As a recent college graduate with a bachelor’s degree in English, I find myself having to make the same difficult decisions many students in the humanities must face when pondering about their futures.
I spent college playing the intellectual. I surrounded myself with stacks of old books. I cornered people at parties so I could tell them the weird etymology of pumpernickel bread. And I constantly dropped literary allusions to Lord Byron and Nabokov. But now that I’ve received my diploma, I find myself thinking what the hell do I do with this degree?
“Well, I could teach”, is the common answer.
I’ve spent 19 of my 23 years in school. That’s about 83% of my life. So several more years acquiring a doctorate can hardly be difficult. Because, honestly, life in school is the only life I know. The classroom is the only field experience I possess. So why not join the vicious circle of English majors become English professors teaching English majors?
And so, after a semester’s break since graduating, I decided to do what I’ve done since completing kindergarten and just level up to the next grade.
I started graduate school in January, and since then I’ve sunk back into that wily indolence of pretending I’m being productive. I work on my never-finished novel in hip cafés (It really is quite interesting. I’ll have to tell you about it later) and engage my friends in witty, college-educated repartee.
I wonder, though, if my constant schooling is a mark of selfishness or arrogance rather than something to be commended. Because I’m not sure if an education has value if you don’t use it to help anyone besides yourself.