I’m falling out of love with English, and I don’t know what to do.

*inhale*

I’m falling out of love with English, and I don’t know what to do.

In class I sit there, wondering, “If I were interested enough to find something useful to contribute to the conversation, would I enjoy it more?” Something I once found intuitive, something that was a part of me whether or not I knew it until the end of first year university, is slowing shrinking into a pea-sized part of my undergraduate past, instead of looming like an omnipotent part of my soul. Dramatic, I know. But is that what graduate studies does? Potentially make you fall out of love with a subject for which you used to be head over heels? I mean, if so, wow, I’m not even pursuing a doctorate and I’m only one month into my program.

*exhale*

I’m worried.

*inhale*

Falling out of love with English has so many repercussions. I’m still an advocate for the importance of studying English, and yet studying it for one more year is making me question why I chose to do so. I asked the dreaded question I anticipate as a future teacher: “Why are we in heated debates over fictional characters? THEY DO NOT EXIST.” I cringed as soon as the thought entered my head and stayed there for the duration of my class this week. “What a traitor, I am,” I thought. How could I ask the question that every English teacher would answer: “it matters.” How could I do this to English? I typed out the words that almost broke my heart via Facebook message: “I do not love English anymore.” And as a friend of mine so eloquently (and jokingly) replied, “English loves you, even if you do not love it.”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Even though it was meant as a joke, the reply hit me hard. How does English still love me? How could English still love me? I committed almost every felony against my beloved subject. Albeit, I love English in a slightly different way than the stereotypical English student. I would rather go shopping for clothing than sit in a used bookstore and poetry. I would rather eat popcorn and watch “Pitch Perfect” than watch every film ever made of Jane Eyre. I don’t enjoy reading anymore, and I don’t enjoy writing anymore (I mean, it is a mentally strenuous task, so who really does enjoy essay writing in the moment, anyways?). So aside from all of that, I really did love English. I could still talk for hours on books I love, I think. But now that I try to in my head, I just cannot seem to conjure that passion I never knew I had until someone pointed it out to me.

What does it mean for English to love me? Does that mean I keep coming back to English because I know it will always be there for me? Is that what’s beautiful about books? You can revisit a story again and again, and it changes with you. All the knowledge and thoughts you have acquired between the last time you read the book, and your next time reading the book makes all of these strange connections you never knew existed when you revisit it. You develop inside jokes with the book. You love the characters a little more, or hate them a little more. Oh, there, I smiled. So I do love English still, at least a little bit. Maybe I love English like an old childhood friend. But childhood friends grow up and change too. But childhood friends don’t always stay friends. They grow apart. Is that what happened to English and I? Did we grow apart? English is supposed to be my thing. Who am I without it?

*exhale

*chest tightens*

*inhale*

Oh. There’s sadness. You know, like in “Inside Out.” Maybe we did grow apart. You know, it’s more than a childhood friend. It’s like a relationship you can feel slipping away. You thought you would grow old together. You thought you would always be in love with them. And then, all of a sudden, it stops, and makes you want to cry. And you want to stop it but you can’t and you don’t know how but you wish you could feel something, feel some kind of emotion that isn’t just nostalgia. But it’s not there.

Nothing’s there.

*exhale*

(Taking all suggestions for how to fall back in love with my English subject. Slightly urgent since I still have 10 months of the M.A. program to finish. Thanks.)

“There and back again”: Not an epic tale by a hobbit

When I went home for Thanksgiving weekend this past weekend, I was a statistic for the first time ever. You know what I mean: I was part of the group of students to whom the priest said “Welcome home!” in his opening greetings to mass, I was the person the church friends crowded to see how school was going, because they no longer had an opportunity to each week, I could even use the guilt card to see my friends at late hours of the night to provide optimal time with family during the day, and “catching up” (or as some smarty-pant friends of mine would term “ketchup”) time with friends at night. Or so I thought. I have to admit, before Thanksgiving weekend, I was optimistic about my time management, but nevertheless, there was a little bit of visiting with friends still. So anyways, you know that statistic (and by statistic I am completely just guessing that a statistic exists somewhere)? The one where hundreds of thousands of students flock to their hometowns to celebrate holidays and become the special kids to whom everyone pays their utmost attention during those short two or three days? Yes, well, I was one of them, and boy, did it feel weird at first. But I guess it’s nice to feel special. *understatement*

Going home and coming back to Queenstown was an interesting experience. You have to do all these backwards things, like pack to go home, since, as a girl in love with clothes, almost all of my wearable clothes moved with me. You have loose ends to tie up, or time-consuming computer jobs to finish at home since if you’re essentially home tech support for your parents, like me. And yet every moment you spend away from your family, whether it’s the time downloading new music, or transferring all your sunset pictures, or looking down at your phone to make plans with your friends while with your family, there is an Eeyore-sized-raincloud of guilt hanging over you. It takes a lot of time, for me at least, to realize that even if there is no such thing as too much time with parents when you’re a visiting student, they still want you to visit with your friends from elementary and high school. And they’re okay with that. 

Being home is the most comfortable thing in the world. I finally get what people mean. Being back in my apartment is also comfortable. But it’s not home. Is it cliché to say it does feel like a home away from home? That really is its function, though. But now I have this strange distinction in my head. I made a home for myself here. I got two fish that both have lasted 48 hours so far. I have plants to water. I have carpets to vacuum, and laundry to do (in a few weeks… Obviously, I came back with a freshly laundered closet, courtesy of my mother’s hard work). Does a part of me actually enjoy taking care of myself and making a home for myself? At what point is it “okay” to start to grow up and be a responsible adult, without an overwhelming sense of guilt and loss of childhood ignorance? Maybe it’s time to read Catcher in the Rye again.

Whatever it is, I officially have less than ten months to figure it out.