“What’s your major?”
It’s a looming question that, as a student, you cannot escape. Mention that you’re in college to a cashier and he or she will ask it. Receive a phone call from your third cousin’s fiancé? He’s calling to ask it. Your parents’ friends? Your dentist? The woman behind you in the line at the DMV? They’ll ask it. And if you don’t have an answer to this seemingly vital, identity-determining question — if you’ve yet to decide on a major or, perhaps, what career path you plan to follow — then … it’s perfectly OK.
Yes, you read that last bit correctly. By not immediately deciding which academic field you’d like your eventual degree to declare you proficient in, you aren’t doomed to a life of wandering around aimlessly and goalless, lost in the sea of ambitious go-getters who have known since birth that they wanted to be a teacher or a doctor. Being so-called “undecided” or “undeclared” doesn’t mean your entire life or identity is unsettled. So, take a deep breath; I’ll take one with you.
Now that we’ve both had a nice, fresh dose of oxygen, let’s briefly dive into my personal story of surviving life as a long-term member of the undecided club.
I entered Emory University enchanted by its dizzying array of majors, similar to NSU’s. I was like an overwhelmed customer at a restaurant, lost in the options of a complex menu — except my indecision didn’t subside after 10 minutes, prodded by a growling stomach; it lasted two years, only reduced by my university’s absolute requirement that I declare a major at that time. Before that, and especially during my freshman year, my typical answer to the dreaded “What’s your major?” inquiry was a rambling monologue: “Well … um … I’m interested in history, political science and environmental studies. But, I also think sociology or psychology may be good fits. Oh, and I’d like to learn more about linguistics. Or math, maybe.”
I eventually decided upon none of the above. Instead, I opted to earn my degree in a major that prompted more raised eyebrows and vague stares: creative writing. Unlike pre-med, pre-law or any other “pre” major, creative writing doesn’t lead down a straight path with a perfectly matched career at the end.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed my courses tremendously, as they taught me to think creatively and write well. But they never led to that “a-ha!” moment, accompanied by inspirational music and a cartoon light bulb over my head, as I suddenly realized my professional destiny. I graduated in 2010 with a Bachelor of Arts and only a vague idea of what I wanted to do with it. Growing up, I had never imagined it would be that way; college was supposed to provide me with an absolute answer to the “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question, as guaranteed as receiving a tuition bill.
But I realize now that my indecision wasn’t a fault and should never have been viewed as one, by myself or by anyone else. In fact, it led to many unexpected and invaluable opportunities. Because I didn’t declare my major right away, I took a wide variety of classes; I reviewed UFO sightings in “The Psychology of Pseudoscience,” performed a self-choreographed solo in a modern dance course, and memorized the names of galaxies in a hybrid classroom-planetarium.
And when I finally became the proud owner of a fancy gold-lined baccalaureate diploma, I was able to enjoy the gap between being a student and being a working professional, without worrying that I was setting myself up for failure in a fictional race to the top of a career ladder. I temped as a secretary, where I gained valuable administrative skills, before stuffing half of my life’s possessions into two duffle bags to live in Israel for five months.
I’ve never considered myself an adventurous person; spicy foods rarely touch my mouth and I never stand within 50 feet of a rock climbing wall. But in Israel, during free time away from my journalism internship, I traveled all over the New-Jersey-sized country. I floated in the Dead Sea and covered myself in its sands, ate falafel and schnitzel, slept in a tent in the Negev desert, learned about bomb shelters while sitting in one and climbed Mount Masada before sunrise — twice.
I never would have found any of those opportunities if I hadn’t felt a bit lost during college. I understand that not earning a steady paycheck isn’t financially plausible for many people, but I think that we do ourselves a great disservice by comparing our progress to others. So what if your roommate has her major and minor and all of her courses for four years mapped out? So what if your older siblings graduated knowing their ideal job titles? You have wholly unique needs, desires and passions. If your timeline of life experiences doesn’t naturally fit into a rigid mold, don’t force it to.
Besides, it’s highly likely that your roommate’s schedule will change and your siblings will land in different, perhaps even delightfully surprising, fields. According to the National Center for Educational Statistics, more than 50 percent of college students over the past decade changed their major at least once. Plus, a May 2013 report published by the Federal Reserve Bank of New York found that only 27 percent of college graduates had jobs closely related to their undergraduate majors.
It’s time to stop equating the “undecided” label with underdeveloped or flawed. You’ve already made a major life decision: to be a college student. That should be celebrated in of itself. Being in college is a journey and an accomplishment, not a laborious stepping stone from childhood to career. I vote we change the infamous “what’s your major?” question to an affirmation: “Congratulations. College is wonderful. Enjoy it.”
