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Most people do it the other way. They do what will make them money, and then try to figure out how to get happiness from it. If I were to do that I would choose to major in engineering or biology. But I won’t, because I’m in pursuit of what I love. How can I expect to ever find fulfillment and happiness otherwise? I must stay true to my heart. And the subject I love the most, the one that I feel will bring me happiness, is English. I love it! I love reading, I love analyzing, and I even love writing essays.
“Then you should definitely major in English,” Scott says. He doesn’t know anyone who actually loves writing essays.
So in my third year, I declare English as my major. I go to see Dr. Pratt, my advisor, to help submit the official forms. I’ve made an appointment, but I end up waiting ten minutes because he’s busy talking with someone about camera techniques in Citizen Kane.
“Did you ever see that film?” he asks me when he finally shifts his attention to me.
“No.”
“Oh, you really should.”
Dr. Pratt used to be a tenured professor at an Ivy League college, but he gave it up, taking a huge pay-cut and a major drop in prestige, to come work at a small liberal arts college. At the Ivy League college, he never got to teach. He basically had no interaction with his students. His classes were taught by teaching assistants, and he was locked away in his office, writing academic papers for publication. Why? Because the college cared more about their reputation than the education of its students.
“I became a professor to teach,” he tells me. “I want to interact with my students. A university should be a place where academic discourse occurs, where ideas flow, and where minds are challenged. It’s a place where people grow and develop and learn to be intellectually-contributing members of society. That’s what it’s about. That’s why I’m choosing to be here instead of locked up in an Ivy League office writing papers.”
Here, at this small college, the professors also need to serve as advisors, helping their assigned students fill out forms and ensure they’re on track for graduation. Dr. Pratt doesn’t say whether or not he likes that part of working here. But nevertheless, here we are. He pulls up a chair and offers me some tea.
“No thanks. I just want to declare my major, and I need the paperwork for that. I’ve decided to major in English.”
“You like to read?”
“Yes. And I’m thinking about going on for my master’s.”
“Then you must really like to read.” He pulls the Major Declaration form out of a file cabinet and hands it to me. “It’s pretty competitive to get into grad school these days. You have good grades, though, don’t you?”
“Straight A’s.”
“Think about doing more for your résumé. Something that really sets you apart.”
When I get home, I ask Scott for advice on what to do to really stand out as a stellar student.
“I guess perfect grades aren’t enough anymore,” I tell him. “If there’s something else I can do to take it a bit further, I think it’s worth it.”
“Don’t ask me,” Scott says. “You’re way more dedicated than I ever was. For me, school was just something you do. You graduate from high school, take out student loans, and spend four years in college. While you’re there, you show up and do what you’re told, and you get through. That’s just how it goes.”
I sigh. “You’re no help.”
“Look on the school’s website. They probably have an honors club or something.”
He’s right, they do have an honor’s club. There’s also something called the McNair Scholar’s Program, a graduate school preparation program for ambitious, talented students who intend to go on to graduate school. It helps prepare students for the entrance exams and provides practice at writing an academic article. It’s well-known and well-respected by graduate schools. Perfect. I fill out the application and submit it along with three glowing letters of recommendation.
Later that week, the McNair director calls me in for an interview. I dress up in black pants and a black business jacket over a white cotton shirt. I walk in clutching a fake-leather folder with a copy of my application and some blank paper. There’s a pen in my purse in case I need to take notes.
The director’s friendly, but formal. Her hair’s pulled back in a tight ponytail, and the only make-up she’s wearing is lip gloss. She sits down across from me at a round conference table and asks me about my past academic performance and my goals.
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