This weekend I went to turn in an application at the Trader Joe’s that will be opening near my house this summer. There were many people who had the same hopes as I, as I had to stand in a line for like fifteen minutes. The first five minutes or so passed silently, with me either starring politely at my own shoes or at some undecided point on the horizon when my neck got sore. During one cycle of my horizon starring, the lady in front of me began to chat about our mutual state of rather casual dress.
I agreed that this was regrettable given the circumstances.
The lady in front then informed me that the reason she was in such casual disarray was due the fact that it was the day of her birth. I duly congratulated her on surviving another year in modern American society, as I know that this is a very challenging thing to do successfully. She agreed that it was a monumental occasion.
I fell back into my shoes when the lady in front spoke again.
She remarked on the nature of lines, and how they never seem to move very fast. This was the reason she had sent her companion to the store to provide for her a cooling and refreshing beverage, and then she shared her personal confession of addiction to an energy-producing-attribute in many soft drinks.
I shared my commiseration, as did the lady standing behind me.
After a few runs about this pattern, of one remarking and others agreeing, it came to our mutual understanding that both me and the lady in back attended Western Oregon University. Oh, what coincidence that was!
We chatted most amicably on subjects relating to this for the rest of our time standing in line.
At one point in this conversation, the topic of Majors was broached.
She shared that she was majoring in Health Sciences, with the intention to go on to a very noble career worthy of admiration and aspiration, helping the poor, the misrepresented and very small children prone to asthma.
I returned, with great reticence, that I was majoring in English, literature to be precise.
This was met with a quizzical expression and a head tilt. She queried if this would involve instruction.
I returned, with more reticence, that it would not. It would simply involve English. Literature to be precise.
The lady in back squinted at me narrowly and pertly inquired as to what I intended to do with this degree.
I returned, with more reticence yet, that I did not have a singular clue as to what use I would put my degree in English, precisely in literature.
The lady in back then looked at me as if I had suddenly grown snakes for hair and pulled a bow out of thin air with the intention of shooting something pathetic, perhaps a bunny rabbit or an elderly person.
I promptly and skillfully changed the subject by blurting out how remarkable it was the line was moving, given the tendency of lines not to move. Thankfully the lady in back seemed to be of shallow capacity for dwelling on judgment of strangers, and happily accepted the change of subject.
Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened to me. In fact, this happens quite a lot when people find out what my major is. Like the lady in back, they look at me as if I am some horrible, wretched human being who must spend her free time roaming the countryside murdering things for choosing to major is such a pointless, unproductive subject. Or they believe that I should automatically choose to be an English teacher, and are surprised and rather affronted when I have no such goals. I know this. I can see the judgment in their eyes.
Usually, I allow them to retain this assumption about my person, only because it is actually half true.
I actually do have an idea of what I want to do with my degree, only this would elevate me to mass-murderer of countryside dwellers in most people’s eyes because it’s a little, well, odd by most people’s standards.
I want to go into publishing. I want to go into Comic Book Publishing, to be precise.*
While the aspiration may not be the most…. Attainable, I certainly intend to pursue it. Comics need more love. Comics could lead to world peace. Comics are like oxygen, comics lift you up where you belong, all you need is comic books!
Granted I might be a tad biased, being a fan and all, and granted, I feel like a shallow, greedy, potentially mass murdering person for wanting to go into the entertainment industry and wasting my potential to do “good,” but…. I love it. It makes me happy? Can’t I have a job that will make me happy?
I’m sure a great deal of the developed world would claim that I cannot. Obviously it is a near rule of physics that one must hate one’s job, much like that rule about certain gentlemen being in want of a wife…
But I digress. My comical (haha) dream is what it is. My choice of major is what it is. My choices are unavoidably going to be judged as foolish, or even pointless, by a great deal of the general populace. Honestly? They can bite me. I will prove to the world that I will be better than a pizza.** I will become a publisher/editor/writer/gopher in the comic book industry!
*You just looked at me funny, didn’t you? Yeah, well—your chickens are gonna be the first to go, buddy!
** What is the difference between a pizza and an English major? A pizza can feed a family of four. What a funny joke…. Hahaha.
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