On the Quintessential English Major Aesthetic

      

     C'mon guys, let's face it: English majors have got to be some of the hardiest people out there in the bloodthirsty world of academia. They are the subject of constant ridicule, faced with at least twice the amount of reading required of most other majors, and most importantly— they have had to endure years of exposure to some of the most pretentious individuals that have ever had the gall to stick their pinched little noses in the air.
     At the beginning of this academic year, I was still an English and Anthropology double major (yes, yes— boo hiss to you too, I'm one of those girls). In fact, technically I'm still considered as such. However, only a month and a half ago, I was still grappling with the then difficult decision of "shall I make my senior year hell by still trying to double major, or should I actually do the sensible thing and drop one? But then, which one?!?"
     My history as an English major and just English majordom/classes in general have always been touchy issues for me. And not just because of the exorbitant amounts of reading because, let's face it, it's not like a whole lot of reading is going to scare me off of anything anytime soon. No, it wasn't the reading. And no, again, it certainly wasn't the subject matter (I love me some archaic prose, artistic run-on sentences, and convoluted narratives, yo!). However, there was one thing that just kept on digging at me and digging at me and that was jabbed painfully in between my ribs over and over again like a stitch in my side that every so often, when I was least expecting and most unprepared for it, kicked into high gear and caused me to limp sullenly off the field.

Ugh.

     It's the people, folks, the people.
Or, rather, a distinctive and annoying subgroup that's attached itself like a parasite to the larger wonderful, open-hearted, intelligent 
(albeit forever economically impoverished) English Major culture.

You know the sort: the holier-than-thou, new-age hipsters all the low-brow collegiate newspapers poke fun at in just about every issue except, you know, of the more literary variety. They tie their scarves with such artistic flair that you are tempted to ask if they've yet called on the Darcys of Devonshire this year and sport a side part or bob that rivals the do's of the most fashionable social climbers of the Roaring 20's. They strive to be the artistic avatars of their own tastes which, while admittedly the purpose of clothing and fashion in general— is exaggerated to the point of caricature by these individuals. And so they exhibit their tastes and express their ideals in such a way that their initial aesthetic appeal is overcome by the sheer height of the ivory tower atop which they so obviously see themselves standing, staring down at all the little people as if we were tiny specs upon a toy globe they painted in the 4th grade and which they no longer find amusing or worthy of their attention.

They are those that give the loud and proud nerds, the devoted bookworms, and the unapologetic lovers of everything literary a bad name.

   

And I am sick and tired of every single goddamned one of them.

Seriously.

     The worst part is that these types aren't even reserved for students... universities actually hire these pompous toads in hordes for some inexplicable reason I can never hope to fathom.

Believe me, it's true; I've had classes with them.

That is all.

Torey