Why English?

During my twenties, I assumed that work would provide all the intellectual stimulation necessary in life. If I worked hard enough, I thought, I’d grow wise and become the kind of wit who regales crowds at cocktail parties. Not quite. The longer I worked, the dumber I felt.

The fault wasn't with the job. I’ve been fortunate to work in web development and design, a creative career that forces the left and right halves of my brain to play nice. The deeper I dug into my field, however, the more shallow I felt beyond it. I was smart at one point, right? Didn’t I once think, you know, like things and stuff? I decided to do what confused people do: go to grad school.

When I told my boss that I wouldn’t be able to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays because I started my Masters, her eyes lit up. She reached for the company’s tuition reimbursement form and asked what program I began: IT? Business? “No,” I replied, “English!” Hopped up on idealism and three cups of coffee, I shared my vision with her: nights of discussing Shakespeare or laughing over Twain, reading great books and hearing wise professors! Didn’t it sound like so much fun? She supposed it did and then took back the tuition reimbursement form.

Some of my well-intentioned colleagues attempted an intervention. Why English? Did I know that choosing a degree in my field meant that the company would pay for it? I did. Did I realize that this degree offered no hope of a raise and only qualified me for a teaching career which paid woefully little in NC? Yep.

The friends who got it, though, really got it. One friend smiled and replied, “Good. I think that when people go to school for the purpose of making more money, we shouldn’t even call it education.” Ouch. (But amen.)

The following three years were exhausting, stressful, and absolutely wonderful. I felt like me at my best. My professors were among the most inspiring and knowledgeable (and funny!) teachers I've had. Class discussions were so engaging that I’d come home too excited to sleep. My paper on Moby Dick was published, making me feel as if I made my own small contribution to the world of books. Most importantly, I awoke my brain.

The morning after my final class, I awoke early out of habit to begin my time-to-make-the-donuts routine. Still half asleep, I made coffee, let the dogs out, grabbed a pen, and sat at the dining room table where a slew of open notebooks, journal articles and books awaited me for the past few years. Not this time. The books and papers on the table were closed and neatly stacked. I was done. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation, perhaps it was sentiment, but either way, I looked at my closed books and cried. I cried because I was sad to see it end; I cried because I pulled it off. I recalled one of my favorite lines from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn which reads, “Eyes changed after they looked at new things.” Grad school took me on walks along Walden Pond, shipped me off with Ishmael, sent me running away with Sethe. Grad school introduced me to so many characters and places that I’d otherwise need ten lifetimes to know them. Grad school changed how I saw the world, my future, myself. So why an English degree? If there’s a better use for time or money than that, I’d love to hear it.