Tonight I thought I was going to blog about politics. There's a lot to say about what's been going on lately--particularly regarding the major cuts in education funding. I'm angry and upset with Congress and the people who put them there, knowing full well what their plans were for cutting so many essential social programs. I'm pissed off that these men and women--arguably some of the most powerful people in the country--don't seem to have to play by the same rules as everyone else. They don't have to get along or do their jobs. They don't have to compromise or listen to others. And yes, it's a problem on both sides; I'm not just blaming Republicans. So here I was, full of anger, disappointment, and hopelessness for the direction our government is taking us.
And then I watched this video. I don't cry during sad movies. I don't cry over touching lyrics. But this little girl--she made me cry. Because she is so innocent, and so full of joy. She doesn't sing because it will make her rich and famous. She sings because she likes to. And through that innocence that only children possess, she touches so many lives, mine included. I felt like everything would be okay while watching this little girl sing, with her mispronounced "r"s and slight lisp. It took a child to pull me out of the adult world of blame and anger. We should all probably start paying closer attention to the children in our lives. In many ways, I think they're a heck of a lot smarter than we give them credit for.
13 April 2011
14 March 2011
De-Glob the Wad
I was told that rather than sit and fume at my computer over nonexistent problems created only by my tendency to overanalyze everything, I should write on my blog. And because this person usually gives really good advice, and she just left to take care of certain hygienic necessities, I decided to give it a go. That and I've seriously neglected blog-world as of late.
The issue is coming up with something worthwhile to ruminate over. Do you ever have those moments when your brain feels like a huge wad of chewed gum? Cause that's what I'm experiencing right now. Maybe it's brain rot, from not doing anything scholastic in the past year or so. It's like a giant lump of sticky, useless, disgusting grossness.
Sometimes I try to mentally de-glob the wad. I imagine the light of knowledge gathering in a ball in the middle of my brain, and I focus on that ball and cause it to grow bigger and bigger, until it is breaking through the gunk and shining out, like sunbeams behind a cloud. The idea is that eventually all the crust of disuse will break away and all that will be left is the sharp glint of knowledge beaming through.
It never gets there, though. Usually I end up getting distracted by Family Guy, or the dog, or my mom. And the glare of light dims until it's just a glimmer, and then *poof* it's gone--extinguished by lazy idleness. Ah well.
Something else that's been on my mind lately, is that people need to get over playing games in matters of the heart. Maybe it's just girls who do that, and then girls project that guys must be doing it too. But seriously, life would be so much simpler if we all just said what we meant. If I want to talk to someone, I should just do it, not worry about if it will make me look too forward or clingy. I shouldn't worry about what people will think.
Except that I have this issue with over-thinking things. So, I'm not very good at following my own advice. Boo. Oh well, that's part of who I am. So I suppose I should get used to it. :p
The issue is coming up with something worthwhile to ruminate over. Do you ever have those moments when your brain feels like a huge wad of chewed gum? Cause that's what I'm experiencing right now. Maybe it's brain rot, from not doing anything scholastic in the past year or so. It's like a giant lump of sticky, useless, disgusting grossness.
Sometimes I try to mentally de-glob the wad. I imagine the light of knowledge gathering in a ball in the middle of my brain, and I focus on that ball and cause it to grow bigger and bigger, until it is breaking through the gunk and shining out, like sunbeams behind a cloud. The idea is that eventually all the crust of disuse will break away and all that will be left is the sharp glint of knowledge beaming through.
It never gets there, though. Usually I end up getting distracted by Family Guy, or the dog, or my mom. And the glare of light dims until it's just a glimmer, and then *poof* it's gone--extinguished by lazy idleness. Ah well.
Something else that's been on my mind lately, is that people need to get over playing games in matters of the heart. Maybe it's just girls who do that, and then girls project that guys must be doing it too. But seriously, life would be so much simpler if we all just said what we meant. If I want to talk to someone, I should just do it, not worry about if it will make me look too forward or clingy. I shouldn't worry about what people will think.
Except that I have this issue with over-thinking things. So, I'm not very good at following my own advice. Boo. Oh well, that's part of who I am. So I suppose I should get used to it. :p
26 January 2011
Love Thy Neighbor
Sometimes I really don't understand what God is doing. Why is it that some of the best people can't catch a break? They continually get dumped on, one back-breaking, spirit-crunching blow after another? I don't understand it, and I'm angry. I've felt my faith slipping with each bit of news I received tonight. It is so hard to know that someone you love is suffering and there isn't much you can do about it--to know that their world is dissolving around them and you can't reach in to save them...you can't even really understand their pain. The sense of helplessness brings on anger. At least that's my reaction.
And then people try to comfort you with stock phrases, like "It's all in God's hands." Or "He never gives you more than you can handle." And my gut response is Well why the hell doesn't he do something already if he's so dang powerful?! Maybe I'm just a bad Christian. Heck, I know I am, at least right now. And yet, I just can't shake that inner Catholic conscience squeaking away at me.
When that final news hit tonight, I found myself sending a text out to a number of close friends. Friends who I knew would pray. Because even though I'm mad right now, and I don't understand--somewhere, deep down inside of my heart, I know that (or at least have to believe that) God is there somewhere, and he will watch out for my suffering family and friends. And even though I'm really struggling to believe in him and his plan, I have to find the strength to break the vise on my heart and let that never-ending love shine through on those who need it so badly right now. I've already felt the clamp loosening with the outpouring of love and support from those friends I messaged in desperation. Some of them surprised me a bit by ending up on my SOS list. People I haven't talked to in months...and yet I know they'll be there for me. And I know they'll offer up those prayers that keep getting stuck between my heart and my head. To me, that in and of itself is a sign that God is there, somewhere, listening and caring. At least I hope so.
***Anyone who is reading this, if you're a praying person, please offer up a couple of prayers. It doesn't matter if you know who you're praying for. I think that whoever you're praying to will know what to do with them. And whether you're religious or not, please take a moment and listen to my plea:
It's so easy to judge people. And it's so tempting to talk about those judgements, especially in a small town. But all of these people have stories that you don't know. And they have people who love them. So please, try to have an open heart and do what you can to love your neighbors, no matter how hard it may seem.
21 January 2011
Something Needs to Change.
When you see someone suffering, and know there's not a thing you can do to help them, it hurts.
When you see how hard someone works, and know they'll never make it to where you started, it hurts.
When you know you can get out and move on, but your fellows can't, it hurts.
When you know that what you have is luck, and nothing more, it hurts.
It's one thing when I see stories in the media about those affected by poverty, natural disaster, famine, and illness. There is this fantastic wall--a bubble wall that surrounds and protects me. Yes, I feel sorry for the people I read about or see on television. I hope that someone, somewhere helps them and they move on and prosper. But I can just flick off the TV or snap shut the newspaper, and their problems are gone, shut out by the wall of my own reality--a reality constructed within the confines of the blessings and luck I was born into, that I had nothing to do with. I don't have to dwell on the suffering.
And then I meet people in my own area. People I have daily interactions with. And I see their struggles; lower-class American poverty. Forty, fifty, sixty years old and just barely paying the bills each month. Or maybe not paying the bills each month. Very sick, but unable to afford the luxury of a doctor. I see that it's a cycle. These people are no less deserving than me. No worse or lesser in any way. Better in some. But they were unlucky. Their parents worked two, three jobs to pay the bills (or not). They do the same. College wasn't an option. No one cared enough to help them along. And their kids will follow suit. Innocent kids, no better or worse than me, just born into lesser circumstances.
And I see very little I can do. How do I, we, break the cycle? It's depressing to me. The people with power have more important things to worry about: making sure they get their raises and the companies who got them into office are able to push their agendas through. Where is the humanity? The compassion?
Are we really that selfish? It hurts to realize that yes, we are.
Yes, I am.
When you see how hard someone works, and know they'll never make it to where you started, it hurts.
When you know you can get out and move on, but your fellows can't, it hurts.
When you know that what you have is luck, and nothing more, it hurts.
It's one thing when I see stories in the media about those affected by poverty, natural disaster, famine, and illness. There is this fantastic wall--a bubble wall that surrounds and protects me. Yes, I feel sorry for the people I read about or see on television. I hope that someone, somewhere helps them and they move on and prosper. But I can just flick off the TV or snap shut the newspaper, and their problems are gone, shut out by the wall of my own reality--a reality constructed within the confines of the blessings and luck I was born into, that I had nothing to do with. I don't have to dwell on the suffering.
And then I meet people in my own area. People I have daily interactions with. And I see their struggles; lower-class American poverty. Forty, fifty, sixty years old and just barely paying the bills each month. Or maybe not paying the bills each month. Very sick, but unable to afford the luxury of a doctor. I see that it's a cycle. These people are no less deserving than me. No worse or lesser in any way. Better in some. But they were unlucky. Their parents worked two, three jobs to pay the bills (or not). They do the same. College wasn't an option. No one cared enough to help them along. And their kids will follow suit. Innocent kids, no better or worse than me, just born into lesser circumstances.
And I see very little I can do. How do I, we, break the cycle? It's depressing to me. The people with power have more important things to worry about: making sure they get their raises and the companies who got them into office are able to push their agendas through. Where is the humanity? The compassion?
Are we really that selfish? It hurts to realize that yes, we are.
Yes, I am.
15 January 2011
Moving Along
I am an undecided individual. And generally I'm okay with that. I'm not the kind of person who worries on a regular basis about what's coming or what I'm going to do next. I wasn't the high school junior who knew exactly where I wanted to go to school and what I wanted to study and what I wanted to do with said degree. I'm more of a stop and read the footnotes kind of person (smelling roses doesn't have much appeal to an anosmic like myself). I enjoyed high school (yes, gasp in disbelief and incredulity if you must) and when it came time to move on, I started looking at some schools, visited a few, and eventually, somehow narrowed it down to two choices. I'm still not exactly sure how I ended up at G-burg. But I did, and it ended up being the best four years of my life so far.
Eventually I decided English was the academic course I would take, mainly because I had a couple really good classes with a couple great professors. That and I love to read and write. I guess I knew in the back of my mind that it would be a difficult field in which to make an actual living. But I got lucky or fate was on my side or something, and I landed a job right out of college. That was not the best year of my life, but I learned some very important life lessons and gained some good experience.
So in the past I've been content to let life carry on and see where it takes me. Unfortunately, I haven't been so lucky in the last year. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I should attempt to make a quantum leap and become a motivated, driven individual. Don't get me wrong, there have been good parts to the last year. I met some great people, opened a new, adult chapter in my relationship with my parents, and learned how to make yummy coffee. And I attained a new sense of gratefulness for the blessings in my life that allowed me to go to school and some day (fingers crossed) have a career that won't require me to work 50 hours a week at low-paying jobs just to pay the bills.
The problem seems to be that while I think being motivated and driven would be interesting, I can't seem to move any further in that direction. It remains a vague interest in what could be "if things were different." So how do I make things different? How do I organize the rambling, confused list of things I'd like to do into an organized list that can actually be handled and accomplished? Let's start with just getting at least part of that list out there. Here goes, in no particular order:
Eventually I decided English was the academic course I would take, mainly because I had a couple really good classes with a couple great professors. That and I love to read and write. I guess I knew in the back of my mind that it would be a difficult field in which to make an actual living. But I got lucky or fate was on my side or something, and I landed a job right out of college. That was not the best year of my life, but I learned some very important life lessons and gained some good experience.
So in the past I've been content to let life carry on and see where it takes me. Unfortunately, I haven't been so lucky in the last year. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I should attempt to make a quantum leap and become a motivated, driven individual. Don't get me wrong, there have been good parts to the last year. I met some great people, opened a new, adult chapter in my relationship with my parents, and learned how to make yummy coffee. And I attained a new sense of gratefulness for the blessings in my life that allowed me to go to school and some day (fingers crossed) have a career that won't require me to work 50 hours a week at low-paying jobs just to pay the bills.
The problem seems to be that while I think being motivated and driven would be interesting, I can't seem to move any further in that direction. It remains a vague interest in what could be "if things were different." So how do I make things different? How do I organize the rambling, confused list of things I'd like to do into an organized list that can actually be handled and accomplished? Let's start with just getting at least part of that list out there. Here goes, in no particular order:
- Complete my lifetime reading list.
- Write a book.
- Blog more regularly.
- Buy a Wii.
- Have my own apartment.
- Have a house with a library.
- Develop a meaningful romantic relationship.
- Get a career-type job.
- Move out of Wellsboro.
- Go back to school.
- Travel abroad.
- Live abroad, for a period.
- Open a combination coffee shop/bookstore.
- Do humanitarian work that actually makes a positive influence on the world.
I just went through and listed the problems or obstacles with each of those goals, but when I read through them they made me sound extremely whiny and annoying. And since I do still have a shred of dignity and care for what the world thinks of me, I deleted the list. So let's go with a list of possible solutions, or ways to achieve said goals.
- Buckle down, hit the job search with renewed energy and optimism and find a good job, regardless of whether or not it's a "dream job." Then I'll have some money (which was a recurring theme on my list of obstacles) to possibly achieve some of my other goals. From there I can work on following my bigger dreams.
- Resign myself to a foreseeable future of debt and go back to school, hoping that it will end in an internship or other contact that could turn into a decent job opportunity.
- Attempt to join the Peace Corps or some other humanitarian organization, thus putting off the whole "becoming a real adult" thing for a couple more years, and possibly just disappearing in whatever faraway place I am stationed and live out my life free of modern-world cares and worries.
- Join a convent.
- Find and marry a rich man who will fund everything on my list.
So these actually ended up being more or less in order of feasibility and practicality. Number 5 would be great, but I've yet to come across any guys that fit the bill. If any rich, pleasant, down-to-earth, charitable, genuinely nice guys read this however, do leave a message and we can talk. Oh, and I totally lied about the whole joining a convent thing. That definitely wouldn't work out for me. While going back to school or joining the Peace Corps definitely appeal to my inner idealist, I'm afraid I've inherited too much of my mother's practicality to actually follow through on either of those options.
Well, I'm really no further along than I was before I posted this. In fact, I'm reminded of a song from one of my favorite Broadway soundtracks, Avenue Q, "I Wish I Could Go Back to College." Particularly one line: "I need an academic advisor to point the way." (See the whole song here.)
I wish someone would tell me what to do.
02 December 2010
Lauraland
Ten little words in black and white typeface. Words I wasn't expecting. At least not yet. Words that twisted my stomach and dried my mouth. Made my hands shake and fingertips go cold. As they danced before my eyes, the crystalline palace I had erected about myself shattered.
I had one of those heart-stopping moments today, where you realize something about yourself that you probably always knew, but never really acknowledged. You know the feeling...a sudden squeeze at your heart, a physical reaction to a mental realization. A tingly-frozen feeling in the pit of your stomach, akin to panic or the stomach-drop sensation when you know someone is on the verge of telling you some very bad news.
Was the news I received really that earth-shattering? No. I knew it would come some day. I suppose I just wasn't expecting to have to face it in the stone-cold, no ifs ands or buts about it, reality of facebook. "In a relationship with." It implies intimacy and a sense of forever. "Dating" would be so much easier to accept.
And I realized how self-centered I am. How self-centered we all are. I can try my hardest to see things from other people's perspectives, to step outside the box, take a walk in their shoes. But in the end, it's from my own unique--and utterly self-centered--vantage point from which I view the world. I am still, at base, the infant who doesn't understand that the world outside of me doesn't freeze when I'm not directly involved--that people move on in their own directions and forget about me and my world.
The thing about us egotistical humans (or perhaps it's just me...who knows) is that we never expect to be replaced. Even if I have already replaced the person in question. In my own little world of pink ponies and butterflies, no one will ever get over the loss of moi, the one and only. I reign as queen of Lauraland, and outside of that, nothing ever happens or changes.
The weird thing, the thing that led to the sudden panic and twisting in my stomach, is that I never realized I had created Lauraland in the first place. It just kind of cropped up. And I only realized it was there when it shattered into a million little pieces of rose-tinted glass. And all because of those stupid ten words. And that stupider social networking system. (By the way, this is only part of the reason I deactivated my account tonight. But that's another post for another day.)
The more I pondered this broken fortress, the more its presence spread before my eyes, until it overshadowed much more than just this one long-ended relationship. It covered all relationships, not just those of a romantic nature. Friends I've grown apart from, people I was once so close to but didn't make enough of an effort to maintain the relationship--they've all moved on. I don't really matter anymore.
Of course, I did realize all of this in one part of my brain. The rational, practical portion. You know, the deathly boring place I tend to avoid. Anyone who knows me at all probably suspects that that one corner of my brain is far overpowered by the emotional, mostly-if-not-completely irrational part. And they would be correct. It's so much easier to face difficult and painful truths once they've been diluted in some way. For me, it's through writing--fiction or non. It creates a barrier you don't get when forced to deal with things face-to-face with no warning or time for preparation. I need the time to figure out how I'm going to react, what's reasonable. Can I scream and cry and demand to be made the center of attention once more? Probably not. Can I accept that my irrational feelings of betrayal and replacement are inevitable and painful, but perfectly normal? Yeah, I think I can handle that.
And so I take a moment, call a friend, and let that vice-grip on my heart slowly begin to melt. "That's life," she says. And I know she's right. "Just be strong and brave, and show the world who you are. Because that's what matters." And then the three words. The words that get us into so many troubles in the first place. But also, miraculously, the only words that can get us back out.
"I love you."
I had one of those heart-stopping moments today, where you realize something about yourself that you probably always knew, but never really acknowledged. You know the feeling...a sudden squeeze at your heart, a physical reaction to a mental realization. A tingly-frozen feeling in the pit of your stomach, akin to panic or the stomach-drop sensation when you know someone is on the verge of telling you some very bad news.
Was the news I received really that earth-shattering? No. I knew it would come some day. I suppose I just wasn't expecting to have to face it in the stone-cold, no ifs ands or buts about it, reality of facebook. "In a relationship with." It implies intimacy and a sense of forever. "Dating" would be so much easier to accept.
And I realized how self-centered I am. How self-centered we all are. I can try my hardest to see things from other people's perspectives, to step outside the box, take a walk in their shoes. But in the end, it's from my own unique--and utterly self-centered--vantage point from which I view the world. I am still, at base, the infant who doesn't understand that the world outside of me doesn't freeze when I'm not directly involved--that people move on in their own directions and forget about me and my world.
The thing about us egotistical humans (or perhaps it's just me...who knows) is that we never expect to be replaced. Even if I have already replaced the person in question. In my own little world of pink ponies and butterflies, no one will ever get over the loss of moi, the one and only. I reign as queen of Lauraland, and outside of that, nothing ever happens or changes.
The weird thing, the thing that led to the sudden panic and twisting in my stomach, is that I never realized I had created Lauraland in the first place. It just kind of cropped up. And I only realized it was there when it shattered into a million little pieces of rose-tinted glass. And all because of those stupid ten words. And that stupider social networking system. (By the way, this is only part of the reason I deactivated my account tonight. But that's another post for another day.)
The more I pondered this broken fortress, the more its presence spread before my eyes, until it overshadowed much more than just this one long-ended relationship. It covered all relationships, not just those of a romantic nature. Friends I've grown apart from, people I was once so close to but didn't make enough of an effort to maintain the relationship--they've all moved on. I don't really matter anymore.
Of course, I did realize all of this in one part of my brain. The rational, practical portion. You know, the deathly boring place I tend to avoid. Anyone who knows me at all probably suspects that that one corner of my brain is far overpowered by the emotional, mostly-if-not-completely irrational part. And they would be correct. It's so much easier to face difficult and painful truths once they've been diluted in some way. For me, it's through writing--fiction or non. It creates a barrier you don't get when forced to deal with things face-to-face with no warning or time for preparation. I need the time to figure out how I'm going to react, what's reasonable. Can I scream and cry and demand to be made the center of attention once more? Probably not. Can I accept that my irrational feelings of betrayal and replacement are inevitable and painful, but perfectly normal? Yeah, I think I can handle that.
And so I take a moment, call a friend, and let that vice-grip on my heart slowly begin to melt. "That's life," she says. And I know she's right. "Just be strong and brave, and show the world who you are. Because that's what matters." And then the three words. The words that get us into so many troubles in the first place. But also, miraculously, the only words that can get us back out.
"I love you."
06 November 2010
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!)
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.
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!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)