I started college as an international relations major. I had hoped this would serve as a foundation for pursuing a degree in international law with the ultimate goal of a career abroad combating human trafficking. I was beginning to expand the little sanitary, ordered, happy sphere where I had spent my childhood, and I felt an overwhelming need to restore the broken world that I saw. I longed to be a vessel for justice in the hopelessness of slavery.
After my first semester of courses on the international law track, it became clear to me that I was attempting something both outside of my skill set and my interests. As most first year students do, I fought a sense of total aimlessness by taking classes in virtually all disciplines. I was bound to find something I liked, right?
In the spring of that year, I enrolled in a literature class , solely to fulfill the general education requirement. I was drawn in by the stories, the classical tales that were carried along through generations, told around fires, memorized word for word until finally being recorded. I was fascinated at how a literary work could represent a culture, how deeply rooted in truth even fictional tales could be. The methods of relaying a message through words was seemingly infinite. I became enamored by language and its possibilities.1