B.A. or B.S.?

There’s a conversation that’s becoming uncomfortably common in my daily interactions, and it usually starts something like this:

“So, whatcha studyin’?” Picture a well-meaning resident of a small Texan town with southern twang in full swing—context is key.

“Oh, I just graduated,” I say, waiting for the inevitable next question.

“Where from?” They’re no doubt expecting one of three answers: Texas A&M, UT, or maybe, just maybe, Texas Tech. The thought that universities and colleges might exist beyond the state border is a non-thought for most Texans; to cross the Mason-Dixon Line itself is sheer treachery.

“Amherst,” I respond, careful not to pronounce the “h,” ever the mark of the plebeian. Oh, the shame of those early Amherst days when, in my humble ignorance, I dropped so many audible h’s I was at risk of hyperventilating.

“Uh huh,” is the ineluctable response, which means they have no idea where Amherst is or even what it is—maybe a nursing school in the panhandle? Undaunted, they shift subjects slightly.

“Well what’s your degree?”

Here’s where it gets tricky. There is always a small temptation to invent something truly outrageous, something that might elicit “oohs” and “ahhs” and a pat on the back for my solid career choices. I relish the thought of sighing a casual “engineering” or tossing out a glib “computer science.” Even simply “economics” would suffice, sure to evoke pleasing mental images of the well-trod road to my successful business future. But I’m not much of a liar, and as is usually the case, the truth prevails.

“I double majored,” I say, with a strange blend of pride and sheepishness. “English and European Studies.”

To this there is either no response, at least not a verbal one—it’s something akin to an embarrassed expulsion of air and a way of shaking the head without visibly moving the head—or there is a brief statement, always a variation on the same theme. It should be a question, really, but it’s always pronounced with the utmost definitiveness, a terrifying certainty that brings shivers to my spine.

“So you want to teach.”

No, actually. I don’t.

The problem is, I can’t really blame these well-meaning conversationalists for jumping to conclusions. My academic choices put me on a track headed straight for the gilded doors of academia. But suddenly, I’m not sure I want to be there, and I can’t remember when the course of events began that led me here. I never wanted to teach; on the contrary, I swore I’d never do it. Yet somehow, my academic interests were such that, over my time as an undergrad, my future began to echo in the present, carving itself in the very language of academia. The GRE, grad school, MAs, PhDs, the long struggle for tenure—all seemed the natural components of my expected future. And it’s a future I don’t think I want.

For now, I harbor no ill-will towards my lovely little liberal arts college. On the contrary: I miss it like hell. But I’m wondering, what do I do with my B.A.? my indecipherable Latin honors on an elegant roll of terribly un-pc sheepskin? my troubling questions about life, literature, and those damned French theorists? What does all this get me in life? And where do I go from here?

Answer: temp agency. See next blog.

Sigh. Sometimes I wish I was an ibanker.

~ by Bree on September 23, 2007.