College Majors

Growing up, I thought a perfect life would be to have that house with the white picket fence. You know, the one that my children and all the neighborhood children would flock to after school for cookies and milk and play time. Therefore, when my sister asked me what I wanted to do after graduating from college, I said I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. This irritated her no end. She severely chastised me for wasting my unidentified talents and being a failure as a modern women. “You need to find a career! Get a job so you can support yourself!” Nope. Had jobs. Didn’t like them. Wanted to to be the old lady with the shoe. As long as I could remember, everyone said I was going to become a school teacher. The fact that I didn’t want to be a school teacher held no weight. They took one look at me and said “You’re going to be a school teacher when you grow up.” What my sister and the rest of the adult world failed to recognize was that I was too shy to stand up in front of people and say words out loud. Also, I believed teachers should be brilliantly knowledegable in their fields of study and there was no subject I could point to where I held that degree of mastery. The two things I like to do were read novels and be in an orchestra. So I entered college as a music major, knowing nothing about music other than how to read base clef and saw away on my string base. The school I attended was chosen for its closeness to home and its inexpensive tuition. Little did I know when I enrolled, its chief aim was to grind out teachers, with or without competence in their chosen fields. Prior to picking the only available choice, a friend and I went to visit a brand-new campus in Northridge which included dormitories. We sighed at the thought of actually going away to school. I guess I gushed over it when I described our visit to my mother. This threw her into a quandary which had no outlet but resentment and despair. You see, the dream school was in the neighborhood all our Jewish relatives had chosen when they had the financial means to flee Echo Park. Ma was sure I’d meet a nice Jewish boy in Northridge, so she should send me there. On the other hand, if she sent me there, we’d starve and lose the house because they didn’t have the money for Northridge. However, since there would be no Jewish boys at the only school she could afford, my marital doom would be her fault. This emotional tug of war led her to complain bitterly to my sister without letting me in on the secret. I soon got a phone call telling me how selfish I was to demand that my parents ante up the cash for an expensive live-in school. When my sister stopped for breath, I asked her what she was talking about. “You told Ma you want her to send you to Northridge.” “No. I never said that. I told her it was a wonderful place, but I know it’s too expensive so I’m going to live at home, work part-time, and go to [local] school.” “Then why was Ma so upset?” “She thinks the only way I can meet and marry a nice Jewish boy is if I go to Northridge,” “Oh. I guess I should have heard your side of the story before I got mad.” Yeah, ya think? When I got off the phone, I sat Ma down and explained that I wouldn’t dream of putting her to the financial strain of dormitory costs. She was near tears. “But how are you going to meet a Jewish boy?” “Don’t worry, Ma. There are plenty of Jews in East L.A.” Stop laughing. This was 1961 and it was a commuter college. If I went there that meant it was at least a one-Jew school. It could have been a two-Jew campus. You never know. “I promise you, it will be just as easy to meet a Jewish boy there as it would be in Northridge.” “Really? You’re sure?” “Yes, I’m sure. You have nothing to worry about.” “Oh, I feel so much better now.” And she did, she felt reassured and relieved. She was such a sucker. The first week in school I met my future husband, a nice Presbyterian boy, but that’s another story. Here, we’re talking about college majors. I wasn’t sure which classes to sign up for so I sought the advice of the career counseling office. This resulted in sitting through a battery of personality tests that took so long and asked the same question so many times, I got annoyed and started opting for the snarky anti-social answers. At our follow-up meeting, my counselor showed me a chart that had normal people’s replies in blue or green lines and my own replies in a red line that dropped below the chart’’s borders. Apparently, I was a sociopath. She suggested I go into therapy. This news actually upset me. I tearfully described the experience to my sister, who dismissed the test results with a brusk, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Just find out what classes you need.” So back I went, filled with trepidation, to see the counselor who couldn’t remember why I was there. Apparently identifying a sociopath was not worthy of making a note in her file. When she asked if I had any questions, I reverted to my original “What courses should I take?” She muttered something useless, and I left, disgusted, thinking my test answers were right.

Two years passed during which I was given excellent grades in spite of failing to grasp music theory. I also received top marks for solo concerts where I won the race against the piano accompanist by finishing first. My respect for the department was dwindling. Once I realized that most of my classmates planned on teaching music rather than becoming professional musicians, I knew it was time to pick a new major. My favorite college class thus far had been Time-Management Studies, which was part of the Home Economics curriculum. If there were more classes of this type and I never had to teach cooking or plan any diets, perhaps Home Economics would be the perfect choice. Yes. I would be a Home Economics major. My father’s reply to this announcement was a flat “You don’t need to go to college to study Home Economics. I’m not paying for that.” Unlike my sister, I lacked a spine. I didn’t argue; I caved; I majored in English (because I liked to read novels), minored in French (because I liked French movies), and ended up with a Bachelor’s degree that was totally useless until years later when I got paid to organize things and write junk mail. As for the teaching part, well, I later enrolled in a combo graduate program: Secondary School Credential and Masters in both English and Library Science. Then my husband decided he wanted to go to law school and could I please drop out of school until he finished? Let’s see. Apparently, I’d lied to myself about wanting to teach English and there was more to Library Science than reading novels. What should I do? Aha! The picture snapped into place. The reason I had turned into a scholastic overachiever was so I could throw my multiple advanced degrees in my father’s face and say, “See? Who’s the smart one now?” The only problem with that plan was that he had recently died and I was too late. I dropped out of school that day and have never regretted the decision. The people who said I was going to be a school teacher were wrong. My calling in life was training chaos to be orderly and teaching customers to purchase things. You know, “Buy This Great Tape Now!”