Becoming an English Major

It’s been little less than a month since I finished my undergraduate degree. Honestly, if I could summarize the four years of my bachelor of arts degree with a double major in English and French, I would say, “it’s been a roller coaster.” One moment, I was on the top of the world with excellent marks, the next, I’d feel a crushing headache as a attempted to extract logical sentences for an essay worth a third of my final grade.

I will not lie, university is stressful.

But it is in conquering said stress that makes these four years worthwhile.

I have never been the sort of person who was always so sure of myself. Funny enough, I come across this way to other people because unlike nearly everyone who goes through university, I have never changed my degree. I attribute my unwavering devotion to English literature as my reason to weather any form of criticism that came my way. And, trust me when I say, telling people you’re an English major will not get you the same approving gaze as someone who majors in chemistry (or anything STEM related).

Basically, the default reaction most people have had when I said, “I’m majoring in English…” is one of the following:

  1. “So, what are you going to do with an English degree?” This question is paired with furrowed brows and a tight line forming at the mouth.
  2. “I hope you won’t mind working at a grocery store or pumping gas afterwards.”
  3. “Oh, so you want to become a teacher so you can teach English?”

Most of the people I know are polite, so I usually get combo number 3. For the first twenty times, I responded:

“Actually, it’s not my plan to become a teacher.”


“No. I wouldn’t be a good teacher, trust me.”

I could just picture myself helpless in a classroom attempting to convey the subtle beauty of Jane Eyre as an old sandwhich flies in the direction of my head. I’m sure in no parallel universe will I ever choose teaching as my choice of career (or vocation).

I became an English major because I loved to read and write. I wanted to write. I had (have) an insatiable thirst to string words together. Mind you, I was a little naïve at the time. For whatever reason, I believed that I could somehow work extremely hard and be able to pay the bills by writing until my hands fell off. Of course, I was only eighteen.

Four years later, I am so happy that I did not switch my major. My decision to become an English major, and eventually an English-French double major led me to pursuing studies in translation.

So, it just goes to show just how good it feels to prove the “haters” wrong.

Until Next Time,




A Moment

A moment is fleeting

It passes like raindrops falling to earth.

A memory splashes onto warmed asphalt

Refracting the colours of the sun.

The world continues to turn

Day turns to night

Winter to Spring

Summer to Fall.

A moment in my eyes

Is like the flowing of a stream

And your reflection waves in its waters

A moment in your eyes

Is like the growing grass

Hiding all traces of the past

In that moment,

I could have sworn

It was the beginning of a dream

In that moment,

You couldn’t have known

How a heartbeat never lies




The frigid coolness of Canadian weather sets in around November. When I was in elementary school, I became aware of the puddles on the playground freezing into a glass-like ice as a sign of winter’s arrival. It was only a matter of time before the ground would freeze and snow would fall. Canadian adults are not fond of snow. I hadn’t understood this until I became an adult myself. Snow is beautiful and deadly at the same time. It’s an inconvenience when you’re trying to get from point A to point B. At the same time, it’s breathtakingly beautiful at night when moonbeams refract light of the snow giving it a magical quality.

Games on the playground shifted once snow covered the playground equipment in a white blanket of fluffy snow. In kindergarten, teachers and assistants would help us zip-up our coats, wrap scarves around our faces in twisted knots constricting us into place. Snow pants would be shoved overtop of our pants and then tucked into large winter boots. Mittens, or gloves were essential pieces to the ensemble, but everyone had a habit of loosing them while playing on the frozen tundra. Once we were ready, we were herded like cattle outside into the frosty air by the mere grumble of the bell.

Suddenly, we were no longer children playing in the snow. We were survivors placed into a brutal climate in which we had to learn to survive. As quick as we could, my friends and I journeyed to the other side of the playground. It was not an easy task. The journey was a difficult one. When you are wearing so many layers of clothing, you end up looking like a walking marshmallow. Marshmallows don’t move very quickly, believe me.

 Everyone took the superhighway of the frozen snowbanks to get to their destination. If we were to venture out into the fresh snow, the snow would swallow our short little bodies like quick sand. It would take forever to reach our fort, and time was of the essence. The reason we had to arrive in a hurry was because enemies lurked everywhere looking for forts to destroy or to claim for their own. It is not unlike that one bully at the beach who will knock down a sandcastle because he feels entitled to do so. Once we reached our fort, which consisted of a circular parameter of ice and snow packed around a foot high, the game would begin. Furniture would be made from packing snow and ice into rough shapes reminiscent of couches, tables, chairs, and beds. Then, we would play house, and sometimes we would be soldiers defending our fort from troublesome boys.

Our little enterprise lasted as long as the snow was present. Sometimes, the snow disappeared quickly (here one day and gone the next). Other times, there was too much snow and it had smothered our fort completely.

There was once a classmate who decided that making his own fort would be too much work. So, he enlisted workers to build him an empire from out of the snowbank. He would reward them with titles as a king would award his noblemen. Now that I think of it, it was really silly seeing so many of them trying to win his favour as he stood proudly at the top of the snowbank. Every recess, my classmates would build and build until the snowbank reached the same height as a one-storey home. But like all empires, his would crumble come spring as the snow melted away.

As I got older, snow became more of a fact of life. A measure of disconnection happened once I reached Middle School and I no longer played during lunch. Occasionally, I see snow as a form of nostalgia, though right now, snow is rather bothersome. A snowstorm can be the difference between spending Christmas with family, or being snowed-in without power on Christmas morning. A snowstorm could force me to absorb university lectures in a condensed form – which is very problematic. But then, snow is also beautiful and picturesque. There is a feeling which I believe has no name that I have when snow falls when I am at home without needing to go anywhere. It’s the sense of being enclosed by the snow while simultaneously appreciating the warmth of the woodstove.

When snow falls, the snow silences the world around me. As snowflakes float gracefully towards the ground, I can see streetlights illuminating certain snowflakes in an orange glow. Cars cease zooming past my street. They pause. They take their time as they move in a crawl. I watch snow pile up near the window until only a small circular patch is my only view of the outside.

I forget sometimes how my small corner of the world experiences something unique that many people will never experience. I take it for granted when people from warm climates want to see a snowflake dissolve on their tongue or feel the thrill of a sled as it rushes down a snow-covered hill. Right now as I write this, the snow has melted completely from a rainstorm. The rain has melted all traces of winter away for now. Everything is bare. The grass is dead. Trees nakedly blow in the wind as if they are shivering from the absence of their blanket of snow. The sun shines in a clear blue sky. But, snow will come again soon.

True Love and Middle School Dances

The transition from elementary school to middle school was very strange. Suddenly, boys stopped shouting “cooties!” every time a girl crossed their path. Girls began wearing “designer” clothing from American Eagle and Aeropostal instead of letting their mothers dress them in Walmart clothing (god forbid!). Being a middle schooler felt like a step towards adulthood. Suddenly, recess was called “lunch hour” (which was actually 30 minutes long). No longer did friends play together, they hung out – a much cooler and adult-sounding term.

During my first year of middle school, I had this strange notion that I was going to find “the one.” You know, my one true love. Like how Romeo found Juliet and they magically fell in love after Romeo crashed the Capulets’ party. Of course, when I read the play I somehow completely ignored the fact that Romeo and Juliet fell in love, married, and died within a week. Anyway, not important. I imagined myself standing off to the side during the school dance (which was given the super lame name of “social”), the perfect guy would eye me from another corner of the dancefloor (the gym), and suddenly a slow song would begin. He would emerge gallantly towards me and stare deep into my eyes. He would ask me to dance, and I would say “YES!”  And then, my fairy-tale romance would come true.

The night of my first ever social, I was ready to find true love! I arrived onto the dancefloor to find my friends dancing to a Miley Cyrus song. My heart pounded and pounded. There he was! My crush! It was just like one of my dreams. Suddenly, I found that I couldn’t move my feet. They were glued to the floor! I awkwardly bobbed my head up and down stiffly.

“Are you okay?” My friend asked.

“I’m fine!” I said.

“Then dance!”

“But I am dancing,” I said pathetically. Actually, I looked like I was about to get a tooth pulled out.

 A few more songs went by and I didn’t change my dance moves. My range of motion seemed limited to my head and a movement that looked like squats. Then, out of nowhere, the music shifted into a slow song. This was the moment I had been waiting for. Guys began asking girls to dance. The guys placed their hands on the girls’ waists, and the girls placed their hands on each of the guys’ shoulders. Then, they began to turn in a super slow clockwise direction.

I had lost sight of my crush. I glanced around the gym to find my best friend getting asked to dance by my crush right in front of my eyes. This wasn’t how my fantasy was supposed to play out! This was all wrong!

I began to weave my way out of the gym when a guy approached me.

“Do you wanna dance?” Of all people who could have asked me to dance, I ended up getting asked by a guy who enjoyed eating food off the cafeteria floor. At least he wasn’t wasteful…

“Sure…” And then off I went regretting my life decisions.

Until next time,




A Love for L’Arc~en~Ciel

The best things in life happen unexpectedly. I never believed that my favorite band would end up being a Japanese rock band which began in 1991. L’Arc~en~Ciel has been my favorite band for at least two years now. Of course, that isn’t saying very much. There are people who have been fans of L’Arc~en~Ciel since 1991.

The reason why I liked L’Arc~en~Ciel so much is simply their music. Their music is just as diverse as a rainbow is diverse in colour. My favorite album, Awake, consists of a mixture of hard rock, soft rock, alternative, pop with classical elements mixed in. There are some vocalists who can only sing one genre of music. L’Arc~en~Ciel’s lead singer, Hyde, can sing pretty much anything and it will sound incredible.

Another reason why I like L’Arc~en~Ciel so much is the band members themselves. They are all unique in their own way. In their old interviews, they say the most random things that will make any fan or non-fan laugh aloud.

Even though L’Arc~en~Ciel isn’t as active anymore, I continue to have hope that they will release another album sometime in the future. If they don’t, then I will continue to treasure all twelve of their wonderful albums.


Until next time,



Final Marks and Pathetic Nightmares

Twice a year, I turn into a maniac who needs to check her phone every hour. A few hours ago, my “maniac” stage had finally ceased. Why? Because I finally know all of my final marks in my university courses for the semester.

You might think “what’s the big deal?” Of course, you would be justified as to wonder why I care so much. When you put all of your time and effort for an entire three and a half months into something that you really really really care about, it’s automatic that you want to succeed. For me, marks are everything. They are a justification of why I spend my time studying, reading material that I don’t always want to read, and writing essays, instead of finishing season 7 of The Vampire Diaries (which I still haven’t done yet).

Although, I admit that I occasionally tend to go overboard.

For the past few nights, I have had dreams relating to exams and final marks.

For instance, last night I had a dream that I was looking over one of the essays I wrote in one of my English classes. I had made a grammar mistake. Instead of writing “they’re” or “they are,” I wrote “their.” What a pathetic dream right! You know you are a perfectionist when you dream about contractions and their proper usage. (I swear that my dreams are usually more exciting). The “me” in my dream was in complete outrage. (I probably wouldn’t be in real life though). I demanded to see my professor to demonstrate my knowledge of English grammar. By the way, this small mistake was the difference between passing and failing.

This wasn’t the first time I had such pathetic nightmares. If you were to read my post Nightmares of Spanish Class, you will see more examples of my pathetic nightmares.

So now, I can forget about my marks and peacefully rest until the holidays are over…. Like that will ever happen.


Until next time,



My First Concert

When I was thirteen, I went to my first concert. Sure, I had been to see local musicians in stuffy theatres long before I was thirteen, but to me, a “real” concert had to include a famous musician/band. Finally when I was thirteen I was going to see someone whose songs charted the top 40 charts in America. {For the sake of this story, I will refrain from using names}.

The concert was in a stadium which is more often used as a hockey rink (Canadian priorities). There were bleachers in a half circle, and a bunch of floor space. The concert began an hour and a half after it was expected to start. There were two opening acts before the main act.

The first opening act was a good singer. But… he showed very little musical talent. He was singing along to pre-recorded music (including his own vocals). The rest of the stage was bear and desolate. Being a naïve thirteen year old, I thought, this is it, this is a concert. The second act was the same, except this one had an annoying DJ accompanying him. At random intervals the DJ would shout some random nonsense.

Finally, the main act… the person I had come to see. He arrived on stage thirty minutes after the second act had finished. I cannot remember his performance very much. Although I do remember that in mid song he randomly walked off the stage “(insert the name of my city here) sucks!” And he left. Everyone looked confused. Was it part of an act? Was he upset? What was going on?

Five minutes later he came back to the stage “I guess (insert my city name here) is okay.” Somehow to the concert continued as normal.

My idea of what a concert was or should be was based on that experience. Recently I went to see Marianas Trench with the opening acts Shawn Hook & Repartee. In comparison, they were amazing! Although they may not be globally famous, they really know how to put on a show.