My parents raised me for the Ivy League. Somehow, I drank-in my Ivy League destiny with my mother's milk. Well, okay, in a pinch Stanford or maybe, but only maybe, Cal would suffice. Really, though, growing up right down the street from Hilary Rodham's childhood home, her legend still hanging thick in the Midwestern air, I understood nothing but Wellesley would do.
My mother and grandmother had been valedictorians of both their high school and college classes; they took it on faith that I had inherited the "gifted." The rest was simply a matter of a good, well-rounded education and "the proper" extra-curricular activities. My mother and grandmother took it on faith I always and everywhere would get straight-A's, and I, naturally, would blow the top off the SAT.
No pressure.
Really, no demands, no goading and exhorting, no stage-mother routines. The situation required none of that, because my mother and grandmother simply expected I would devote my whole and entire self to college preparation.
Who was I to say no?
I dutifully pursued the proper course of study, excelling in everything verbal and holding my own in math and science. I properly and piously earned my straight A's, chalking-up extra grade-points because I enrolled only in honors and AP classes. I also distinguished myself in the swimming pool, collecting more than my share of ribbons, medals, and trophies for grinding through 100 yards butterfly faster than any of the girls and faster than most of the boys, too.
In my chlorinated little world, swimming didn't really count as competition, because it had the fun factor woven all through it. Honors English, however, became my battlefield. Kate O'hara and Haley Jordan played English-class politics more proficiently than I, and they knew Frenchfar more literary than my Spanish, que no? I pinned my performance and reputation on my writing; and Kate, Haley, and I typically deadlocked at the top of English-class grade curves. The fierce rivalry helped all three of us excel, and we left the poor boys about seven car-lengths behind. For a while, I tried to play in the band, but I have neither rhythm nor melody, and my band issues threatened my GPA. I finally persuaded my mother and grand-mother that I should abandon the French horn and write for Southwords, the school newspaper. They saw the wisdom and strategy in my suggestion.
At the end of our junior year, Kate, Haley, and I were tied for class-rank dos, right behind the two nerdiest boys who ever graced the planet. We knew we couldn't beat them, and we grudgingly accepted that, sometimes, a girl's just gotta know her limitations. For my part, though, I found pure exhilaration and profound satisfaction in kicking my four rivals' asses on the SAT: I got a perfect score on the verbal part.
Meanwhile, my devoted father labored away in aerospace. No, you normally wouldn't use "labor" to describe a distinguished engineer's work; but The Company had recruited my dad for leadership on the Space Shuttle, and he had for so long worshipped the Astronauts and all things spacey, he threw himself into his research and development with all his mind, body, and soul.
Just before my senior year, The Company gave us no choice: Dad and family must move to California. Naturally, The Company treated us like visiting royalty, all very sensitive to the trauma I suffered, leaving everything and starting all over again as a senior! Still, a respectful and grateful nation required services only my father could render. In truth, I milked the trauma for all it was worth; I secretly felt thrilled about moving to Palos Verdes, Californiaright there within easy reach of all those legendary beaches, oh yeah! I worked myself into tears often enough, however, I got a car as a consolation prize. And not just any car; oh no! I got the official car of cute girls everywherea Volkswagen Cabriolet; and you're damn right it was red.
We fast-forward to the results: My dad did a spectacular job of engineering the heat-proof tiles on the Shuttle's belly, and I did a spectacular job of getting accepted at Wellesley. All of us had completed our work just as expected. I even scored a handsome boyfriend along the way, and he said he truly loved me and everything. Now, really, how perfect does this picture look?
You should feel afraidvery afraid.
Just six weeksyes, that's right, just six freakin' weeks!before I was supposed to become all things Wellesley, The Company explained, ever-so-sadly of course, that my father had completed his assignment. They no longer needed him. Giving a little consolation prize, they laid him off, keeping all the patents and perquisites he had accumulated for them.
Our bubble seriously burst.
My father had earned way too much money for me ever to qualify for financial aid, and the two tiny scholarships I won just barely would pay for my gas to travel coast-to-coast. Despite my whole family's best, most pathetic efforts, Wellesley and I just weren't going to happen.
At the very last minute, my dad called an old friend, who got me admitted to San Diego State, where they have zero ivy. None. Not a branch anywhere.
On the day I stuffed whole life into my Cabriolet, kissing my heart-broken boyfriend good-bye and promising always to love him, my father handed me "the pink slip" and $20, saying, "I'm sorry, baby. This is" He wept so bitterly, he didn't have to finish his sentence.
At the time, neither he nor I knew my father just had handed me the greatest gift a kid ever could receive.
My dad remained unemployed for over a year, and my parents ended-up moving back to Chicago, living with my grandmother. For a long time, they couldn't afford even a few dollars for SDSU, so I went to work as a waitress, quickly discovering the thrill of tips and the wonders of total independence. I resented only the absence of ivy; but when I get wealthy, I'll leave SDSU an endowment just for ivy.
I worked full-time for all four of my under-graduate years, and I took a full load of courses, because I couldn't afford to stretch-out my staynot that I was in a hurry, but just simply that I couldn't afford it. Because I made good money in an upscale fine-dining restaurant right on the Harbor, I granted myself the luxury of living at the beach. Hey, I had no life; at least, I could have a nice view. I ultimately graduated with a 4.0, and went on to complete a Ph.D. at Cal, which did suffice for the Ivy League quite satisfactorily.
So, where's the gift? you wonder.
My dad gave me the gift of earning it all for myself.
Even when my dad got back to his proper professional station, making way more money than ever before, I politely turned-down his offers of monster money; in part, I hated the idea of him making "guilt payments," but mostly I was determined to do it on my own.
Receiving my Ph.D., I accorded my father the privilege of "hooding" me, making me officially Dr. Graham. I felt it was the least I could do to show my gratitude, and he wept enough for both of us. He got it.
Because my father gave me the gift of earning it, no one ever can take it from me. And, from that accomplishmentlaying the foundation for my own life, I draw huge self-esteem and indescribable comfort.
Thank you, Daddy.