COLUMN: Throw hands up, cry, return to miserable responsibility
Question: How much is an English degree worth?
Paying $10,000 a year in tuition is an indicator of what it costs — but what is it worth?
People who are true artists will argue that the pursuit of art is priceless, that their life is so enriched by what they do that nothing else matters.
I will not argue. For me, in increasing my aptitude as a pianist or writer, money is no object. There is nothing more fulfilling than practicing and doing art. I will go on record and say it; for me, jazz and poetry are better than girls or money. And I know there are plenty of people who share my views; secretly maybe, but they agree nonetheless.
It's a great feeling. Creating something someone other than my mother (who, thankfully, remains my largest, and oftentimes only, consistent fan), will enjoy gives a person a wonderful feeling of accomplishment and belonging.
That being said, man can write in the woods. Or on a mountain after milking a goat. When did being a hermit go out of style?
This, too, is a sentiment I know to be widespread among many of my peers. Can a planet-sized hunk of student loan debt follow a person into seclusion? I wonder.
It's incredibly tempting, for me at least, to throw my hands in the air, drop everything and move up north to be a farmhand. At least when the day is over up there, there's no homework. It seems to me a lot of people I know or have talked to have had the near-irresistible impulse to quit everything.
And then there's this to consider: No deer is going to criticize my politics. So what if I can't write? So what if my verse stinks? There's honor in hard work, too, and after my chores for the day, what I do in my leisure time is my own business. It's primal, visceral and unfortunately, a bit silly.
It takes every ounce of strength in me to admit to myself that my dreams of living on a farm are stupid. I don't even know any farmers. I've never planted anything in my life. I can't even cook macaroni and cheese without making a mess.
At the grocery store, I have a hard time choosing between raw ground beef, which I have to cook, and frozen patties, which I have to warm up. I can't win.
Maybe I'm just an idiot. But I have the feeling that plenty of other people are having the exact same problem. Sick of paying for school? Join the club. Hate your job sometimes (or all the time)? Join the club. Broke? Join the club.
Yes. I'm whining. I'm crying fat, voluminous tears. But I'm whining for all of us in the club.
Call me a spokesman. And now I'm finished. I'm stuck here, just like everybody else.
So make the most of it.
