It’s Thanksgiving day, one of my favorite holidays. I love the food, family time, the weather, but one thing that can always annoy me is the dinner conversations. Those can always be awkward. Of course since I’m at college I get all the college questions. And the one I dreaded the most was the question…

Distant Aunt: So, what are you majoring in?

Yep, that question. I had always been going back and forth on what I wanted to do. I thought I had it all figured out and then I got to college. And then I thought I figured it out again, and now I’m on a different path. Still, the question is always annoying and anxiety provoking for me. I’d never known what I wanted to do right away, but my sister and father knew exactly what they wanted to do as soon as they could even put it into sentences that were barely comprehensible. But, despite me still not fully knowing and dreading the question, I answer anyway with fake confidence and cheerfulness in my voice. 

Me (cheerfully): Well it was English and Education, but now I’m thinking of French and Education with an English minor!

Distant Aunt:  English? French? Education? What are you going to do with that – be a librarian or be a teacher who makes absolutely nothing?

Ahh yes, of course. The constant question “what are you going to do with that degree?” It annoys me to no end. People can be successful without being a doctor, you know that?! Not every successful person in the world was into science or math, arts and humanities matter too, you know?! It’s always so frustrating because that question is always followed up with-

Distant Aunt: You do know that teachers don’t make a lot of money, don’t you? 

And there it is again ladies and gentleman! Right on time! The classic question about money. Because apparently money means everything. I guess since I’ll never make enough money, I guess I should marry a rich business man who has a trust fund that his dad set up for him way before he was born. Well guess what? That’s not what I want to do! 

You don’t go into teaching because of the money, you go into it because you love working with students and you love the content you’ll be teaching. I come from a long line of educators, teaching is practically in my blood. There is no better feeling than seeing the “lightbulb moment” when a student finally understands what you’ve been explaining or working on. That’s why you go into teaching. It’s more than just money to me, I want to be fulfilled from my job. 

Me: It isn’t about the money for me, it is and always will be about the love I have for the content I’ll teach and the students. Money doesn’t buy me happiness and I don’t think it ever will, but thanks for your input!

After I finish talking, I turn back to the Thanksgiving feast in front of me. I ignore the negativity and focus on eating as much turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing I can. Happy Thanksgiving!

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.

She could hear the gentle tinkle of the wind chimes, dancing in a dying breeze. But besides that and her raspy breaths, her house stood still around her in the fading light. A trickle of snot and blood ran down to her chapped lips. A light cold, that’s all the doctor said it was, but deep in her bones there was something aching, a chill she couldn’t quite shake. In the glow of her dying fireplace, she reached a veiny arm towards her night stand, where upon it lay her soaked crimson handkerchief. And with the groan of her body and her bed she almost missed the low creak of her front door opening. 

The grandmother paused, shaky frail hand in mid air, and listened. Silence, you see, is curiously sinister when you’re all alone, just you and your thoughts and what you think was your front door opening. But she wasn’t expecting anyone, and yet she could swear someone was there. 

It was there in the footsteps! So quiet, but the dark house must have hid the broken glass of her failed attempt to get water. There was a light crackling, like her joints on a rough day, that was just outside her open bedroom door. Her fire cast shivering shadows upon the wall, and she watched with panic as one of those shadows grew bigger. 

She shouldn’t move. Maybe whoever it was would take what they want and leave none the wiser to her presence. But her outstretched body was tiring, shaking alongside her fear. And the shadow continued to move closer, footsteps now like ghosts. But that sound, breath other than her own. Deeper, grainier, more animalistic. 

He entered her room, hunched over on two legs and entirely naked. He was startlingly thin, starvation shown in his ribs. His body was covered in patches of dark skin and thick coarse hair. And he seemed to be sniffing the air as he moved around the room. At the fireplace he stopped, sniffed, then turned, with the creak of a floor board, so that his dark hungry eyes now looked right into hers. And he ginned, a large maw opening to show off an array of yellow human teeth.

And he moved closer. Blood now poured freely from her nose, dripping off of her chin, and he eyed the fluid with great thirst. He was now close enough to touch her, and touch her he did. A Lumpy pink tongue darted out and began lapping at the blood. Terrified, she lost her balance and fell right into his fingered paws. They wrapped around her thin arms, bruising her bones. He was so cold, his tongue and fingers and breath. But she was too, now fully shaking. She closed her eyes when she felt him remove her clothes. And she kept them closed when she felt his teeth at her throat. 

It was hours later, now fully into the night, when a young girl in crimson red entered the house.