Your essay must be five paragraphs. The thesis must be at the end of the introduction paragraph. It must be one sentence long, and you must list the exact literary devices the author uses that you will argue about. Each paragraph should be 3-5 sentences. Do not use first-person pronouns. Stick to the strictly academic. Stick to the familiar, the formulaic, the reasonable, the assured.

Don’t go above and beyond boundaries. Don’t use “I think” or “maybe,” but don’t speak with too much confidence. Don’t acknowledge what you don’t know.

If there’s one thing this class has taught me, it’s that you should know the rules front and back so you know when and how to properly break them. Writing isn’t formulaic. Even the stuffiest academic essay in existence is an act of self-expression.

I learned the formula and followed it well. It got me a 5 on the AP Literature and Composition Exam. But it didn’t teach me confidence in my writing. It didn’t make me a more creative writer. My best writing comes from when I don’t stress too much about staying within the lines, when I let my mind simply put words on the page. This class taught me the importance of voice. Your essays won’t be remembered for their one-page theses, but for their voice, how you communicated ideas.

I’m not saying you should write an essay with no thesis or paragraphs that are ten pages long. The Writing Center consultant in me would ache. But… don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? Write for you. Write what sounds like you. Be creative, explore, try things. Yes, essays should be professional, but if it isn’t you, then what’s the point?

Sometimes, on my way to class, a song will come on, a song that was my home when I was facing my first few weeks as a college freshman. 

The transformation, like Cinderella’s dress, happens quickly. I’m back in bed. Not my bed now — my bed then. Tears drying on my face. The ache in my throat as I speak to my mom on the phone. Her voice through the speaker: We love you.

I miss home. 

I’m not even that far away. I wasn’t then and I’m not now. An hour and forty five minutes. 

There’s something about the feeling of loneliness, helplessness, that makes any distance an ocean. Transformation.

I didn’t know what I was facing. But crying didn’t do me any good then, and it doesn’t do me any good now.

I’m stronger now. I have loving friends, and I’m better acquainted with my future. It’s less of a dark void now. Transformation.

Like a fairy tale, the happily ever after always comes. I might still be waiting for it, but I can see it’s on its way. I go through the motions. I go to class, office hours, the store. Getting nearer now.

Waiting for the transformation.

Today, I walk through the rain. My shoes get soaked. I have an umbrella, learned from my mistakes. I wave to a friend. A song comes on. I smile.

Transformed.

As an outsider to Wooster, looking in, my heart was full of optimism. The day of my tour was bright and sunny, and my heart was optimistic. Like many of us, as soon as I actually got here, I felt like I’d bit off more than I could chew, like I couldn’t do this. I missed my friends and family, and I thought I’d never acclimate to college life. I didn’t feel prepared. For my blog post, I wanted to focus on that feeling that so many of us know: the specific moment of that phone call with your parents, telling them everything that’s going wrong, how scared you are, how lonely you feel. I wanted to take that feeling and show its evolution to today. Adjustment is an ongoing process, and I’m still learning to live with the ways my life is different, but I’ve changed so much and learned to be excited for change. I might always have that feeling following me, but at least I’ve transformed to be okay with it.

To set the scene: it’s my graduation party. My best friends are sitting beside me. I’m reading cards packed full with encouragement and well-wishes. There’s optimism and the smell of the cookies I baked in the air.

Aunt: So, what are you majoring in?
Me: English!
Aunt: Don’t do it. I went that kind of route, and I’ve never once used my degree. What good did that do me?

I suppose you’re right, Aunt Karen. You don’t use your degree!

You don’t think critically when you read the news. You don’t think about what the author’s goal is. You don’t think about your own bias. Do you even think about what you’re reading?

You don’t, do you? You don’t consider what each term conjures in your mind. Every single word, all of it, building a tower of hate for you to sit up in and look out at everyone else and say, I’m not biased, I gave you a fair chance. You’re just wrong.

Those English classes. What a waste of time, eh? All they do is sit there and talk about why the curtains are blue, why the author chose this word over that. Symbolism, or whatever. What’s the use? Do something practical with your life, something you’ll actually use every day.

You don’t wonder how your news station chooses which stories to cover. You don’t spend a wink of time wondering why a story might be very convenient for someone to write about, while another isn’t. You don’t trust any other news sources.

Liberal arts schools are an indoctrination scheme. They don’t teach you both sides.

You don’t believe people should read different viewpoints. You don’t object to banning books about queer identities, or colonialism, or the literal history of this country. You don’t think children should learn these things about the world. You don’t see the parallels, you don’t think about what tends to happen when governments start banning books.

All you do is sit and read books all day. When are you going to learn something about the real world?

You’re completely right, Aunt Karen. You absolutely don’t use your degree.

But I will.