As a freshman in college, majoring in Film production, I have been faced several times with the realization that my decision may not be entirely practical. It is no secret to me that many of my friends and family members would prefer that I pursue a more conservative career. They wish to see me in front of a chalk board, teaching high school students proper grammar and how to write exquisite pieces. They wish to see me behind a mirror, cutting the hair of middle aged soccer moms. They wish to see me doing nearly anything besides film, a ghastly agenda that will lead straight to a life of penniless hunger.

For a short while, I indulged their desires. I planned on changing my major to English; I planned to teach. I stared at the plot line I was setting up for myself with dismay. I did not truly wish to teach awful teenagers what a preposition is. I did not wish to teach teenagers anything at all. But, I repeated to myself, “The world will always need teachers.” In my head, as I recited this to whoever would listen, I saw students staring at a computerized instructor; the world no longer needing teachers. Part of this vision in my head was one of prayer---prayer to prove them wrong at the very least.

I lost any sort of skip in my step that I may have previously had as I dragged myself to classes. I spoke to my own English instructor about changing my major, an idea he encouraged. He told me that I was very bright in class. Deep in my heart, though, I knew. I knew that I wanted to continue with film. I knew that that is where my heart truly lay. So many of the adults in my life as a child had war stories of given up dreams. Need I add my name to the list of casualties?

All this while, I had been a crew member on an independent film that a grad student was making. Nothing creative, I moved lights around and eventually progressed to running the audio equipment. I felt so young among my comrades there as we stood outside the apartment that the movie was being shot in, smoking cigarettes on the metal steps that led to the floor above and the floor below. They discussed dreams of acting in films and television in their future, between confessions of how hard it was for them to not come to that evening’s shoot stoned. I laughed and smiled, my innocent cigarette smoke clouding out of my mouth. I would go inside before them to prepare for the rest of the work to be done for the movie. “This feels right,” I thought.

I called the most brutal member of my family for advice one day, searching for someone to lay it to me straight. I expected her to tell me to give up on film immediately and get my head on right. To my surprise, she simply applied logic to my dreams. I hung up with plans of list making and research to do on how one becomes these things. I posted a list of every class required of me to graduate as a film major above my bed to remind me of what I wanted to work towards.

Not an hour passes when I am not filled with the desire to display to the world the way my eyes view things. Not an hour passes when my mind is not cataloguing the framing off of the images my eyes greet, the collecting of the audio samples, and the application of musical score to mundane life.

So now I am back to where I once was. I am a film student.