Who wasn't an English major?

I was eating dinner at a friend's house the other night, and the topic of college majors came up. One man asked the group, "Well who wasn't an english major?" As it turned out, only me (journalism) and another friend (philosophy) were the only two non-English majors in the room. The group was made up of teachers, musicians, and staff from the Bemis Center and Saddle Creek Records. It was then that I knew my parents were wrong.

I had always wanted to be an English major. I came to Creighton because I won a creative writing scholarship. I had big dreams of becoming a poet, being published in the New Yorker (like Dan from Gossip Girl) before I graduated college. 

My sophomore year came around and it was time to declare a major. I was going for English, but my parents said I couldn't be an English major without becoming a teacher. I didn't want to teach, it wouldn't be fair to students having a teacher straight out of college. I wanted to experience the world first. So I chose the next best thing, journalism. 

I've been overall very happy with my major. I've learned design programs, how to write stories that I don't especially care for, and how to work as a part of an editorial team, among other valuable things. 

That didn't stop my heart from freezing when I saw the annual New Voices event for Creighton and UNO English majors, hanging on a campus bulletin board. 

One of the writers featured was a boy that was in the English class that changed my life back in my sophomore year. I had to go to the reading, not for him, but for myself.

I had to see what I could have been up against, who I could have been friends with, what kind of progress a creative writer makes in two years. 

The first two women that read were dewy-faced, never leave the library bookish types that spoke of family vacations in Montana and a mother's touch. You can imagine my disgust when one of them announced that she became engaged the night before. 

The next woman was a bit older, with kids of her own, that read an excerpt from her novel about her first love and his eventual death in Iraq. She was funny and created images that even a young child-less girl like me can relate to.

Finally was my friend from English class, we'll call him Max. Max read a story about a sixth grade boy who couldn't pass the grade despite his extensive knowledge of scalene triangles and Aristotle. Max made me wonder what kind of philosophy and science classes he has been taking over his four years, it was a well-researched story.

The reading left me feeling out of place and kind of relieved.

I hate to admit it, but maybe my parents were right?