History

Much to my shame, I spent an enormous amount of money putting my way through college so I could earn a BA in history, which will get me about as far as just leaving all my application forms blank when I apply for a job.

Looking back, though, I don’t really have any regrets. It was a nasty few years of financial hardship. The rest of my family had been bankrupted by my father’s shenanigans when he left in my youth, so this high-priced private school in West Virginia where I found myself taking those first collegiate steps was a financial nightmare. I got loans and student aid up to my eyeballs, and worked myself to the ground just so I could afford books and, you know, scotch. But, in the end, it was fun. That’s what counts, eh?

In my first year, I entered with the idea that I would pursue an environmental science degree. I selected that because my assigned freshman advisor was the chair of that department and he said I was a “geology man.” Though, he told me, now that I was deep in the hole, there wasn’t a geology degree program offered. So, second best, he said, was environmental science.

It’s very important that your first adult steps begin with the second best option. I’ve found it to be the most valuable lesson I learned in college. That and crazy pagan girls are easy. Well, no, that second lesson sort of stems from the first one. You’ll never score with her, Nacho! Yeah, well, I’ll settle for the fat one. Get me another drink. A double.

So why was I a geology man? Because I always liked rocks. No particular scientific interest, I’m just one of those people who picks up a rock and puts it on the windowsill because I think it’s pretty, or amusingly shaped, or it represents something (a piece of old roadbed from US 66, a stone washed up on a beach in Scotland, etc.).

Putting myself in my advisor’s shoes, I think I would not have had such an enthusiastic reaction when, upon asking an 18 year old what his interests were, he said “rocks,” then just stared expectantly at me for wisdom and guidance.

I certainly wouldn’t have advised a major that didn’t exist at the school. Or, perhaps, that was a private joke at my expense, or a hidden message telling me to drop out and go work at Subway.

While I have maintained geology as a very passively pursued pet hobby, I soon learned that the academic side of environmental science just didn’t lead down the same path my whimsy desired. My freshman year, then, became a turbulent time of flunking out, getting drunk, and sampling the sour wine that is lust with a series of cruel and mindless women.

I returned home, disillusioned, and took a gap year where I worked myself into a state of emotional decay. Three jobs, seven days a week, about 100 hours a week. Sometimes more. On my weekend job (which I still have today), I frequently slept overnight at my desk between a late night (3am) and early morning (8am) shift.

That year was so profitable, I was able to fund my first overseas vacation — eight weeks in the UK — and pay for a year of college, back at the West Virginia school. The other great thing about the year off was that it gave me focus on two points – the first being that I did not want to work like an idiot monkey for the rest of my life (not quite achieved), and the second was that I wanted to get a degree in history.

What I did not tell my advisor was that the only classes I ever enjoyed in high school were history and political science. Oddly enough, I wasn’t thinking of classes at that point. Of course, I wasn’t asked what I studied or enjoyed in high school, either. You sometimes have to be direct with me.

I returned and changed my major and, from that point on, was a top student, eagerly earning the most useless degree this side of basket-weaving.

Actually, I got two degrees. The real one was a BA in History, minor in Political Science. Then, two years later, I received another degree from the same school in the mail. This time for a BS in Political Science and a minor in History. I called up the college and asked them what the deal was, and was met with the usual stonewalling.

I let them know that I had received a mysterious degree out of the blue and, in my first round of calls, was told that the second degree was my official degree. I tried to correct them, to no avail. So my second round of calls moved up the chain, at which point the school did admit that an error was made. Then, incredibly, they told me not to worry about it; it was easier for them to just keep both degrees on record.

Confused to the point of blind honesty, I continued to argue the issue, to which the response was that I should be grateful I got a “bonus” degree at no extra charge. That shut me up.

I now receive mailings as a graduate from the class of 96 and the class of 98.

Ever since I left college and entered this so-called “real life” where I work for small-minded people at thankless jobs and live hand to mouth in grim apartments, I’ve been thinking about graduate degrees. But the trap of money and freedom from schooling snared me and, now, as I enter a period of second-guessing my course in the world, it all seems too late. But I haven’t really given up. As part of my 2008 resolutions (which include learning to mix my booze without puking and taking up smoking), I’ve focused on finding online degree programs. But there’s one problem – now, more than ever, I am fixed on what I want to do. I want a masters in history. Or a Ph.D. My particular focus in college was modern European history, but it ended up being more general with a heaping teaspoon of Irish history from a republican sympathizer who had been smitten by the country. (Having since toured Ireland myself, I’m not quite sure how anyone can fall so deeply in love with the place.)

There is no doubt in my mind that getting further degrees in history will be even more useless than my BA. (Or BS, depending on the resume.) Most troubling of all is that I have no desire to use the degree for any practical purpose. When considering whether or not I want a graduate degree, the question of practical application doesn’t even come into play. History, for me, is just like collecting rocks. I don’t care how the rock was made, or what it contains. I don’t care about shaping them or cataloging them. It’s all purely ornamental.

History, you see, is the only academic subject I enjoyed because it was full of funny things like rape, genocide, senseless carnage, casual murder, and great men making deeply idiotic mistakes before their morning coffee. Plus the occasional flood or volcanic eruption, just when things were going well. Even pre-World War I European diplomatic history is fun because you’re sitting there thinking, uh, guys, what the fuck are you doing? There’s no way this is going to work. World War I is one of Mankind’s greatest “duh” moments.

In fact, just about every war we’ve fought since then is a big, long, “duh.” Some wars made perfect sense – Protestants versus Catholics, lust for land, whatever. But the 20^th Century wars all seem like bad relationships – I swear, if you keep pushing my buttons, I’ll…I’ll…

Nothing quite entertains like the long, wicked history of a species that chronically suffers from a social anxiety disorder.

After saying all this, I will now confess that the whole point of this article was to distract me from searching for suitable university programs. It’s worked, because now it’s lunchtime and I get to leave the office for an hour and watch the Hill people up around the Capitol building. Then maybe I’ll stop for a beer, call in sick, and tell all of the above to the first sucker who sits down next to me at the bar.