I’ll probably hate myself for saying this later, but I really can’t wait to get back to Austin. I’ve been letting my lazy side run free for about three months (six weeks of which I worked and worked hard, mind you!), and I really need to sit down, slap myself a couple times, and hit the books. I have a thesis to start preparing for and two majors to finalize. Granted, there will be quite a few Hulu breaks, especially since I’ve started watching Haven which is basically X-Files set in small-town Maine, David Duchovny stand-in and everything. Before I start fawning uncontrollably, I thought I’d explain something.
An explanation…
When I say I’m studying Classics and Linguistics to people who for a variety of reasons have never heard of it, everyone assumes, for reasons I cannot fathom, that “Classics” means “that girl reads a lot of Dickens and Hugo.” Which is totally true, but besides the point. Classics is the study of ancient Greek and Roman civilization. It combines history, literature, drama, politics, geography, languages, art — everything. The breadth of this field, both in terms of subject areas and sheer timespan, is the reason I chose it for my primary major.
Linguistics, similarly, does not mean I just learn a lot of languages (although this ls also true). It means that I am studying the science of language, the mechanics. It does help to know many languages to be a linguist, but you don’t learn them through the major. There. That settles things. For now…
…And a defense
It’s not even that people don’t understand what I’m learning. I’m starting to figure out a few people don’t value it. Sometimes it startles me who I hear it from: people who I thought valued education and culture. Now, there are some pretty silly majors out there, but far be it for me to tell someone that what they studied is worthless. At some point, one should be allowed to acquire an education for education’s sake, and that means study what you love, whatever it is. Some of us (ahem) love the past, and it will never be enough for me to sit down and read a Wikipedia entry about ancient culture. How could that possibly be enough? What does that teach me but the bare bones of these people and civilizations? It’s the same for History, English, Classics. Hell, it’s the same for all of the Liberal Arts. To know enough about your field to call yourself “educated” demands more than any casual research will ever give you. It demands an education. It demands mastery, and that’s something that anyone in any field should agree with.
I am not a classicist. Not yet. Not for several more years, until I’ve mastered the languages, read the works, poured through the history, thrown myself completely into my field. After two years, I have barely dug a hole two inches deep. The amount of things I’ve learned, however jaw-droppingly huge to me, is only a fraction of what I must one day master. It will take a lot of education to get to that point. In three weeks, I get to dig a little deeper. The only feeling that comes to mind is this: bliss.
I don’t know when teaching stopped being a career people valued. It seems that every time I bring up my major, the first question out of someone’s mouth is, “What are you going to do with that?” And that instantly takes the smile off my face. It’s taken me a long time to come to the decision that I can do what I want to do, and sacrifice nothing. I don’t have to be a doctor or lawyer, because neither of those things will make me completely happy. A doctor’s life is stressful but infinitely rewarding, but I’m not great with stress and insomnia. Or Biochemistry. And frankly, I don’t like law very much. I like suits. Sometimes. And pinstripes. But law means legal codes and, in family courts, bitter people, sad people, angry people. That’s not for me.
But I have always loved teaching. I’ve been doing it unconsciously for years, just as long as I’ve been stealing office supplies and training Sandy to open doors (she’ll get there, just you wait). It’s something I’m comfortable with, something I know I can handle, and I think it would be a lot of fun. We have several excellent teachers in my family, so I don’t know why my mom still won’t stop trying to change my mind. Maybe it’s not as prestigious or as lucrative as law or medicine. Maybe she likes pinstripes just as much as I do, and regrets that I won’t be able to wear them while I smash someone’s face in with the GAVEL OF JUSTICE, but honestly? Those are minor concerns. I know I will have at least enough money for room and board and my ridiculous IKEA addiction (it’s like crack, but with a birch veneer). And above all, I’ll be happy.
That should be the end of the discussion right there. It is what I want to do. No more questions, no more, “But what about dentistry? (I hate teeth, I hate people’s mouths, I am chronically afraid of halitosis)” I’ve made my decision, so everybody else get on board or shut it, because the GAVEL OF JUSTICE is coming.
I’ve written about being vegetarian before. And I think I’ve made a little booboo. Okay, a huge, monstrous, mother of a booboo. Or two. Oh boy.
As a preface, I have to say that my mother’s diet gets more and more restrictive every year, mostly for religious/personal reasons. I think she’s in a, “What other weird seeds can I put on my cereal today” phase (the answer is flax, which doesn’t sound appealing at all). She recently dropped out onions and garlic (and derivatives), which I still don’t understand, but that’s not the pertinent issue.
The problem is eggs.
I didn’t know my mom didn’t eat eggs for a long time, mostly because she made so many allowances with what we could eating growing up that I just assumed she ate the same stuff. So whenever we baked or bought cookies, which contained eggs, I assumed she ate them from time to time. Then she got hooked on waffles. Eggo waffles. She loves them, and I love them, and they’re one of the few non-Indian foods we share anymore. Which is why I can’t bring myself to tell her they have eggs in them, even if it’s right there on the label. I’m pretty sure it will evoke some horrible sense of guilt in her — even though eggs are technically vegetarian — and she might eat me in my sleep.
Cannibalism is not vegetarian, just FYI.
Maybe I’m taking this too far. Maybe it’s a harmless omission for my mom. But not for my grandma, who has probably never had eggs before. And who ate a waffle yesterday. The guilt starts with my mom, but when I found out that my grandma had eaten one, I was on the verge of reading out the ingredients there and then.
Back from the brink
But two angry Indian women doesn’t seem much better than two contented Indian women.
The question is, where do I draw the line? If not at eggs, then what? There are so many questionable “vegetarian” products that even someone who is as conscious and anal about this stuff as I am has a hard time.
Even though I must seem like an asshole for doing this, I am extremely careful when I shop for my mom and grandma. I make sure there’s no onion or garlic, no eggs, low sugar, no fat. I check and double check the ingredients. I understand that, whatever my standards are in this weird and sometimes baffling food culture, their standards are far higher. So I have to pay attention.
