My Life: The Research Paper

Mackenzie Trotter

It’s the strangest thing—this process of growing up. I am twenty-one, and I have been in school for about seventeen years. I have grown comfortable with authority figures constantly directing me and spelling out the specifics of what I need to do, how I need to do it, and when I need to have it done. Pre-School, kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school, and college—it was all guaranteed. These were all just necessary steps for me to move forward in my life; they were not decisions, questions, or potential moves that were up for negotiation. But now what? I’m graduating from Eastern Oregon University in less than five months and I haven’t the slightest idea of what to do next.

I knew that I wanted to study English and writing from the time that I was in Mrs. Knight’s seventh grade English class, or perhaps even before. I always excelled in these subjects; asking for books for Christmas and spending my evenings dreaming of a day when I would write my own. But now, for the first time, I’m feeling incredibly lost and uncertain. The thought of going on to graduate school directly following graduation is painful, but the idea that I am currently as formally educated as I will ever be is equally hurtful. Besides, I need an additional degree to even begin to be taken seriously in my field—whatever field that is.

I applied for and accepted the job as the Assistant Editor of Oregon East in the hopes that perhaps it would open my eyes to a different career path that led into the sophisticated and intimidating world of publishing. This desperate grasp for something new stemmed from the alarming realization that I in fact did not want to teach English and writing to high school students (which was, for about six years, my go-to goal when anyone asked what I would do with a degree in English). My plan was to study English and writing, earn my master’s degree in teaching, and then get a job at a high school somewhere. My mother is a teacher, as is my older sister. I have grown up around teaching, and just assumed that I too would turn into an educator at some point. But then, one night while my relatives were swapping lesson plans, it occurred to me—I don’t want to teach. I am painfully introverted and I am easily pushed over. To be frank, high school students would eat me alive.

So here I am. I’m finishing up my long-awaited degree with the understanding that it’s not enough. I am well aware of the frightening and ever-present reminder that I am not finished. It’s a new feeling for me, this not knowing what comes next thing. It’s both terrifying and refreshing.

As a soon-to-be college graduate, I am beginning to understand the panic that other students or just people in general experience when realizing that they don’t know where their lives are headed. My little sister just went through this frightening adjustment as a recent high school graduate without the desire to attend a university. My family and I had to remind her that my older sister and I are not the norm, nor are we to be some kind of standard that she, a completely unique individual, should be held to. Knowing what one wants to go to school for before she reaches high school is the exception to the rule. As a writing tutor, I encounter countless students who have undeclared majors or who have at least ten different majors on their transcripts. Before I found myself in my own mini crisis, I silently pitied these people. I couldn't fathom how anyone could have no idea about what they wanted to do with their lives. I was unable to understand—to empathize. Until recently, I thought that these people were destined for failure. But now, it’s finally occurring to me that perhaps these apparent slackers had the right idea all along. Deciding on a career for one’s entire life is frightening, and the idea that these decisions are expected to be made when a person is in his or her teens and early twenties is ludicrous.

What I've realized, in the middle of my search for self-worth—or, to risk sounding painfully cliché, self-discovery—is that my life is much like any writing project. I had a plan and an outline, finished the first draft, and realized that my ending needed work. So, I went back. I tried to add a few things, branch out a little bit, and then still found myself hung up on the conclusion. My time at Eastern resembles a solid research paper. I had a thoughtful introduction, interesting thesis statement, well-calculated body paragraphs, and then my paper completely fizzled out at the end. No matter how many times I scrap it and start the conclusion over again, it remains unfinished.

So, like any other frustrated writer, I’m going to put my work away. I’m going to forget the fact that I don’t have any concrete plans. I’m going to set my concerns aside and do a little bit more investigating, and then, eventually, I’ll come back to it. And that’s okay.