How I bluffed my way through college

Kate Harding:

Years after graduating with an English degree, I have a shameful secret: I’ve never actually read the classics.
Mr. White was that stern, older English teacher adored by the bookish nerds and despised by those students accustomed to getting by on entitlement and shouty parental phone calls. Naturally, I was crazy about him, and although I can’t say the feeling was entirely mutual, two lines from a college recommendation letter he wrote for me prove that he understood my fundamental nature better than most adults I knew, including my parents: “Kate will never be a cheerleader, but she has a genuine love of learning. She is never without a book; usually not the assigned text.”
I love that “assigned text” line all the more for its being sort of affectionately passive-aggressive. It’s true that in Mr. White’s A.P. Major British Writers, as in every English lit class I took between seventh grade and finishing my B.A., I only did about a third of the reading. Thanks to a finicky nature and what I now recognize as textbook ADHD, reading past Page 3 of a book that didn’t immediately hold my interest felt like going to the zoo and being forced to watch the naked mole rats for hours, never being permitted to look in on the giraffes.