An Open Letter to the English Degree Hanging on the Wall of my Parent’s House

I still remember when I mounted you for the first time. Mounted you to the wall that is. You were shiny, new, and impressive. I was so proud of you. I posted pictures of us together with my arm around you with captions like, “Look world! Me and my degree! We’re so happy together!”

My parents moved you proudly into our family room and every time I walked by I gave you a smile and a wink. After all, it took me four whole years to win you over. Four years of scribbling in the margins of books, typing 10,000 word essays, and “expanding my mind” through higher education.

I did all of this for the things you promised me, English degree. You were supposed to be a perfect gentleman and “open so many doors” for me. Instead you shut them in my face, even when I was trying to carry all the bags from the grocery store in on one trip.

You were so enchanting when I first met you, like a real life Mr. Darcy. You showed me the world’s best literature and trained me to have impeccable grammar.

Eight months have passed since you came into my life. I must admit, you’re starting to become something I regret. You see, when we first started seeing each other I was a new graduate. I was blissfully unaware of how the world worked and I was told that you would be enough for me. I was told that having you, my English degree, would make the world my oyster.

Even when all my friends started seeing “Engineering degrees” and “Political science degrees” I was faithful to you. I told them that my degree was just as hot as their degrees. I told them that my degree had just as much opportunity in it as their degrees. They told me that their degrees had bigger financial packages than my degree, but I told them that your package was plenty big enough for me.

You see, English degree, you haven’t lived up to your part of the bargain. Hand in hand, we were supposed to walk into huge publications like the New York Times or Washington post and be IMMEDIATELY hired to write for them. Instead, we are confined in my parent’s house together, forced to write pro bono articles in the hopes of getting a measly by-line.

The distaste I have for you in my head is nothing compared to the humiliation I face when I talk about you in public. Maybe there’s a way to present you to other people that doesn’t make them pity me when I tell them about our relationship, but I haven’t found it yet. Whenever I tell someone about you, my formerly beloved English degree, they always ask me “Really, what are you doing with THAT.” You’re just an exasperated “that” to them, English degree. And to be perfectly honest, you’re becoming just an exasperated “that” to me too.

The worst part is I can never get rid of you. You are forever a part of who I am, English degree. My only options are to trade up for a hunkier masters degree in something useful, or find a way to make you work to my advantage.

Now when I walk by you on the way to my parent’s couch I don’t make eye contact. I don’t even glance at you, much less wink or smile. Maybe in the future you will start opening doors for me. Maybe you will make me proud to have you in my life again.  Maybe one day I’ll stop lusting after my friend’s juicy mechanical engineering degree with the huge financial package and sizable biceps.

I guess for now we will continue this lack-luster relationship we embarked on eight months ago. But hey, at least you taught me never to use the wrong form of “there/they’re/their.”