As the youngest child of four, I grew up thinking that I’d never be as smart as my over achieving siblings who seemed to know more than I could ever learn in a lifetime. I never expected to outsmart them, I just wanted to know how they could answer so many questions in so many categories of Trivial Pursuit—a game that proved time and time again to be unbeatable against the likes of my brothers and sister, who knew things about people and places that I had never even heard of. While I have yet to beat anyone in Trivial Pursuit to date, I have gradually come to understand how my siblings became so knowledgeable, and I have begun to accumulate some of that same knowledge. The classroom obviously contributes a great deal to the process of learning, but I think there is something to be said for the more general knowledge that is gained through the simple act of reading. As an English student I would not say that I am a conventionally smart person—I never calculate tip without my cell phone’s calculator, I don’t know how many bones are in the human body or why we have so many, and I’m useless with my apartment’s appliances without referencing manuals multiple times—but I can read, and that’s something.
The characters and the places that I read about in literature, regardless of whether they are in fiction or nonfiction, offer an education that crosses multiple disciplines, cultures, and centuries. I’ll be the first to admit that I sat doe-eyed and clueless in ENGL 2300 as Professor Wallace spoke of Milton and Beowulf as if we should’ve known them as well as our best friends. I didn’t know who, or what, they were, and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t become my friends. To my pleasant surprise, I came to appreciate the words of some of literature’s earliest contributors, and by the end of my second year I felt like I could answer just a few more of those arbitrary trivia questions that had stumped me for so long.
After my first two years at Carleton, I had a bit more freedom in the classes that I chose, and therefore in the books that I read. In third year I finally hopped on the Kurt Vonnegut bandwagon (I know, I know, took me long enough) and read other American classics that are such a prevalent part of our culture. I began to actually understand and appreciate cultural references in movies and other books. This was the knowledge I thought I’d never have, and the whole time it was hiding in my books.
This all became apparent to me when a friend texted me the other day because she was all excited that Parks and Recreation mentioned Dave Eggers, and she caught the reference because she was reading one of his books as per my suggestion. As a science student who spent her undergrad memorizing the human brain from textbooks, she’d never really had time to read for fun until this year. I’ve been suggesting authors and titles faster than she can get through the books, and she’s finally come to the realization that I’m not smart, I just read a lot.
It seems like a simple enough strategy: the more you read, the more you’ll know. And sure, it doesn’t matter if you’re an English student or any other kind of student; you are bound to be reading a lot. But the beauty of being an English student is that more than half the time, the process of reading is actually enjoyable. Best of all, I can justify watching Benedict Cumberbatch make deductions in BBC’s Sherlock because it’s as if I am doing homework for my Renaissance Lit class, “British Spy Fiction from the Great War to the Cold War and Beyond.” What more could I ask of my degree?