I really dislike people who tend to proclaim that "They don't regret anything in their lives." And please spare me such platitudes as, "If I didn't make the mistakes then I wouldn't be the person I am now." I'm sorry but this is utter crock. This is not how I've experienced life. (I'm sure there are a lot of sincere people who think "what doesn't kill them makes them stronger," but these people obviously have never been hit by a car without health insurance.)
I have tons of regrets - things I should and shouldn't have said, people I should of kissed more (and less), classes I should have paid more a attention to, times when I should of played hooky, times when I should have stood up for myself, etc. Many, many, many things I would cross out and do over. Some are trivial and some are of life and death proportions.
I guess becoming an English major ranks somewhere closer to trivial than life and death and yet it recently has been the regret I think about most. Not only because I've been having serious lack of confidence in terms of finding meaningful employment and finding that my skill level is much lower than I imagined it to be. The worst part of being an English major is the fact I cannot even write properly. This reminds me of one of my favorite Conan O'Brien quotes in which he contemplates the legacy of going to Harvard,
You see, you're in for a long lifetime of, "And you went to Harvard?" Accidentally give the wrong amount of change in a transaction and it's, "And you went to Harvard?" Ask the guy at the hardware store how their jumper cables work and hear, "And you went to Harvard?" Forget just once that your underwear goes inside your pants and it's, "And you went to Harvard?" Get your head stuck in your niece's doll house because you wanted to see what it was like to be a giant and it's, "Uncle Conan, you went to Harvard?
substitute "you went to Harvard?" for "you majored in English" and you pretty much you have my situation.
I was never one of those students who secretly hoped to write the next great American novel. Creative classes were not for me. Students who tended to have "creative writing" concentrations seemed incredibly unoriginal in their quest to out weird each other with their suburban ennui. I kind of felt that everything that needed to be said has been said better, more beautifully than I could ever could say, by a great deal more talented people than me. All I wanted to do is sit and read lots of books, delight in an imaginative turn of phrase and rich symbolism. I liked being "right" when it came to analyzing novels. Every time I learned how to "read" a book it was like finding a key to one of the doors from Alice in Wonderland. It was exhilarating because it made me feel smart and privy to "secret" information.
But then I got to Edinburgh and my whole worldview felt apart. Yes, being an English major was interesting and many times challenging. But suddenly I realized that the "key" I was so delighted in uncovering was pretty much bullshit. Yes, there was merit in studying literature but for the most part it was intellectual masturbation. Thesis after thesis were written about things no one cared about, or more importantly matters that were utterly useless by using theories that only made sense to a handful of people. It felt chaotic and a bit insane. Everything that I was doing had no practical application - I felt like I was the professors monkey fetching the opinions they wanted and found correct.
Now that I'm done being an "English major," the expectation of writing well, using proper grammar and well as constructed thoughts, weighs heavy on my mind. Especially since I started tutoring in English. Thus resorting to Conan's quote on being a Harvard grad seems quite appropriate and takes the sting out of feeling sorry for myself. I majored in English and I regret it.
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