It’s finally winter break, and you’re ready to kick back, relax and clear out your parent’s pantry/liquor cabinet. Things are going great, you haven’t left the house in six days and your final essays are all submitted at last — when … it happens. The Question. Probably posed by your least favourite uncle, the one who works in the oil sands and calls himself socially liberal while reposting AI-generated videos of beavers wearing MAGA caps on Facebook. 

 

“So, what do you study again?”

 

… Damn. Now everyone’s looking at you, politely interested, waiting for you to answer. Your brother studying engineering is snickering under his breath. Your mother has just downed another glass of mulled wine in anticipatory dread. The family dog, sensing the oncoming embarrassment, has tactfully fled the room. What do you say? Your palms are sweating, your breath quickening. Daniel Brandes’ voice echoes through your head, a spectral vision of academic prowess the likes of which you can never hope to reach. You vividly recall that time Kenneth Kierans told you, if you don’t know what to do with your life, just go to Oxford, it’s easy. Cheap, too! That total liar. 

 

I’m here to tell you: don’t worry. There’s no need to take any drastic measures. You won’t thank yourself for switching your major to something lame and pedestrian like English or history. Just keep calm and heed my advice. (Unless you’re in journalism. Nobody can help you there.) 

 

Obfuscate: No matter what, do not try to explain what your degree actually means. Or — scratch that actually — maybe you should. That’ll surely keep your audience confused. Contend yourself with answering questions such as, what even is the Early Modern period? Or, how can you study a whole period? What years does that cover? What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know? Can you explain FYP again? I thought you were doing, like, philosophy or something. Better yet, list the full names and descriptions of every single course you have planned for the upcoming semester. That’ll take up at least a few hours, and by that point all anybody will be concerned with is getting you to stop talking already. 

 

Distract: That newfound nicotine addiction has got to be good for something, right? Confess your fun new habit of chainsmoking with peacoat-clad weirdos in a dingy parking lot on campus and give your family something to worry about other than the trajectory of your academic career. Your future might be looking dire, but chances are your lungs will give out before you have to see it. Small victories, right?

 

Deflect: What do you guys think about the Dodgers winning the World Series? Whew. What about those grocery prices, huh? I’m considering buying a motorcycle/getting a tattoo/undergoing gender-affirming surgery. Hey, does anyone else smell burnt toast? Grandma says she’s smelling burnt toast. That’s not a sign of anything, is it? Wow, Mom, another glass of wine? Do we need to cut you off? Let’s talk about that. Did anyone else just hear a Grindr notification go off, or am I imagining things? No? Nobody? Not even Uncle Murray? Alright, sure. Is that a toupée? 

 

Attack: Blunt force trauma is your best friend. Use whatever you have on hand. Still got your FYP handbook gathering dust on your bookshelf? Wham. Words are your weapon, and Grandma will never see it coming. 

 

Lie: What’s contemporary studies? You’re studying psychology now. You’ve read Freud, you know what’s up. Or, even better, go a step further! Taking a Michael Bennett class means you’re pretty much a science major in disguise — just make sure no one asks you to describe any scientific theory post-Copernican revolution. Or how to do math. Or, like, what an electron is. Keep the details simple — maybe computer science? You literally designed your Tumblr blog in middle school, so clearly you’re an expert. Aunt Helen doesn’t even know how to turn her ringer off. 

Defend: They just don’t get you. You’re better than them! Trust me. You think I’d lie to you? No way. You’re young and witty and highbrow and way more handsome than your brother. You’ve got your finger on the pulse of society and everyone knows it. Engage your entire extended family in philosophical debate, proving once and for all that you’re the only true thinker in your lineage. You’re doing something fresh, yet classic. Esoteric, yet down to earth. You’re burning your mark into the cultural zeitgeist, and you’re doing it in style. Humble, too. Like all the best intellectuals, you’re totally not immune to critique — just so long as your critics have at least one PhD and have read the entirety of Hegel’s written work. Otherwise, they’re just jealous, anti-intellectual losers.