In the past few days, two facts have become immediately apparent to me. The first of which is that the GRE (better known as the "SAT for grad school," or "the soul crushing monster that broke my heart and broke into my bank account") tops the charts as the stupidest and most nonsensical compulsory task I have ever had the misfortune to endure.
The second fact is much better than the first, and is simply this: English majors are awesome.
I posit this today not because I haven't always known it to be true, but because irrefutable proof has fallen into my lap from above confirming this to be undeniable, Hard Times-esque Fact.
Proof came to me though my friend Rhys. He is not only an English major, but he is also a curator of all tastes, an innovator of fine dining, and a composer of songs about my deep and abiding love for Charmander.*
All of this can only lead to one definitive conclusion-- Rhys is awesome. View the awesomeness below, and I sincerely hope it makes your day as excellent as mine!
*Seriously, Charmander is the end-all-be-all of starter Pokemon. Don't let the water-starter crowd seduce you with their propaganda about type advantage against Brock. Making it with Charmander is like making it in New York City-- if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. All the important world leaders have chosen Charmander as their starter Pokemon, from Charlemagne, to Queen Elizabeth I, to Martin Luther King Jr. Don't you want to be part of that crowd? I thought so.
Contrary to popular belief, I have not been eaten by bears, felled by horrible disease, or recently married to an aged multi-millionaire on the verge of death. No, the reason I have not written is because I’m about to embark on the latest, greatest, and most exciting adventure of my twenty-two years to date.
I have decided to go to graduate school.
I will venture forth to the Elysium of the enlightened, the Valhalla of the intelligentsia, the place where even the baristas at Starbucks have master degrees (if only because that first year fellowship loses about $5,000 once those freshmen hit second year status and they still have to eat). It is in this ethereal place I will feather my nest, and ever after, when the telemarketers call for “Ms Erin,” I can snidely correct, “No, it’s Dr. Cotter these days.”
This is the culmination of all my hopes and ambitions.
While on the surface, this proclamation may seem to transport my sordid self from the ranks of the woefully unemployed and under qualified English majors, in reality, this isn’t true at all. Going for a Phd in literature will not teach me the skills I so desperately lack on the job market. No, instead it will train me further in the not-so-useful things which being an English major has made me so good at—and this in turn will render me fit for one and one occupation only: proffessorhood.
When I explained to one of the regulars at the fish market my plans to pursue literature, she looked at me in horror and slipped me a $10, assuring me that I “would probably need this.” My parents seemed pretty onboard with the idea, if only because it spared them the spectacle of me clicking morosely through craigslist day after day, until I plunked down a serious sum of cash on GRE tests. Then they asked me “Wait, why are you going to school for seven years to study books? Can you even get a job after that? You might just end up in the fish market again.”
I am still at the bottom of the barrel.
The only problem with my going-to-grad-school plan is that before one can go to grad school, one must first apply to grad schools. And applying to grad school may be one of the most tumultuous experiences I have known. It’s like letting a school of sharks gnaw on your limbs before you go throw yourself into a tank full of bigger and hungrier sharks. Because grad school will probably not help you recover the money, optimism, or non-greyed hairs that the application process has already taken from you. Doubtlessly, this journey will be filled with frustration, angst, and vast amounts of caffeine. But I am game. I am so game.
Everyone has that friend in college. The Overachiever. While you’re on your thirty-second round of Super Smash Brothers, the Overachiever is doubtlessly sitting in the corner studying frantically for the quiz they have tomorrow that only counts for about three percent of their grade. They also have at least a 98% in the class, but that doesn’t matter. While the Overachiever’s ruthless studying takes them into the late night hours, you are left alone and friendless, forced to play against computer controlled characters that kick your ass over and over again before you give up and go to bed.
Friends, I have a confession.
I was the Overachiever.
“Wait,” you might say to yourself, “chemistry and pharmacy majors do the overachieving. Don’t you just read books? How hard can that actually be?”
You would not be the first to ask this question.
Once upon a time, when I was but eighteen, someone sent me this image to enlighten me about my future path as an English major (I’m almost positive it was my father actually). While I didn’t think my college time would be a never ending booze laden, pot laced party, I did think that I would do a lot of sitting in coffee shops whilst having impressively verbose debates about postmodernism with my similarly minded friends (ah, my youthful naivety is cringe worthy!).
Maybe some of my fellows lived this quintessential fantasy, but I was not one of them. Yet, this life could’ve been mine. I can’t tell you exactly how or why things went wrong, but if I graph the evolution of my overachieving, it would look something like this:
I like to think of my college experience as a continual battle against lions. See, in the beginning, there was only a sweet little lion kitten who just wanted to look cute and play, but then a few older lions showed up and started staring at me menacingly and then HOLY SHIT THE REST OF THE PRIDE SHOWED UP AND I WAS JUST WRESTLING LIONS WITH NOTHING BY MY BARE HANDS. Actually, the lion metaphor is a little extreme and makes it sound like my overachieving was much more action-packed and exciting than it was. A better metaphor is that a bunch of slugs started crawling all over me, and it was horrible and disgusting, but the only thing I could do was get used to having slugs on me all the time. Because getting rid of them wouldn’t work, for some reason.
Latin was mostly to blame I think.
Latin is the sort of class that lulls you into a false sense of achievement and progression. In the beginning, it’s really easy, because all you’re doing is learning the words for “turnip” and “boy” and “to see,” and all you have to do is open your book, and suddenly you have an 110%! Latin is fun and easy, and so is college yay!!!!
Things went horribly, horribly wrong sophomore year.
Sophomore year, the grammar and vocabulary I had so painstakingly learned all ceased to have meaning when we started translating “real Latin.” A page of Latin was as unintelligible as a page of ancient Gaelic scribbles. Nothing made sense. But so accustomed had I become to the sweet nectar of success that I refused to back down. I became the sort of nerd who passed out on top of books, had enough flashcards to paper my entire dorm room, and not-so-subtly wished serious academic injury to those in my class who I perceived as “rivals.” This, coupled with my penchant for girly-looking clothes and unimposing appearance only made me more dangerous. Sure, small girls in dresses seem like they’re friendly and stuff, but by god, if you threaten my 110% in Latin I will make you wish as though you’d never even heard of Caesar.
By day, the sun ceased to hold meaning. The light was a brutal interruption as I scurried from library to study lounge. Occasionally, I ventured forward to eat and shower.
By night, I prowled the hallways of my dorm without pants clutching books of medieval poetry like some sort of deranged Ophelia-like shade. I sat in my lounge until the earliest hours of the morning, watching the rats scamper across the courtyard below with bloodshot eyes, waiting in agonizing terror for my 11am Latin class to begin.
His name was Dr. Coffee. He could speak and read Latin fluidly, and seemed unaware of the deep fear he inspired in others. My Latin class began with fifteen people, but only four people sat through the final. It was like being one of Henry the Eighth’s wives—you never knew if each class you suffered through was your last.
“Anyone want to translate the next sentence?” he would say, his pale eyes scanning us methodically while we all desperately pretending that there was something really, really, really interesting on our desks that required our absolute attention and consideration. He was not fooled. I could feel his eyes on me, and in that moment I knew he knew that I didn’t know what I was doing.
“Why don’t you translate the next sentence?”
I lived in fear of those words for months.
Even after I passed Latin 201, the fear stayed with me. Though I had won, I felt as though I had been permanently damaged. I was never the same again, and not really in a good way. This semester, this class, may have been beginning of my overachieving, but it was certainly not the end.
The moral of this story? If you happen to know an overachiever, please keep in mind that it’s probably not their fault. They have probably lived through some horrifyingly awful experience to make them that way.
And the second moral of this story? The Romans can still get you.
