AN ODE TO BEING 

Eric Chen 

Based on a true story

October 1st, 2024 

 

The soft, orange lights of commons cast dark shadows across the floor as I plop down next to someone I’ve never met before. He has a gray shirt and askew glasses. The smell of keema beef curry mixes with his distinct peppermint. 

I’ve been doing this for three semesters now. I would sit beside a stranger every month and casually start a conversation. It’s like learning something new. The more you do it, the more confident you become. 

“What’s your name?” I ask, between mouthfuls of the abysmal “beef” curry. 

He tells me his name, and we chat about how our weeks have been and why he hasn’t locked in. 

“I’m on the pre-med track. What bout’ you?” 

I twirl my noodles. 

“Well, I used to be visual art. Like drawing.” 

“Cool, bro. And now?” He looks at me expectantly. 

“English. Wanted to improve my creative writing.” 

A flicker. His face changes with the light. It is slight, but as a writer and visual artist, my analytical skills have prepared me for this. Every humanities major at Rice has felt it. It’s that change in the atmosphere around the person you’re talking to. It’s that brief, agonizing dawn of realization in their speech that conveys what you already know: you don’t speak their language. 

You don’t speak the language of pre-med. Of finance. Of —

“So… why English? Are you, like, on a track?” He digs back into his food. The voices around me grow louder. 

“What are you going to do after?” He raises his eyebrows. 

“Yeah… why English… it’s the most common question I get.” I meditate on the goldenrod posters. I wonder if the windows around me are growing higher or if I didn’t get enough sleep because my teammate is not doing her part in tomorrow’s project. 

“I’m also getting my masters in teaching,” I answer. 

“Cool… so… no track?” He looks at me seriously. 

I feel like an alien. Everyone thinks I’m bobbing along the currents, drifting aimlessly. I don’t understand what I’m doing. After all, teaching is notorious for having low salaries, lower retention rates, and high dropout rates if you don’t love what you do. 

Like a sad doll, the humanities, for most people, were tossed aside and beaten down. Dedicating yourself to any of the humanities for four years guaranteed a “Cool, bro” or the occasional “His parents must be rich.” 

I don’t believe that. We need the humanities more than ever. In our current society, as technologies like ChatGPT advance, we need writers to update them. We would not have culture without music, and music without culture. Billions of people practice religion. Already in academia, some fields link humanities to science, like medical humanities. I can go on and on. 

As the night progressed and we discussed why I was pursuing something non-STEM, I realized I had to use my serious, genuine answer. In most conversations, my informative, surface-level answer would suffice. However, in specific scenarios like the one I’m writing about now, I have to use what’s called being. Sounds like some niche anime superpower, right? But it’s actually really simple. 

Being is essentially love. I know. It’s a weird topic to bring up, especially on fizz. Think of what you really do and enjoy. Like seriously. Like something that’ll make someone go, “Cool, bro!” For the freshman I mentioned, his love was for the violin. For you, it could be something different. For me, it’s drawing, writing, and reading creative fiction. 

Now, think about doing it for the rest of your life. Something you love and are passionate about. Versus studying something you don’t want or have been forced to do. 

“But what about a job?” The freshman asks, rightfully. 

Between mouthfuls of cantaloupe, I told him I knew people who studied something they were forced to or didn’t want to, and later they changed careers. After all, I’ve been doing this for a while and met software engineers and finance majors. This isn’t to say that everyone should start picking something they love; we all have different experiences. 

“So… I met a PhD who studied comp in Pakistan. He worked in IT for four years, then quit,” I said. 

“Why?” 

“Think of sitting in front of a computer eight hours a day for the rest of your life. Think of waking up at the same time every day.” I could feel the rush of energy within me as I spoke. 

“Like a zombie,” I added flatly. “As individuals, we sometimes forget to just exist and feel alive. You have to make your own meaning out of what you love, or else someone will come along and screw it up like your parents. Everyone knows that one annoying cousin who gets A’s, and most of the time, they’ve been forced to study. It’s so common for parents to compare kids and what schools they go to.” 

He paused. 

I hammered on. I talked about whether he genuinely wanted to do pre-med. Could he have studied at Shepherd with his violin? Why did he have to follow everyone else’s rules? Why not be yourself? 

After a long pause, he asked me, “What happened to that PhD?” 

“He’s teaching religion at Rice next semester,” I grinned, looking down at my empty plate. It was now 9 P.M., and most of the students had left. 

“Re — religion? At Rice?” He looked shaken. 

“Yes, sir. Religion. What he really wanted to do.” 

“So after getting some teaching experience in high school, you’re gonna teach college?” 

“Yes,” I reply, smiling. “Creative writing is a tribute to what I love. It’s being what I want to be.”