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

A Note on Letter Writing

     A short text or email can only say so much and last so long… Write a letter instead; it is much more easily stowed away in drawers and stolen out again for second, third, and fourth readings. I’ve kept every single one I’ve ever received and have taken great care in the writing of every one I’ve sent… There’s just something more inexplicably personal to the writing of such messages and the reading of another’s handwriting than can ever be found in the uniform text of an email or instant message. Never give it up, I say. And never I shall. 

     On another note, did you know that the poet John Keats once said that if he glimpsed a note with his lover’s handwriting - the very same one whom he had only recently been forced to part from due to a debilitating illness on his part and the constraints of that particular era’s propriety on hers - that he would dissolve completely into despair for love and want of her at the very sight? It probably is just the uncompromisingly romantic side of me, but I find this little fact not only ridiculously heart wrenching, but also something that truly speaks to the monumental level of intimacy that the handwritten note can carry as opposed to our more modern modes of communication.

     Would John Keats have felt nearly as moved after scanning a message sent from his fair lady’s cell or gmail account? I think not.

[rant/FINIS]

Apologies as they are due,

Torey