Major Misunderstanding*

In the spring of my sophomore year in college, after flirting with art and physics, I find my one true major: biology. The outdoor labs—measuring tree diameters on a sunny day, or kneeling in the dirt to watch how ants eat—have sealed the deal for me. But since I have taken the scenic route to my decision, I’ve only completed two required courses. Biology isn’t ready to commit to me. I have to meet with the department chair.

At the appointed time, I poke my head into Dr. Martin’s office. She smiles warmly and gestures to a seat that looks well worn by decades of science students, some of whom, the professors proudly remind us during class, have even won Nobel prizes.

My fingers tightly interlaced on my lap, I begin, "I understand I’ve been provisionally accepted to the major."

"Oh no!" The grandmotherly professor corrects me quickly. "We hardly do that for anyone." She smiles again. “You're fully accepted.”

I relax against my wooden seat.

"So, you’re interested in biology and anthropology," she says.

Hmmm. Well, come to think of it, I am, but – how would she know that? I ask as politely as I can.

Her brow furrows slightly. "You mean, you’re not Alysia Irwin?"

Ah, no. I tell her, I’m Sarah Endo.

"Ohhh," she says, looking down at her papers as the last trace of the smile drains from her face. "You are provisionally accepted."

Well, I'm glad we cleared that up.

*I have changed names here to protect the innocent.