Just a few days before the September edition of Halfway Magazine goes online, a cousin of mine will have attended her first day of school as a freshman at a large public university in a neighboring state. Aside from geographical differences, the school I went to is pretty similar to the one my cousin is attending; so when I think about her first day of class and meeting her roommate, I can’t help but reminisce about my own school days.

I was never a very angsty teen. High school, as an overall experience, was neither good nor bad. I went to a pretty decent school in the suburbs where I fit the stereotype of the model minority almost perfectly (Math and Science classes were my Achilles Heel). To tell the truth, I was the quintessential nerd. Not only was I in band, but I was also a member of the National Honor Society and the captain of the Academic Team. I wish I could say that I’m embarrassed at my dorkiness, but because of the great relationships that arose from being a part of these groups, I have no regrets.

College, though, was a very different experience. For the first time in my life, I was going to a school with other Asians. Sadly enough, most of them were in the College of Engineering so I didn’t see too many of them in my English and Psychology classes. Initially, I had applied as a Psychology major and after a year, I decided I liked English so I picked that up as a minor. Soon, I decided to upgrade that into a major and then made it my primary major. After four and a half years, three summers on campus, and thirty extra hours, I graduated with a Bachelor of Art degree, and Distinction, in English along with a Bachelor of Science degree in Psychology. But anyway, back to my first day of school.

For us, classes didn’t begin until the middle of the week. The first couple of days consisted of stragglers moving into their dorms, students mobbing the bookstores, and various clubs ranged around the Quad trying to entice people into joining. During these couple of days, I would go out with my class schedule and a discreet map and memorize the locations of all the buildings my classes were in. That way, I wouldn’t be tagged as the newbie the following day. The next day, as I scurried from class to class, I saw various anxious looking students wandering around the Quad with their maps pulled out in front of them. Whenever I saw them, I gave a knowing smirk and hurried on my way. Every year, I smirked and even now, I’m smirking just thinking about all those poor lost little freshmen meandering around campus with their maps.

I didn’t enjoy college because I got to laugh at freshmen. What really made college a vastly different experience from high school were the classes. In high school, one basically has to take a core set of classes (history, math, science and English/literature). The classes are, more or less, chosen by the guidance counselor with very little input from the student. In college, aside from the few general education requirements, students are free to choose their classes. Admittedly, even these choices must be made within the limits of what’s required for their majors. Most schools, however, usually offer a range of classes even within the required electives.

A friend of mine once admitted to me that he thought that English majors probably enjoyed their school years more than other students because they have so much to choose from. I mean, think about it, there are so many authors and genres and time periods one can choose from. Compared to other majors, there is a broad range of topics to focus on in English. Personally, I have a fondness for Victorian literature and an especial interest in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins.

But towards the end of my college career, I took a modern American poetry class as an honors seminar. That class was influential in opening my eyes to minority literature and poetry in the U.S. There are tons of fantastic poetry written by black, Latino and Asian poets and yet, they aren’t being taught in general English classes in high school or even college. Knowing this, I finally knew what I wanted to do: I was going to be an English teacher.

I have to admit, this decision was made somewhat subconsciously. Sometime my junior year, I had made up my mind to teach. However, I was never completely satisfied as to why I wanted to teach. You see, in high school, friends and family had suggested I become a teacher and I had always resisted. Rather vehemently, as a matter of fact. Now, I wanted to become a teacher. It was all very disconcerting. For awhile, after I had made my decision, when people asked me why I wanted to teach high school English, I would laugh and say, “I don’t like stupid people and I want to teach kids how to think.” This is still partly my reason for wanting to become an educator. But I still wasn’t completely satisfied with that as my motive. It seems very petty and selfish and egotistical.

Currently, I’m a second year graduate student studying for a masters degree in education and social policy at a school that’s ranked in the top ten for education. Though I can’t help feeling more loyal to the school I went during undergrad, I don’t hate this school, either. The campus is completely different since it’s in a more urban/suburban location than my alma mater. But what I like most about this school is that this is where I finally realized my real purpose for teaching. When I took the modern American poetry class, the seeds had been planted and they germinated and bloomed only recently. I want to teach, not only so I can teach students how to think, but so that I could expose them to literature they may not have read before. I mentioned earlier that I prefer Victorian literature/poetry over other genres. At the same time, I have this strong conviction regarding the importance of minority literature and I will gladly teach Gish Jen over Christina Rossetti.

School was never a horrible experience for me. Like I said, I was/am a nerd. Halfway through undergrad, I jokingly told a friend that I wouldn’t mind being a lifetime scholar. In my mind, going to school for the rest of my life wasn’t a form of torture, I would probably enjoy. Even now, I look back upon my days as an undergrad with more fondness than bitterness. With my career choice, it seems as if my dream of being a professional student will be realized. True, I’ll be a teacher, but if I want to be an innovative educator, I’ll also need to constantly study. At the same time, there is the distinct possibility of that I may attempt a Ph.D in English literature. But that’s all in the future. Regardless of whether I remain a high school English teacher or become a college professor, I know that I’m doing what I want. I’m going to be an educator and researcher, but most of all, I’ll be a scholar.

A. Kim is the Halfway Senior Editor

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