaf-strewn ground evens out. I wanted to see my no-longer-a-puppy dog frolic through the leaves and in the creek like he hadn't a care in the world (he probably doesn't).

And so I walked. I passed the old treehouse my brothers and I built ten years ago, with it's plywood floors now green with mossy age. I came upon the creek we used to have leaf-boat races on, and listened to it's tired gurgle for a while. I was cold.

It wasn't any sort of novel-worthy spiritual experience. I spent most of the time watching the ground and trying not to fall over. Making sure the dog didn't get too excited and run out of my sight. And did I mention it was cold?

But when I came back up once again, I felt glad that I had taken the walk. I didn't have any illusions about being at peace with the world, but I was grateful for the physical sensation of the walk itself. It was something other than thinking. I started at the top of the hill, and when I was finished, I may have ended up in the same place, but I had been somewhere; I had seen something new along the way. My runny nose and jelly legs gave testament to that. So maybe the circuitous journey was worth it in the end, even if I can't put my finger on why or how it helped. And that is strangely comforting, in a way.