Being an English major can change people's opinion of you in an instant. When I tell people who think I'm smart, who think I'm talented and gifted, I can feel any pedestals they've (mistakenly) placed me on instantly dissolve into nothing. When I tell them, they close any windows that once let in the light of hope for what I will become and accomplish with my life. They conjure a dark cloud of pity which grows sullenly over my head, and, as sharp raindrops of misunderstanding drench me to the bone, they smile politely an ask, "Oh? And what are you planning to do with that?"

Patronizingly, their teeth creep out from behind their lips, wrinkles grow from the corners of their eyes like lightning, and their lips turn up in a smile that makes their mouth a basin full of harsh honesties they want to let loose on me when I reply politely, "I want to teach."

"Of course you do," they want to say. "That's really your only option, isn't it?" In their head they think of a thousand ways to tell me that I've backed myself into a corner. They think I've settled for something less than what I want or deserve. They're convinced that I've married myself to a life of mediocrity and poverty. I've chosen a major I actually like, so one day I will probably be living in a box.

This is how they see me.

But at least I will be happy. This is my dream job, regardless of the money involved. The first time I walk into a college classroom and I look up to see students waiting to hear what I have to say next, to write it down and study it because now I'm deemed an authority on the subject, the first time I'm shown respect because of the "Dr." preceding my name, the first time I am thanked for helping someone understand something they've always wanted to know but could never quite grasp, I will think of them, all of them, in their bigger homes and nicer cars that attest to their fatter paychecks, still not quite as happy as me.