When I graduated from BYU with my master’s degree, it was--without a doubt--my proudest accomplishment. I had read lots of thick books and written lots of lengthy papers for courses that spanned the spectrum of British literature.
Some of my favorite courses were on Shakespeare. I had amazing teachers who brought the plays to life and helped me to discover their characters, insights, and poetic language.
Later, when I taught intro to lit classes, I helped convert my own students to Shakespeare—or at least got them to admit that his plays weren’t
that bad. I always taught
Othello, which was one of my favorites.
I also took any opportunity that came to see Shakespeare’s plays live, attending Shakespearean festivals and lectures, and absorbing as much information as I could.
Or so you would think.
It turns out that this knowledge did not sink in as deeply as I might have imagined—or that it has somehow faded away and become lost over the past 10 years or so.
I came to this realization a few weeks ago, when one of my brothers-in-law thought it might be fun to read some random passages from Shakespeare’s plays and have me identify them.
I thought it sounded like the game I’d been waiting to play all my life and couldn’t wait to dazzle the spectators (luckily just Tina, Mom, and Jason, as you will soon see) with my extensive literary knowledge.
As the first passage was read, however, my excitement started to fade. It didn’t sound at all familiar (although I had to admit, it
did sound like Shakespeare).
The second passage—a little longer—drew a similar blank.
The third passage—which contained actual character names—didn’t ring a bell.
The fourth passage was another one I didn’t know.
By the fifth passage things were getting a little awkward.
Finally, my brother-in-law started reading one of the most famous passages from one of Shakespeare’s major plays—where one of the most well-known characters was speaking.
Tentatively I guessed, “
Othello?”
Correct.
We all breathed a sigh of relief and quickly abandoned the game.
My brother-in-law then recommended that I go home and burn my master’s degree, which I should probably do.
It is such a lovely piece of paper, though . . . I just don’t think that I
could.Which inspired my idea: maybe master’s degrees, like bread or milk, should come with expiration dates—or, more appropriately “best if used before” dates, stamped somewhere on the back.
I think even teaching first-year English courses would count as use. (Taking children to story time, however, would not.)
This could serve as a warning to the degree’s bearer, as well as an indication to future employers and members of one's extended family, that if the degree hasn’t been used for a while it might very well have expired.
Then again, maybe it is like riding a bicycle . . . and if I just start reading Shakespeare a bit more often, some of my former knowledge will return.
Definitely something to think about as I am folding laundry, changing diapers, and washing dishes, wouldn’t you say?