Last winter, I received unsolicited advice from a man in a navy blazer and brown loafers. He was sitting next to me on my flight back to school for the spring semester. He noticed my Colgate sweatshirt and immediately asked what I was majoring in.
“English,” I told him. “Creative Writing.”
His eyebrows drew together and he sighed. I already knew what he was going to ask.
“And how do your parents feel about that?”
When I started looking at colleges during my junior year of high school, I was advised that a liberal arts school was the best choice for someone like me – someone who had no idea what they wanted to do.
By the middle of my sophomore year – after classes in religion, environmental science, African studies, education, visual arts, French and psychology – I was just as undecided as I was in high school. I enjoyed almost all of my classes, and couldn’t imagine focusing on any single subject. One professor asked me what I liked to do when I was younger. It was trite, but effective. I didn’t hesitate a moment.
“Writing,” I answered. “I have always liked to write.”
Weeks later, after enrolling in my first creative writing class, I called my mother. She was painfully aware of my struggle to choose a major, and I was thrilled that I could finally tell her I’d found it.
“I’m going to be an English major,” I said, smiling and relieved.
My enthusiasm was met with a sharp inhale. She immediately suggested alternatives, eagerly mentioning other classes I’d showed promise in. To my surprise, I seriously reconsidered. My mother had invested so much in my education – financially and personally – and I couldn’t help but question if I was wasting it. Compared to my twin studying engineering, I felt like I was throwing away time and money.
Now in my senior year at Colgate, I wish I could say I never question choosing a major that I love. But, sometimes, I feel like I am inadvertently hurting other people by choosing what was right for me. And there are moments when people joke, often harmlessly, that majoring a less lucrative field like English is a waste of a Colgate education. The stigma of majors like English extends beyond the perceived earning limitations. Many have visions of writers as manic, struggling, wanderlust types who lack direction. Some parents hesitate to tell their friends and coworkers that their child is majoring in English because of the lack of prestige. When I am asked what career path I want to enter following graduation, I am reminded that printed media and publishing is a dying industry.
My mother still brags about my sister at dinner parties, my father makes small jokes and my sister can be condescending. When adults ask (and they always ask) what I’m majoring in, I prepare myself for their reactions. But most of the time, I love being an English major. Majoring in English means that I never have to choose to narrow my focus to any single subject. Like going to a liberal arts school, it exposes you to a range of information and experiences while recognizing the interconnected nature of knowledge. Most creative writing classes let you write about anything. Sometimes, I find myself becoming an overnight scholar in things like dog breeds, the geography of the Gulf of Alaska or the history of the elevator. One of my professors told us that writers must live and engage with the world actively, that “nothing should be wasted.” Being a writer has taught me to notice everything and to never stop learning.
I know that majoring in English is teaching me, and will continue to teach me, more than I ever expected. And if that means judgment from men on airplanes or neighbors at holiday parties, I’m okay with that.
