Last week I attended a lecture by Stephen Jarchow, the executive producer of the film “Gods and Monsters.” The talk, hosted by the English department, was advertised as something that will reassure you “why an English major is really important.”
Although I am not an English major (History and International Studies are my métier), I felt a strong sense of Liberal-Arts-major unity in that audience, as we all felt we had fallen victim to false advertising. A man who had been through business and law school and was now regularly raking in big bucks, Jarchow spent about an hour casually throwing around dollar amounts that could probably fund the government of Sierra Leone and then capped it all off by mentioning that knowing how to read critically is “just really important.” He even joked that during his speech “a couple of [his] knuckle-head employees were probably losing [him] $10,000.” By that point, we were all visibly sweating.
My lack of profitable prospects really hit me when my friend and I were road-tripping down to Austin, Texas and needed to crash at my aunt’s house for the night. Owning several very spoiled and confident cats, her entire apartment was covered in cat hair, much to my sinuses’ dismay. That night, laying rigidly on a bed of cat hair and attempting to not let my snotty face touch anything, I couldn’t help but panic that this is what my future held—an alleyway full of cats that slowly followed me around and forced me into allergic seclusion when I couldn’t afford a place to live.
This feeling is by no means a new one for me—after decades of being told to “follow your dreams” and “do what makes you happy,” it’s becoming more and more obvious that those sentiments are only real if what makes me happy is poring over petri dishes, building military technology or doing other peoples’ taxes (or, as I like to call it, porn for math nerds).
Even though I won’t be able to wipe my parents’ asses with hundred dollar bills when they’re old, and my “labs” will look more like an under-funded elementary school than a scene out of “Star Trek: Enterprise,” I like to think that there are some redeeming qualities of my seemingly fluff degree.
For one, my value at adult-style dinner parties has drastically increased. Returning home for Christmas and Thanksgiving provided ample opportunity for me to make Herman Cain jokes (“I got 9-9-9 problems but a bitch ain’t one”) for my very conservative relatives. They were not amused.
And while my mechanical engineering friends are lecturing me on the improper fractions of my gin and tonic that I claim to be 2/3 gin, 2/3 tonic, Wisconsin-style drinking is nonetheless tied in with my studies as well. As the question master in King’s Cup, I can always catch people by asking which president they think had the largest penis.
But if this stacked resumé of skills is not enough to get me a job after college, I can always resort to being a post-woman, a bag lady or one of those ladies that work at mall kiosks selling fake hair extensions to 13-year-olds. My friends should just be prepared for when I come knocking on their door, looking to crash on their couch. I’ll leave my cats in the alleyway.
Feelin’ like your anthropology major isn’t going to amount to shit post-graduation? E-mail Riley at beggin@dailycardinal.com to join her in stocking up on cats and gin to pester your successful finance and accounting major friends with.
