“Yes, but what are you going to DO with History?”
Everyone has an idea, however vague, of what they want to accomplish in life or what they want to DO.
Botanist, Lawyer or Mechanic. These are all occupational answers adults take seriously when they ask the feared question “What are you going to DO with your life?” to a very frightened and confused teen/twenty-something year old.
Yet when I reply rather cheerfully to the above question, because unlike others I have luckily figured out early on what I want to do for the rest of my time on Earth, with one word “History”, there is a very pregnant pause. The further question is bubbling up, it’s growing from an exasperation to a full sentence and then:
“Yes, but what are you going to DO with History?”
It’s almost scornful. In fact it is scornful. Politely so, which of course makes the entire exchange even more irritating as there is the accusatory pity shining out of their eyes; poor dear she hasn’t even thought about what a hopeless case ‘history’ as a career is. Poor, poor mite.
History. I want to DO history.
For the rest of my life I want to study the past. I want to fall so hopelessly in love with history that all I can think about is Henry VIII’s unfortunate wives or be disputed as I force the idea of personal monarchy onto modern times. I love history so much that I can’t see my life without it. I wouldn’t give up history for a salary covering thousands; History pays me well enough in thought.
So give the pity eyes as I graduate with a degree that of course only has use through ‘transferable skills’, throw me pity flowers as I finish my Master’s degree in Early Modern History, take me out for a pity dinner when my name begins with ‘Dr’, and don’t you forget to sit right at the front of my very first lecture gazing with pity-filled eyes.
Don’t you forget the pity when you view me accomplishing and DOING something that I, God forbid, love as a career.
Don’t you forget the pity, so I can reflect it back to you from the shield made of love for what I do.