“Would you like paper or plastic?” “Would you like fries with that?” “Who can spot the dangling modifier?” English majors are familiar with these questions because, in their loved one’s collective opinion, these questions accurately reflect the only possible postgraduate avenues down which someone with an English degree can travel. After the laughter from these career punch lines has died down, what everyone fails to explain to the English major is that variations of these jokes exist for other fields of study (philosophy, history, art, music, etc) and that hundreds of thousands of students around the world have been victims of these living-room/kitchen table verbal firing squads. In essence, as we venture off to the world of academia, our first lesson is that we are about to waste the next four years of our lives; that unless we choose science, or medicine, or technology, or education, we are wasting ours and our parents’ money.
As I sit back and watch Freckles’ brother (a recent college grad with a history degree) attempt to shield himself from the barrage of “do you want to teach history?” questions, I find myself yet again struggling with my own English-degree identity in this English-degree-fearing world. Yes, I’m an editor, but the qualifications for my job have slowly but surely begun to mirror those of a McDonald’s manager and, though a respectable job, that’s not the career path I envisioned the day I declared my major. The path I convinced myself I was choosing was that of a storyteller.
Although I’ve never felt emotionally or intellectually qualified to teach English, I can say without a doubt that I chose this path for myself because of the influence of two English teachers: my 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Gagnon; and Professor Hudnall in college. In his class, Mr. Gagnon once told a story from his childhood and after building up the suspense for 10 minutes, every eye was focused on him as he delivered the climactic ending that left every student in the room as full as a compulsive eater on Thanksgiving. If Ms. Parker’s memory is as capable as I think it is, she’ll swear that I’m confusing Mr. Gagnon with Professor Hudnall. I’m not, but to her credit, I easily could have interchanged the names because Professor Hudnall accomplished the same feat 9 years later. Though unique in every possible way, in my mind, Mr. Gagnon and Professor Hudnall will forever be linked by their ability to bring their students to the edge of their seats. They were teachers, of course, but like every English major before and after them, they were storytellers first and foremost.
After graduating college and entering the classroom-less real world, and while fine-tuning my own craft, I found myself starved for the good story that had been lacking for the first time since I was old enough to know a good story from a bad one. Consequently, I ate up all of the books a postgrad guy is supposed to (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance; Catch-22; On the Road; etc) and with my book clubs, that trend hasn’t really stopped. I also watched as many movies as possible. Unfortunately, it seemed like I graduated college around the same time the majority of stories told in movies were dumbed down to reach a broader audience. But then, something wonderful happened. Either the film industry experienced an explosion of creative talent or I got better at finding the good stories. And so it was in 2001 that I found myself on the edge of my theatre seat on three consecutive occasions: Memento, Moulin Rouge, and Amelie. All three movies captured my imagination but as the first of the three released that year, Memento was the film that made me believe in storytelling again. (If you haven’t seen it yet, I highly recommend it.)
Like a born-again Christian desperate to share his faith with anyone who will listen, I made all of my loved ones watch Memento; and like that very same born-again desperate to consume anything that tastes like the crack that is his newfound love of Christ, I have since made a point of watching all of the films by Memento’s director, Christopher Nolan (Following, Insomnia, and most recently, The Prestige). Because Freckles was desperate to consume the crack that is her love of Christian Bale, she accompanied me to see The Prestige this past weekend. Like Memento, The Prestige had a symphonic feel to it; each scene was arranged and interwoven in a seemingly random way with a hint of purpose. The scenes began to harmonize near the end as a twisting crescendo built to a climax comparable to The Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” or the movie Requiem for a Dream. And yet again, I left the theatre satisfied with and inspired by Nolan’s work, as well as invigorated by a renewed faith in storytelling.
And so it was with great pride that I recently discovered that Christopher Nolan was once a student of English in London who had most likely shielded himself from the same barrage of “do you want to teach English?” questions that were fired in my direction 7 years ago. Now I don’t pretend to believe that this common denominator means that I’ll ever be as successful as Nolan has been, but I’ve also never been naive enough to think the size or reaction of an audience is proof of a good story. All that matters to me is that Nolan’s success brings with it further recognition that there is a place in this world for storytellers and that we should stand as proudly as doctors and teachers. My only hope is that when my time has come to pass, and I’m asked what I’ve done with my English degree, I can say with confidence that I wove a few good stories.
Benchly'sword 