Classics.

Let me tell you, a college education is wasted on an 18 year old.

I went to a high school that had a summer reading program, but I don't think we ever did anything about those books that we read in the summer.  At least I know I didn't do anything with them.  I may not have even read them.  It was so long ago, who can remember? I think I might have made it through A Tale of Two Cities, but just barely, and I couldn't tell you anything except for the first line.

Entering high school, I decided to take Latin instead of Spanish or French.  I reasoned that it would come in handy later when I became a journalist.  I argued that knowing all those Latin roots would be really helpful.  Sadly, my Latin teacher (though a sweetheart) was not exactly great at teaching Latin.  Or maybe Latin is just not teachable.

Freshman year, I was placed in honors English, and though I ended up with a decent enough grade, it was a struggle for me, and I was placed in the next level down for Sophomore year.  I did so well in that that I was placed in Honors English for Junior year, but the same pattern happened and I was relegated to second level for senior year.  This happened with my history classes as well.  Mr. Richards one year, Mr. Dolan the next.  It was a weird cycle, doing really well and not doing well enough.

By the time I reached senior year, I realized that I could get a B with little or no effort, as opposed to spending a lot of time and effort to get an A.  This realization was probably not a good one to have at the age of 17.  And it certainly didn't help me in my college years, but that's a long story for another time.

(My college career really didn't go as planned, and I blame only external forces and other people for it.  I swear it wasn't my fault, and still refuse to take responsibility for it.  I'd like to say I'm joking, but in my head I'm really not.)

So a few years ago, I went back to school.  I had thought about going back to school for a few years before that, and every year I would say to myself "If I had just done it last year, I'd be halfway through by now."  I said that for about three years in a row, and then I finally did something about it.

I started off at Delaware County Community College.  I was no stranger to community college, and don't mind the stigma attached to it.  I started in the summer, taking a history class online, and an English class in person.

The history class was a ton of reading and a paper due every week.  It was a killer, just in terms of the amount of work to be done.  Online classes are generally tougher, because the prof feels the need to inundate you with work to make up for the fact that they don't see you in person.

The English class was fantastic, and felt like home.  Like putting on your favorite sweater.  Like my friend Jess says, "I was built for term papers."  Sadly though, there is not much of a need for professional term paper writers.

I took four classes that summer, and two in the fall.  My GPA was 4.0 and I was inducted into the honor society.  It was time to start looking for a four year school, and I was able to get a sweet scholarship to St. Joe's.  I've been there since January 2010, and I'm headed down the home stretch.  I would be graduating in two months, but yet again those external forces have other plans for me.  So I'll probably take it slow and end up walking next May (knock on wood).

So, being in the home stretch means that all I have left are requirements.  One of them is a math class.  Eek.  And one of the St. Joe's requirements is an upper level British/Irish literature class.  The only choice offered this term is "British Satire."  Let me tell you, I did not start out as a fan.  Swift and Pope?  Ugh.  But then we got into some Dickens.  Hard Times, not bad, especially compared to Gulliver's Travels. Then we read some Joyce, and then some Orwell.

Now here is the point of all this, sorry to take so long to get there.  I went to a fantastic high school and somehow I managed to never read any James Joyce or George Orwell.  And honestly, when I go on about how spectacular 1984 is, people who read it in high school either hate it or don't remember it.  Last year, I had to read Heart of Darkness, and it was one of the best books I've read.  And I have to add Dubliners and 1984 to that list.  Sadly, my list of "best books" is pretty short, because I'm not much of a reader.  So maybe I don't have a leg to stand on in saying that these books are amazing books.  But they fall under the term "Classics" so I have to believe that they probably really are that good.

I also have some thoughts tumbling around in my head about the value of art.  I was previously a non-art person.  (Sorry Laura and Watsuki.)  But lately, I'm learning to appreciate the value of the ability to release the inner beast in an artistic way.  But that's a post for another time.