When I decided to apply to graduate school in English literature, I expected an enthusiastic response from my mentor, Dr. Bill Jeremiah, at my small liberal-arts college. (Note to readers: Names have been changed to protect the innocent -- namely, me. After all, these people will be writing my letters of recommendation.)
I was choosing to pursue the life of the mind. What could be more admirable? But instead of giving me a standing ovation, Bill adopted a set of facial expressions that ranged from grave to deathly grave.
"Jane," he said, "I think we need to talk." His voice had the same tone as emergency-room doctors from B movies, the sort of doctors who approach the patient's next-of-kin and say things like, "I'm afraid your daughter has only an hour to live."
"Sure," I murmured. "Talk. Great."
Bill led me to his office and sat me down in the only open space amid the piles of books. It happened to be the patch of ground directly underneath his framed Harvard diploma.
"You might want to reconsider," Bill said. "Graduate school can be taxing emotionally, mentally, and physically. There's no guarantee that you'll finish, and it's even less likely that you'll get a job once you're through. When it's all said and done, you might wonder if it's worth it." His voice was calm, but I could tell by his furrowed brow that what he truly wanted to say was, "Graduate school is a slow and unrelenting descent into hell. Save yourself while you still can."
I felt the earth move under my feet. Grad school had been my last great hope. For most of my life, I tried to hide the fact that I liked to learn because it cut down on the amount of after-school beatings from my less enthusiastic classmates. Even in college, where students pay to learn, I discovered to my dismay that many of my peers cared more about beer bongs and frat parties than Shakespeare and Yeats. But despite my disappointment, I remained optimistic because I was holding out for grad school -- the nerd Utopia -- a place where thoughtful people gathered to discuss ideas that really mattered.
When I told this to Bill, he gave a wry laugh. "Let me guess," he sighed. "You thought that grad school would be fun."
I left Bill's office with lead in my guts. The last time I'd felt this low was when I was 7 and my brother Peter told me that Santa Claus was just Grandpa in a red suit and a fake beard. No. It was worse -- it was the death of all my dreams. I could hear the ER doc in my head say, "Sorry ma'am. There was nothing we could do."
I'm usually not so melodramatic, but disillusionment is hard to bear. I decided I needed a second opinion, so I stopped by the office of another professor, Dr. Natalie Poppins.
"Natalie," I said, bracing myself for the worst, "I want to go to grad school."
She let out a whoop of joy that rattled the walls. "That's great news," she exclaimed. "You'll love grad school. I spent the best 11 years of my life there and I don't regret one minute."
My eyes bulged. "Eleven years?"
"And even though I still owe $70,000 in loans," she said, "every penny was worth it." She handed me a cup of tea. "Spoonful of sugar?"
"No thanks," I said. "I thought people pay you to go to grad school -- I thought a Ph.D. usually takes four years."
Natalie laughed merrily. "Don't worry about the time and the money," she said with an indefatigable smile. "You're investing in your brain. A learned mind is the world's most portable skill set. No matter where you go, no one can take it away from you."
I blanched. As an English major, I was well versed in dramatic irony. I could imagine several things that could cause my brain to depreciate in value, especially since grad students are notoriously prone to stress, alcoholism, male-pattern baldness, schizophrenia, and self-induced massive head trauma.
As I left Natalie's office, a blanket of ambivalence enveloped me. Grad school had always seemed like the obvious next step, but now I wondered if anyone thought it was a good idea. This much I knew: Graduate study would be long, difficult, potentially expensive, and possibly fruitless.
I wondered if part of my confusion over graduate school stemmed from the completely contradictory advice I'd received. Maybe, I thought, just maybe I'd be better off consulting someone a little older, someone who had years of experience in the academic world, someone who could put things in perspective. With that in mind, I dropped in on my academic adviser, Dr. Stephen Methuselah.
"Doc," I cried, "Please, tell me the truth. Is grad school worth it?"
"Jane," Doc said, his sage eyes brimming with wisdom, "I've been out of graduate school for over 30 years. Everyone I know from school is either dead or retired. Maybe you should talk to someone who's graduated more recently. Have you met with Bill or Natalie?"
"Doc," I said, my head hung low, "I'm at the end of my rope. I can understand if my professors want me to know what I'm getting into, but why do they have to make grad school sound so hopeless and scary? It's hard to motivate myself to apply when all I have to go on is an overwhelming sense of dread coupled with the near certainty of failure. The application process is dehumanizing enough -- the test scores that tell you how intelligent you are, the check boxes that tell you what sex and race you are, the rejection letters that tell you how worthless you are. The last thing I need is professors who don't believe in me. Just tell me I have what it takes."
He looked at me fondly. "Of course you do. And so do most people who apply. And some get in, and some don't. It's not fair, but neither is life. If you haven't learned that by now, then you'll certainly learn it once you're in grad school."
"If I get into grad school," I said.
Doc chuckled. "Sure you will. Someone has to get in, or else who would teach?"
"You mean, whom would the professors teach, right?
"Oh, Jane," Doc said. "You have a lot to learn."
