As a freshman in high school, I was determined to become a sports writer. Eventually, I worked my way up to editor-in-chief of the school paper, and entered UConn as a pre-journalism major with every intention of defying the cliché that everyone changes their major at least once. I was so sure of myself that the ensuing events surprised even me. Three weeks before the end of my first semester, I made the change—I became an English major.
I switched for many reasons, but the easiest one to explain is that I had lost interest in reporting and in the simplicity of news writing. I decided I wanted to be a more versatile writer than a journalism degree would prepare me to be. I wanted to learn about other types of writing and everything that went along with writing skills, like editing, publishing, and design. It was the prospect of doing something, creating something more than a list of facts in paragraph form, punctured by “he said” and “she said” every few sentences. The only drawback was, well, everything that was not a writing class.
I have always felt out of place in most of my English classes. I have not read all the classics which everyone else seems to know from cover to cover. I cannot sing eloquent sentences in discussion to rival the author’s own words. Poems are often lost on me, and when I write my own, I feel squirmy and exposed. I have not taken classes with any of the professors about whom my classmates excitedly compare experiences. I usually feel like an imposter when I tell people I am an English major. I love to read and I love to write, and I do love and defend the major when my scientific friends attack its practicality. But it was not until the very end of my seventh semester that I realized I am, in fact, very much an English major.
This did not occur with the resolution of my English major insecurities. It did not arise from a literarily profound moment. I did not engage in a heated discussion, nor did I become so consumed in a book or an essay or a poem that I needed to be pulled back to reality.
No. The moment I suddenly realized I am an English major occurred when I packed for the library only to find I could not fit all of my books into my bag. There were books of poetry, of prose, of plays, of fiction, of non-fiction, books centuries old and books born within my lifetime, and I knew every single one—and it was vital for me to protect every single one from plunging to the wet ground. My arms were full and my bag was so precariously packed that I had to lean as I walked to prevent the topmost books from spilling out. I laughed when I finally saw my reflection in the glass door.
Hermione Granger had nothing on me that night.
