Dear UCLA,

Dear UCLA,

I feel like once upon a time, you promised me great things. And even without those promises, I’ve loved you dearly, and treasured every second with you.

But I now realize that, very unfortunately, you didn’t tell me how hard it would be in the world out there. The cold, narrow, and unfriendly job market of 2009. The market that tells me that it has no place for me, even with this lovely piece of paper that says that your faculty has conferred upon me a great degree.

UCLA, you should have told it to me straight: that employers don’t care what you majored in, or what grades you got, but they care about the unpaid slave labor internships and job experience in lieu of entry level jobs.

If you told me that, I would have worried less about my Milton midterm, my Shakespeare paper, and that stupid presentation poster on Monterey Bay, and tried to get more soulsucking internships that would be more rewarding in the future. And perhaps I would have considered a more tangibly useful major. Sure, English majors can write, but I have to somehow prove and propose that I can do more than just write about dusty literature.

Also, clearly, working for the Daily Bruin wasn’t enough. UCLA, you weren’t enough.

Not even for a state job.

I guess we say goodbye on that sad and bitter note.

Love,

Jessica

P.S. Congratulations, class of 2009.