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God, what did I want to be when I grew up? I remember being in first, maybe second grade, and claiming that I wanted to be an archaeologist. I was a normal kid after all – and by that I mean I knew the scientific names of far too many dinosaurs for my own good. Later on I narrowed it down to paleoanthropologist. Mostly because it sounded cool. But I was fascinated by the evolution of the human species; I’d read Leakey’s books by the time I hit junior high and read up on every new development in National Geographic.

I had a lot of plans by that time. I was on the science track entering high school, skipping Earth Science in favor of Biology, acing Chemistry despite the fact that I read books all through just about every class. The year I took AP Physics, an abnormally large percentage of students failed the New York State Regent’s exam. I received a 74. I was pretty proud of myself.

Somewhere along the line, though, my interests shifted from the sciences to English. Perhaps it was the personalities of the respective teachers. The science teachers I’d had were, in the following order: a nutcase, a dishrag, and bitter overachieving taskmaster. Conversely, my English teachers were for the most part engaging, enjoyable people that I loved being around. So, my senior year, in lieu of AP Biology, I took two AP English courses.

I entered college as an English major. I got a C in my first English course and an A in art. So I switched majors. 

And here I am.

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