Been thinking a lot about my parents lately. Maybe because the new school year has started and I’m getting ready to teach again at Northwestern. Decided to repost this pre-Substack blog from a while back from my website (with slight modifications) about the sacrifice my parents made in getting me to college.
“Chop wood, carry water.”
My father’s words irritate me. It’s like he thinks that I’m not working my ass off: I make salads and desserts at Country Kitchen three nights a week, I’m secretary of student council, a cheerleader, in the chorus of Hello Dolly! and keeping up pretty good grades. I won’t be valedictorian or Prom Queen, but I’m getting a lot out of senior year to prove to colleges that I’m worthy.
The oil in my crappy white Chevette needs to be changed, and Dad wants me to do it. He bought me the junker for $400 so I could drive to an internship at the Hinsdale Doings. So glad I did that cuz now I know I do NOT want to work for a small town newspaper. Still interested in broadcast journalism, or being an actor though.
Dad’s being insistent that I learn how to take care of the car. Curious if he knows how to fix the hole in the passenger side floor. We threw a mat over it and I keep my fingers crossed that my friends don’t put their feet through it.
I tell Dad that I’ll pay the $20 bucks at Jiffy Lube and use the time to read or write or study. He’s upset that I’d waste money paying for something I could do myself. He tells me to get him another Schlitz. Talk about doing things yourself. I stand there, defiant, which backfires because Mom gets him the beer. She also grabs sardines and some saltines. She’s trying to diffuse the situation. I hate that she’s an old-fashioned house-wife.
I love my Pops. I really do. His mom died when he was 9 years old and he grew up with an alcoholic father. He struggled a lot with learning although he’s quite smart. I think he might have some kind of reading disability: he uses two index cards to block out the lines above and below the sentence he’s trying to read. It takes him forever to read his union newsletters, but he does it. The empathy I feel for him allows me to forgive most of his trespasses. Even the time he punched a hole in the bedroom wall when Teresa came home late with hickeys on her neck. She was wearing her Burger King uniform and it smelled like old French fries. “Who’d want to make out with that?”
We sit at the kitchen table with the orange place mats. Originally they were squares, but Mom cut them to fit our hexagonal table. I swivel back and forth on the matching orange chairs and wait for Dad to slide me a sardine sitting on top of a cracker. Whenever Mom has her back to us doing the dishes, he lets me take a sip of beer.
Mom’s father abandoned her and her sisters at the outbreak of WWII. She was about 8 years old and was sent to a farm to earn money. They lived in Osaka and because she barely, rarely talks about it, I believe it must have been a rough childhood. Part of me thinks she married dad because she thought he was a knight in shining armor and could save her.
The conversation that’s waiting to be had is a heavy one. I’ve been waitlisted for Northwestern University and just found out that they have a spot for me. We’d already put down a $250 housing deposit at Indiana University and if I accept NU then we lose that money, and pay a shit ton more for tuition. Dad’s pulled out a note pad to crunch the numbers. We jot down what we know will be hard costs, and then estimate the soft costs of food, books, supplies. It’s over $25,000 per year.
Mom joins us, giving Dad another beer, dishes put away, water boiling on the stove. Not much to say. There’s no way we can afford for me to go to Northwestern. They hold hands, it’s odd to see their fingers intertwined. They’re not affectionate people. Mom shies away every time I give her a hug. She’s so tiny she fits under my armpit.
There’s some unspoken conversation happening between them. I don’t get it. She has tears in her eyes. Dad’s a little misty too. Neither of them graduated from high school. Mom never even completed elementary school because of the war. They don’t get it. They don’t understand how this could change the trajectory of my life. I can feel the rage bubbling inside of me at their ignorance and naivete. I get up, to cry privately. I don’t want them to see my disappointment in them.
As I walk away, Dad says, “Ok, ok.” Mom looks at me. “You are the first.”
QUESTION FOR YOU
What did you get wrong about your parents?
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I am eternally grateful that you wound up at Northwestern. 'Nuff said.
Love this story. Last night I read the condolence cards I received when my mom passed. I also read some of the cards I had given her. Everyone loved her. Well, not everyone. I aggrandize. But she was loved because she had this way of making the person with whom she was focusing, feel loved and completely cared about. What did I get wrong? The part of me, that as a child was afraid of her, her Scorpionic self few ever got to see, that couldn't drop some of those old stories, even though she'd grown out of that part of her for the most part, when getting her master's degree in Social Work and working full time at a mental state hospital for ten years. I'd like not to remember the early years, but in a way, remember even earlier! Love your writing!