Parental Control: Knowing What Not to Say

Every Sunday evening I have the same exact Skype conversation with my parents.

After sending a thousand texts reminding me of our weekly appointment and after a thousand rings before she remembers how to answer, my mom appears on screen, framed by our photo-cluttered living room, sitting in her usual spot on the couch. She does all the talking, occasionally twisting the laptop toward my dad who is in his usual spot on his recliner. (My longtime girlfriend has seen my dad out of the recliner only once, which is to say nothing of his work ethic and everything of a life that has granted him the right to “sit in my recliner and watch Jeopardy for christsake.”)

Without fail I can only see the upper one third of my mom’s face. If I ask her to move the camera I’ll only be able to see her shirt. I’ve given up complaining.

She smiles and starts talking. I say “Press the button Ma, I can’t hear you,” and I see her say “Oh!” and then I hear her say “Can you hear me now?” and I nod and she leaps into the usual interrogation.

“Is it cold?” “Wow, do you need boots?” “You mean the boots we got before school started?” “Are those warm enough?” “Are you eating?”

Finally, “How are you doing?,” which she saves for last, since any necessity to panic about my well-being probably could have been determined by my answers to the foundational questions, and partially out of low expectations of my answer.

I say I’m fine, and leave it at that.

I ask her how their week went. She tells me whatever silly mishap she and my dad have gotten into. My dad broke his glasses, again, and repaired them by affixing one arm of my mom’s many colorful reading glasses to his plain black frames, so he looks like Frankenstein’s monster—again. For dinner they had fried fish and baked potatoes. It was so warm outside they got to wear short-sleeved shirts on their evening walk.

I know my parents aren’t going to bring up bills, or job searches, or dosage increases. They know I won’t bring up anything similar in my life, whatever that would be.

When I hang up after eight or so minutes of confusion and pleasantries and some genuine smiles, I can hear my suitemate talking to her parents on the phone about summer internships and final clubs and potential concentrations. I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing something wrong. I know that if I wanted to do that I’d have to first explain to my parents what an internship is, or a final club. When we talk about classes I keep it simple—I’m in English, history, French, and religion. They’re good classes and I’m working hard.

Which is not to say that my parents are unintelligent (whatever that means) or unaccomplished. It’s more than that. This is not their world.

Days after my dad’s high school graduation, he left for basic training. For him, his options were clear: Enlist or work in his brother’s auto shop. He had worked in the garage for a while, and before that had driven a school bus, and before that was a caddy at the “Colored Golf Course” in his South Carolina hometown. He was ready for a change of scenery.

My mom knew it was advantageous but not necessarily practical to go to the local community college, and she knew that as a black woman her options were nursing or teaching. She knew that after helping raise all her siblings, she was pretty much over kids. She worked at the local Dolly Madison pastry factory at night to pay for nursing school during the day, and kept on helping with her siblings in the mornings and evenings, and that was totally revolutionary.

It was confusing for them when my older brother chose to go to the farthest in-state college from our hometown. It was borderline betrayal when I chose Harvard.

Here I have friends whose parents were avid members of college decision forums online, who took them on extravagant tours, who had admissions spreadsheets and files.

A few days after I was accepted, I asked my dad what he thought the acceptance rate was. He said, “I don’t know, 80 percent.” And I said, “Not quite. About 7.” “70?” “No, 7.”

I felt terrible for coming to Harvard. My financial aid package was incredible, but it did not say “zero dollars”, a figure at which my parents had sighed in relief at a couple of in-state interview weekends.

So far I think I love going to school here, but I am not going to apologize for thinking critically about what that means. I don’t know how I could torment my parents with the confusing and expensive sounding details, I don’t know how to tell them about the protests or the discussion groups, I don’t want to send them my columns because I don’t want them to think I’m unhappy here, or that their concerns were right and that I don’t belong here after all, and neither do they.

The first and last time my parents were here was move-in day, and the John Harvard statue scoffed at my sad old parents and our sad old things. They were both so tired and so sad to see me go. The next time they’re here will probably be commencement.

My parents have worked hard enough. I don’t want to burden them with any of the worries or insecurities or questions I have here. I want the next image they have of this place to be me thriving in it, walking across a stage and receiving my diploma. Ain’t that some belonging.

Until then, I’m warm enough. I’m eating enough, I’m happy enough, and my boots are keeping my feet dry. I’m doing just fine.

Madison E. Johnson ’18 lives in Wigglesworth Hall. Her column appears on alternate Wednesdays.