Chuck always ends up waxing poetic around his trainees. About how professional wrestling is a dance—a violent choreography of chokeholds and suplexes, timed to the tune of their bookers' ... [+]
One of the first things my mom did after we found out that I'd gotten in was search online for a winter coat for me. She saved money and bought me a beautiful Cabela's coat. It was full-length with a fur-lined hood. When I arrived at school that fall, I saw that everyone wore close-fitting, short, black North Face jackets. Places where everyone wears the same style of clothing creep me out. Though I felt off-put by the sea of matching jackets, I hid the Cabela's coat in the back of the closet in the common room and wore my abuela's coat instead. I wore my abuela's coat more when I was in college than at any other time in my life. That is really when the coat became mine. The brutal winter weather is the most obvious reason, but I was also clinging to something familiar in an environment that was so strange to me.
The coat was unassuming, even mousy. It couldn't possibly attract attention. If I couldn't afford the attire that other people wore, at least I could disappear and become invisible. The first rule in this new place was to wear Hunter boots (if you were a woman) and a North Face jacket in the winter (applies to everyone). The second rule was to never discuss money.
Mom had good instincts about what to buy for me before I left for college, especially given how little information either of us had. I didn't go during visiting week because my family did not have the money for a trip like that. My mom had never flown on a plane. I'd only flown once before, and it was through a scholarship I'd received the summer before for a week-long academic conference. Even though the university offered to cover flights for incoming students without the means to cover the sudden trip, the hotels and meals would have been too expensive for us. The cost of moving was already going to cause mom to rack up debt.
I worked that summer as an intern at a local non-profit to earn the money to buy a laptop, the last necessity. I spent the summer working, crushing on an older intern, playing Rock Band 2 with my mom, and fretting about what Harvard would be like.
When my mom, brother, tia and I arrived on move-in day, we were the first ones in the room. The second to arrive was my roommate from Southern California, along with her two parents. My dad didn't come. We could've used his help as we trudged up those steep stairs, five flights up, but he wasn't there. Why not? Mom was worried about how my dad would act, the impression he would leave on these people. I was worried too. Dad was so unpredictable. Dad might get drunk or act offensively. I think she was also wary that the school would be brimming with rich, white people, people who were of higher status than us. Maybe Mom was worried that I'd be ashamed of my dad, the long-haired, long-bearded, blue-collar man whose English was heavily accented.
It hurts me to write that because I know there is a kernel of truth in it: I was afraid that Dad would embarrass me. But I was never and have never been ashamed of who my dad is. I was (and still am) proud because my dad is cool and different, a naturally creative soul in a life that did not afford him any luxuries.
I did get embarrassed when Dad would get drunk publicly, when he'd stumble and fall and slur his words and everyone thought he was a fool, which is the last thing my dad is. But I was already so nervous about that day. I was worried that Dad's accent, his wild demeanor, his long hair and mustache and beard, his blue jean shirt and blue jean pants, his dirty work boots, his lack of education would announce a little too loudly where I came from. Mom must have known I was nervous, and she must've been nervous too, which is why he didn't come. But I still don't know how he really felt about it.
The coat was unassuming, even mousy. It couldn't possibly attract attention. If I couldn't afford the attire that other people wore, at least I could disappear and become invisible. The first rule in this new place was to wear Hunter boots (if you were a woman) and a North Face jacket in the winter (applies to everyone). The second rule was to never discuss money.
Mom had good instincts about what to buy for me before I left for college, especially given how little information either of us had. I didn't go during visiting week because my family did not have the money for a trip like that. My mom had never flown on a plane. I'd only flown once before, and it was through a scholarship I'd received the summer before for a week-long academic conference. Even though the university offered to cover flights for incoming students without the means to cover the sudden trip, the hotels and meals would have been too expensive for us. The cost of moving was already going to cause mom to rack up debt.
I worked that summer as an intern at a local non-profit to earn the money to buy a laptop, the last necessity. I spent the summer working, crushing on an older intern, playing Rock Band 2 with my mom, and fretting about what Harvard would be like.
When my mom, brother, tia and I arrived on move-in day, we were the first ones in the room. The second to arrive was my roommate from Southern California, along with her two parents. My dad didn't come. We could've used his help as we trudged up those steep stairs, five flights up, but he wasn't there. Why not? Mom was worried about how my dad would act, the impression he would leave on these people. I was worried too. Dad was so unpredictable. Dad might get drunk or act offensively. I think she was also wary that the school would be brimming with rich, white people, people who were of higher status than us. Maybe Mom was worried that I'd be ashamed of my dad, the long-haired, long-bearded, blue-collar man whose English was heavily accented.
It hurts me to write that because I know there is a kernel of truth in it: I was afraid that Dad would embarrass me. But I was never and have never been ashamed of who my dad is. I was (and still am) proud because my dad is cool and different, a naturally creative soul in a life that did not afford him any luxuries.
I did get embarrassed when Dad would get drunk publicly, when he'd stumble and fall and slur his words and everyone thought he was a fool, which is the last thing my dad is. But I was already so nervous about that day. I was worried that Dad's accent, his wild demeanor, his long hair and mustache and beard, his blue jean shirt and blue jean pants, his dirty work boots, his lack of education would announce a little too loudly where I came from. Mom must have known I was nervous, and she must've been nervous too, which is why he didn't come. But I still don't know how he really felt about it.
The fact that there would be hardly any Mexican-American people, much less Mexican-American people from working-class backgrounds, only dawned on me right then, as I stood looking at my four roommates and realized, wait, these people are totally different from me. Everyone else's dad was there.
California girl's family was exceptionally kind. Her dad set up the internet, the TV, the furniture with a happy efficiency. Maybe he was keeping busy because he found the entire ritual awkward. I understood that they were aware instantly that we were not wealthy. It seemed like her parents felt respect for me because they recognized that I'd gotten there on my "own." But even that is not totally true; yes, I took the tests, wrote the essays, did my homework, did well in school, did the extracurriculars. But even then, I didn't do it on my own. My mom and my dad, despite their flaws, made me who I am, and they will always be a part of me.
I slept in the smallest bedroom, a cramped double, justified by my late arrival on move-in day. But I wasn't late that day. I'd arrived second of the five roommates. Shortly after we got there, California girl's dad asked if we'd eaten, and we hadn't, so he told us that we should go get food. He said our stuff was totally safe with them. By the time we were back, the other three roommates were there with their families. They'd already claimed rooms. Carissa from upstate New York and Veruca from Boston got the biggest double room, with enough space for two beds and a dresser and even bookshelves for each of them. Iris needed the single bedroom because she had 8 AM classes. I was in the smallest double with California girl.
In the first week, before classes began, there was an orientation. I skipped most of the events. I was spending as much time as possible with my mom. It was a sad week, raining the entire time. In fact, it rained so much that there was a power outage on campus. I stayed with Mom in the hotel, and we both put on brave faces. My brother told me later on how much mom cried in the middle of Harvard Yard after we'd officially parted.
But I didn't have time to grieve. There was a mandatory meeting in my dorm. That topic was affirmative action. We'd been assigned a packet of readings, which I'd read beforehand because I was terrified of looking like an idiot. I'm sure the reading included nuanced arguments, but all I remembered as I walked into the meeting was that diversity = good.
Mom and I had discussions at home all the time. We talked in the car while she drove me to school. We talked as we fell asleep every night. After my abuela died in 2004, when I was 15 and Dad was leaving the house every night, I slept in the same bed as my mom. Mom would put an episode of Law and Order: SVU on TV, and we'd watch Olivia Benson kick ass as we fell asleep chatting. We talked in the morning while we got ready for school. I already missed those conversations. But I'd never been in a discussion like this.
But it's not just that I'm neither rich nor white; it's the little things too. Things like teeth. Things you might not notice at first, but then you realize are hugely important in a place like this where everything is about an impression. Everyone has perfect teeth. Everyone has had braces. Not me. Teeth are a bit of a touchy subject for me; it's that damn jutting cuspid #11 (aka, the eye-tooth). Back then, I lamented how different my life would've been if only I'd gotten braces. But now, as a 35-year-old woman, I'd never fix my teeth, even if I somehow one day had the money for cosmetic dentistry. That tooth is a reminder of who I am and where I come from. That tooth reminds me that my crookedness is my perfection.