Let me tell you why I wish I wasn’t an English major: because I care about language and I care about meaning. Now that probably sounds silly; you would think (as I did) that there’s nothing more perfect for a person who cares about language and meaning than to be an English major. You would be wrong. You would think that reading those texts written by the supposed best and brightest and analyzing their language in search of profound truths would produce a community of deep thinkers and responsible citizens. But instead, more often than not, it creates mental self-aggrandizers sitting in that clichéd and yellowing ivory tower, spinning out a pre-determined, self-aggrandizing political agenda in vague, undefended interpretations.
Whoa, that’s a little strong Weissmann, isn’t it? Ok, caveats: yes, there are some amazing students and professors of English literature who look closely at and think deeply about the language authors use to tell us about the human condition. And there are others who force their students to question absolutist categories, to understand the complexity of language and how it makes meaning, and to be very careful about the clarity needed in reading and writing. Satisfied? Now, more complaining.
My parents and I , some rich donors and Citibank are paying thousands of dollars for me to take these classes with the expectation that I will be made a better, brighter person through it. Instead, I sit there for an hour-and-a-half while 20-year-olds peddle pitifully defended claims about what they “feel” while professors try to apologetically fit those claims into what the words actually say or into the equally weak interpretation they’ve conjured themselves. “What’s the tone of this text, class?” “Well, the way he writes makes me feel that the intention he’s trying to convey through his words is that he’s bitter. I don’t know. Don’t those words convey righteous indignation? I don’t know.” If you’re an English major or even if you’ve had to take an English class to fulfill a requirement you’ve paid thousands of dollars to hear sentences that sound disturbingly similar to that one.
They say the humanities are dying because people are more concerned about making money in science or the good old Wall Street way, and that unless we defend a broad, liberal arts education we’ll have a society of amoral, unthinking automatons without any sense that there is more to life than the next buck and petty pleasures. I say the humanities are dead, because they are unable to make people into thoughtful, ethical actors. More often than not, those who teach them and those who learn them believe that all truths are relative, except for that one and the one that says everyone but liberals are sexist, racist, classist, puritanical zealots. Just listen closely next time you hear an English professor lecture. Are they reading Shakespeare’s words or are they claiming that he defends the privileged status of old, white men? Are they analyzing Jane Austen or attacking the men who published her for being so damn Victorian? Read closely!
They also say that being an English major teaches you how to write. If they only knew that at the height of my English-major-analytical powers I spun 10 line poems into 20 page treatises and got A’s and huzzahs. Here’s the point: being an English major doesn’t enlighten you, it makes you a master of bullshit. But it doesn’t have to. And this goes for any major, especially in the humanities – we can and should demand more of our professors and of ourselves. Consider this: One time in a high school English class I wrote a 15-page in-class essay, but it was only one paragraph. My teacher – who taught me how to think and write – was furious; she said that I’d have to shape up, because college was going to demand more, and being the best writer in my high school class was like being the fly on top of a pile of shit. Well, I’ve been in college for some time now, but something still smells.
Jamie Weissmann is a Weinberg senior. He can be reached at [email protected].
