Jim Newell | An English degree won't get you to China

I'd like to think I've learned something in college. At the same time, I don't like to think, so you'll have to be the judge.

Let's present a case. A few weeks ago, my friend and I decided to plan a trip to China on a whim that was slightly less arbitrary than spinning a globe and seeing where our fingers landed.

One would expect an April-of-senior-year wunderkind to seek counsel from acquaintances who had visited China, to research the latest Frommer's travel guide and then to check those recommendations in the Better Business Bureau listings. One would also expect presumptive jet-setters to do these things months in advance, what with China being among the more red-taped countries this side of the Axis of Evil.

Four weeks before we planned to leave, my friend and I chose a more, well, iconoclastic course of action. He googled "china tickets;" I, always the more verbose, googled "china may plane 'great wall' tickets cheap." When we settled on an itinerary I called my mom and asked her to, no joke, "run this through the database" to see if it "checks out." Somehow it did, after which we considered it less cool and decided not to go. Randomly searching the 'Net for such a massive odyssey, we agreed, possessed "a unique aesthetic charm."

To all the mamas: Don't let yer babies grow up to be English majors.

As a part-time second-semester senior fulfilled of all extracurricular duties, I've had some time to think about where that 160 g's of learning has manifested itself.

Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed every second of my English major. But sometimes when I'm googling for a trip to China, or I'm in Van Pelt and spot my Whartonite freshman-year roommate studying for his "Advanced Corporate Finance" final, it's hard to justify that kind of cash. Especially after I've just written a thesis statement that reads, verbatim, "While Shakespeare sees man's morality persistently succumbing to lust's strength, Donne uses God's violence as an ally to fight fire with fire."

Why am I not ashamed of myself after such horrific prose? Why is the University not mortified after this insulting treatment of the English language's two greatest provocateurs? Do my parents understand that that essay cost them about two dollars per insufferable word?

None of these parties are, in fact, disgusted with the way I've effectively shredded money and the Western canon, and this speaks to the larger learning curve of college. If novels have enriched my understanding of the last four years, it's through the ambiguities they present, the way they erode the binary hoax of "good" and "bad" for a more profound celebration of middle space.

Freshman year, for example, proved to be much thornier than the laissez-faire, hedonistic orgy that Hollywood suggested it would be. The bacchanalian joy of binge drinking slowly lost its luster, and the full-body Sunday hangover asserted itself more sadistically by the week.

To this day our parents seize every opportunity to warn us of that "real world" debutante ball we have scheduled after graduation. But can it really be as awful as the first trip home during freshman fall break? Might it even have moments as euphoric as the week that followed?

Maybe Penn hasn't taught me to deftly interpret poetry or to carry out a last-minute jaunt to China. After four years, however, I recognize that swift self-condemnation for my lapses and bloated satisfaction for my achievements can be illusory. "Good" and "bad" describe precisely nothing with fairness.

Penn has, at the very least, ushered me through four years of this turbulent maturation process with comfort and grace. I can't say I've learned nothing in college, nor can I say I've learned all that I would've liked.

Instead, I've discovered a self that can shunt off these reckless extremes for a more enlightening acceptance of life's granularity. I hope my classmates have also found some beauty in their development at Penn. Its value exceeds that whopping price tag. Maybe.

As for my future, I don't know even where I'll be in one week (not China, certainly). That's fine, though. I'm comfortable not knowing the end to every story. All I'm doing, in author Jonathan Lethem's words, is "moving forward at a certain speed."

Please note All comments are eligible for publication in The Daily Pennsylvanian.