A few months ago, an
acquaintance of mine wandered into the beer distributor where I am employed and
we engaged in some idle chatter. He talked at some length about his job as an
electrician and, at some point during the course of the conversation, directed
a question at me that I often field from people who are aware of my academic
credentials: why am I working at a beer distributor? After I offered him the
rehearsed answer I often supply for this type of query, that I tried teaching
and didn’t like it and am now struggling to find another profession, the
inquisitive electrician posed a follow-up: what was my major? After I told him
that I double majored in English Literature and History, he offered a
devastating summation: “So you basically did nothing.” He spoke not maliciously
but rather matter-of-factly, which did nothing to dull the blade of the
rhetorical sword he plunged into my chest. My electrician pal’s dismissive comments
about my academic choices left me in a reflective mood, a state with which I have
grown quite familiar.
Why did I opt to major
in English and History? What was I thinking? Was I thinking? As I tried to
recall my thought process when I wrestled with this pivotal decision, my mind
gradually drifted back to memories from my time at the University of
Pennsylvania.
I arrived at Penn a
diffident teenager. I had excelled as a student in high school, but I was
entering a much different arena. My peers emerged as some of our nation’s most
elite academic talent and emanated from some of the most prestigious secondary schools
in the world. Who the heck was I to be included among such impressive company?
True, my grades in high school were laudable, but my transcript lacked the
litany of AP courses that so many incoming Penn freshmen had taken. Yes, I had
fashioned myself into a decent wrestler and was honored as a captain of my
team, but in the end I was just an unexceptional wrestler on a middling squad in an
average league. Upon introspection, I viewed myself as an ambitious overachiever
with a mediocre core that would be exposed once I flew too close to the sun.
My first experience in
the new world I had entered arrived quite quickly. After my three roommates and
I had settled into our new quarters, we conversed for a bit in an effort to
become more familiar with one another. After a time, our banter shifted onto
foreign terrain as my three new friends began comparing SAT scores. Back home,
I was used to hearing my friends argue inanely over who was the toughest guy in
the neighborhood, and I guess my roommates’ game served a similar purpose. It
was like a bizarro alpha male contest, one in which I stood no chance of
winning. I had indeed moved into a new environment, one in which I feared I
would be chewed up and regurgitated quickly.
Aside from my insecurity,
I was struggling with an existential crisis as I embarked on my college career.
I had no idea what I wanted to study and didn’t possess a plan for my
post-collegiate days. In retrospect, I should have placed a stronger premium on
solving the latter dilemma. Instead, I agonized over the selection of a major
for three academic terms. At some point after my freshman year, I even briefly
considered taking a leave from school to join the Marine Corps.
Ultimately, I abandoned
the military path because I did not want to waste the precious opportunity I had
been given. After all, an Ivy League diploma could become a game changer for my
family. I wanted so badly to reward my parents for all of the financial
sacrifices they made on my behalf. They deserved a son who finished this
journey, no matter how arduous it might seem.
Therefore, I returned to
school for my sophomore year and heeded the advice of my academic advisor, who
offered simple, yet sage, advice. He told me to consider the classes that most
piqued my interest during my freshman year as I decided the course I would
pursue for my future studies. After a brief flirtation with Psychology, I
decided on History and English Literature.
I chose English
Literature in part because I knew it would appease my father, who was naturally
concerned about my future. He was an English teacher who had majored in the
subject during his undergraduate term and who believed, as did I, that a B.A.
in English Literature could serve as a solid bridge to law school or to the
professional world. Also, I had taken a couple of English courses and thoroughly
enjoyed them. I was exposed to some excellent material that expanded my
knowledge of the world and the courses enabled me to write multiple essays,
which I viewed as one of my strengths.
Whereas my decision to
major in English was rooted in utility, my selection of History derived from my
passion for the discipline. I aced an Early American History
class that was taught by a Pulitzer Prize-winning historian and my T.A. for the
course seemed genuinely interested in the insights I offered during the Friday morning
recitations. Moreover, I loved the critical approach taken by my History
professors. These were not classes in which students were inundated with an
avalanche of historical facts; these were classes that challenged accepted
narratives and humanized historical figures who are too often deified through
the magic of nostalgia and a Whiggish approach to studying the past.
In order to avoid
prevarication, I will also disclose that I selected these subjects because I
thought they offered the surest path to success while also posing a manageable
academic challenge. Of course, my sense of inferiority partially inhibited me
from seeking out a more rigorous program. However, my tenuous financial
situation played a more significant role in the process. By the spring semester
of my Junior year, I had to leave my work-study job to find something more
lucrative. I landed at a restaurant on campus and worked most of the weekend,
leaving precious little time for studying and socializing. I worked thirty to
forty hours per week in order to clear my tuition balance, which posed a major
obstacle throughout my college tenure.
A new job was not the
only time-consuming challenge I accepted during that spring term. I applied for
and was accepted into the History Honors Program. Over the course of three
semesters, I conducted research and composed a thesis. My quest for primary
source material required me to make frequent, day-long trips to an archives in
Center City. Furthermore, the writing process devolved into a painful exercise
of reconceptualization and revision. I barely finished the project on time, but
I turned in an acceptable thesis.
The complicated
juggling act in which I was engaged left me with little occasion to ponder my
long-term prospects in a serious manner. I was focused on surviving the
present, not thriving in the future. Besides, I knew that my liberal arts
education had showered me with invaluable assets that would attract any
potential employer. As I traversed through my program of studies, I cultivated
my critical analysis skills and honed my writing and speaking abilities.
Additionally, I was exposed to diverse viewpoints, which engendered in me a
more nuanced understanding of the world. I can honestly say that I evolved from
an anxious teen into a confident and well-rounded man during my college years.
Unfortunately, my
myopic and relentless focus on the present negatively impacted my future, which
was exacerbated by a horrific economic recession that greeted me upon
graduation. My liberal arts education in general and my Penn experience in
particular had inculcated in me a sense that I was capable of greatness. Yet,
without practical training or a well-established network, this notion dissolves
into a mere delusion of grandeur. Undoubtedly, I possess an extensive stable of
intangible skills, but I wonder whether I can claim any practical skills. I do
know, though, that my college experience has bequeathed to me a severe case of
cognitive dissonance: while I am sure I can do anything, I fear I am able to do
nothing.
Today’s economy demands
an educated workforce, particularly in the so-called STEM fields (science,
technology, engineering, and mathematics). While I remain steadfast in my
belief in the value of a liberal arts education, I know that I should have
developed a long term plan when I was an undergraduate. I should have asked
myself how I could market the skills with which my college education endowed me
and I should have committed myself to building networks. I should have realized
that thousands of people possess a similar educational background and we are
all battling over increasingly limited opportunities; perhaps a few business
classes would have better prepared me for the brutal reality of a free-market
economy governed by the forces of supply and demand.
Now I am trapped,
consigned to a life that struggles to find meaning. I will not find it at the
beer distributor, just as I was unable to find a proper retort to the
inquisitive and judgmental electrician. I wish I could have told him of all of
the life lessons I learned from literature, or of my solid understanding of our
nation’s history. I wish I could have told him that my studies taught me how to
think independently, immunizing me from the fear mongering that frequently emanates from manipulative
politicians and ratings-crazed media members. Instead, I chose to say nothing. I
was lost in thought, a lasting gift of my liberal arts education.
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