Winona State University's Newspaper since 1919

The Winonan

Winona State University's Newspaper since 1919

The Winonan

Winona State University's Newspaper since 1919

The Winonan

Polls

What is your favorite building to study in?

View Results

Loading ... Loading ...

A major problem: from Byron to biology

Hannah Jones/Winonan

Last year, I took a science class.

My BA doesn’t require much in the way of science and math, so these sorts of classes only occur in tolerable sprinklings between English and language classes. To be honest, if I had my way, I might have skipped the science altogether in order to cram in more for my major and minor, but my general education requirement muscles me into these tight situations.

So, apprehensive and woefully rusty since my high school science days, I took my place at a lab table and armed myself with a binder and a calculator. I told myself that it couldn’t be much trickier than analyzing T.S. Elliot’s “The Wasteland.” At that moment, on the other side of campus, a biology major was probably staring at an essay prompt and telling herself it couldn’t be harder than learning the Electron Transport Chain.

Story continues below advertisement

Back in Stark Hall, I was getting a pit in my stomach as our professor started setting up microscopes at each workstation. This may be harder for a science major to understand, to me, but microscopes represent one of the only tangible examples of black magic in our modern era.

Imagine yourself as a child looking for your favorite Tyrannosaurus Rex Sippy cup. Logically, you open the cup drawer. You paw through it once, twice, three times, empty it out, go through every single vessel as you replace them—Winnie the Pooh, Batman, Pink Smiley Hippos—but the T-Rex cup is nowhere to be found. Confounded, you ask your mother where it could possibly be. She crosses the kitchen, opens the drawer and finds it on top of the pile. You are absolutely certain that cup was not there when your head was halfway inside the drawer looking for it, but as soon as you bother someone for assistance, there it is. Witchcraft.

For me, using a microscope usually ends up about the same way. I look for half the class period: no amoeba. The professor takes two seconds and turns one knob about an eighth of an inch: amoeba. It never fails.

Luckily, lab classes come with the added asset of lab partners. Mine sat next to me and watched the microscope descend onto the tabletop, her face mirroring my dread. Even if she was as nervous as I was, I felt more secure knowing we could struggle together. Perhaps our combined efforts would amount to at least mediocre results. My partner turned to me, smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

“I think I’ll just let you take the lead on this one,” she said. I balked. Me? Take the lead? In group projects, the phrase “take the lead” seldom bodes well. “Take the lead” generally translates to “take the brunt of the work and let me sign my name.” I waited for an explanation, and shrugging again, she gave one: “I’m an English major.”

My mouth compressed to a thin line. Sitting in an entry-level science class categorized as a “non-major science lab credit course,” surrounded by classmates struggling with the evil sorcery of their respective microscopes, with my literature anthology resting heavily in my backpack, my partner had seen fit to use her major—our major—as an excuse. Sadly, this happens all too often. Algebra? Can’t do it: English major. Microsoft Excel? No way: English major. Calculating the tip? Figuring out how to use the printer? Remembering what nine times eight is? Don’t look at me: English major.

Enough is enough. English major or not, everyone needs to learn basic science and math. Even if your scientific skill level is like mine and your are better suited living in a colonial village where the Devil is largely responsible for technological mishaps of any kind, you need to at least try to find that dag-blasted amoeba, because otherwise, you’re never going to get any better at it.

This doesn’t just go for English majors; this goes for everyone. A year later, I would take in another general education class: this one in my field. Sitting in a peer- editing circle, I would listen as a member of our group would confess his inability to write his essay because he was not an English major. I would remain quiet, but the other members of our group would suddenly chime in: “That’s okay; I’m not either.” “Neither am I.” “…Oh,” he’d say, discovering the lack of sympathy in the room.

Back in that biology class, I mustered my indignation and channeled it into the eyepiece of that microscope. Here was one English major who wouldn’t give up so easily. Even if I were out of my element, I would try my best to succeed, to improve, to learn.

Of course, there was no amoeba. I blame ghosts.

Contact Hannah at [email protected]

More to Discover