Wednesday, September 5, 2018 // The Statement
6B
Conditional love from tiger parents
“T
hank you for applying
to the Stephen M. Ross
School of Business. We
regret to inform you that you have not
been admitted to the Class of 2020.
We encourage you to apply again next
Winter...”
Rather than a boozy, relaxed year
of skipping classes and taking blow-
off courses, autumn of 2015 would
launch my toughest year yet. After
running a three-year marathon of
extracurriculars, AP classes and a set
of parents perpetually disapproving my
efforts, the end was nowhere in sight:
It was finally time to apply to colleges,
and it was going to be my year. With
undying ardor, I chased the forbidden
parental words: “I’m proud of you.”
I’ve had the same circle of friends
since kindergarten — that seemed to
be the way of the land back home. We
did everything together, from taking
the same classes to sleeping over at
the same houses. But this foundational
common ground soon became grounds
to compete upon. With the ACT season
closing and college application season
commencing, many turned our backs
against each other, whispering tidbits
of envy and contempt to one another.
“Did you hear that Jack went to the
Dartmouth information session? Like,
there’s no way…”
“You don’t really believe Christine
got a 36, right? She’s been insecure
since like fifth grade about this stuff…”
The race for valedictorian-esque
titles became tighter, and most chose
the challenge over our friendships.
What once was a unified group of 10
nerds soon became three exclusive
cliques, broken up by ACT scores and
desired school admissions. Our lunch
hour became grounds for subtle insults
of one another’s intelligence, creating
exclusive Saturday night plans in
front of those uninvited and a tireless
game
of
one-upping
each
other’s
accomplishments. The sleepovers got
smaller. The carpools disappeared.
My phone buzzed less, until it became
every man for himself.
My parents are immigrants from
India:
The
only
people
in
long
generations of family history to escape
their hometowns and establish a life via
the American Dream. I always felt they
assimilated with me, growing up while
I did, navigating the United States.
I grew up getting spanked, teaching
my parents how sleepovers work and
begging them not to make me perform
a walk of shame out of Health class,
sitting out of the sex module while my
peers snickered at how much of a prude
I appeared to be at 13.
My parents grew up in households of
tradition, beatings and strict allegiance
to academia. Extracurriculars came
third in a tier of school and family, and
fun was a taboo rather than an element
of growing up. School was their religion,
and I largely owe my success today to
their undying allegiance to education.
But alongside their expectations stood
an everlasting custom of verbal abuse.
A good grade meant you can always
do better. A bad grade led to week-
long silent treatments and outcries of
wishing they had a daughter with value,
a daughter they wouldn’t regret having.
Because of this regular familial event,
fear largely drove my motivations.
Committing mistakes as I grew older
drove them into worsening abuse. The
comments got harsher. Their demands
got stronger. I soon found myself with
a 9:00 p.m. curfew at 17 years old,
getting my phone
confiscated and a
string of damaging
insults for pulling
into the driveway
at 9:02 p.m. after
marching
band
rehearsal.
Their
outcrys
shattered
my
composure
each
time,
my
12-year-old
sister
growing to be the
only person who
kept me alive for
the next morning.
Between parents
whose
expectations
replaced
my
oxygen and friends who were no longer
friendly, I decided to let my anticipated
college acceptances lift me into the now
foreign concept of happiness. I knew
that each acceptance would bring me
closer to my parents, and hopefully new
beginnings. But this utopia of thought
would slowly, and surely, be destroyed.
Spring break of 2016: A family
vacation to Barcelona. They call it rush
hour, but it felt far from. En route to the
airport, I received five emails within a
single hour.
Cornell University: We regret to
inform you…
Harvard University: Thank you for
your interest…
Yale University: This year’s pool was
the most competitive...
New York University: Thank you for
applying to the Fall 2016…
Georgetown
University:
The
admissions team thanks you for your
interest...
My parents expressed intense levels
of disappointment in my inability to
impress the nation’s finest universities.
I had gotten into the University of
Michigan months prior, but this didn’t
make my parents blink an eye.
“Everyone gets into Michigan around
here. It’s just a public school. Now
you’re no better.”
Up to 10 college rejections later, my only
plan was the University of Michigan.
But there was an 11th that remained:
Ross School of Business. I put my utmost
time and emotional investment into
my Business School application, and
felt the pressure of hope deepening
each day of April, awaiting fate in my
inbox. Perceiving Business School to be
more “prestigious” than the rest of the
University, I came to see it as the key
to my parents’ approval. I convinced
myself that this could be how I finally
rise to true value in my parent’s eyes,
and
ultimately
bring some form
of peace to my
household.
And then I got
the email.
For the rest of
the year, I would
cry
myself
to
sleep,
withdraw
myself from all of
my
friendships,
declare
myself
rebellious to my
parents’ wishes,
and
let
their
daily
reminder
of my failures seep into my blood and
flow into my most controlling thoughts
and dreams. The girl who won “Most
Optimistic” in high school marching
band lost her faith in God, her
friendships, her parents and the sight
of herself.
Summer 2016 consisted of my first
internship for which my parents would
eventually accept me leaving the house.
But once I came home, I was confined.
Newly
rekindled
friendships
were
quickly put out by an unmoving curfew.
Silent
treatments
were
incessant.
Prayers for happiness were denied. Ann
Arbor quickly became the enchanted
light I dreamed about finding at the end
of a relentless tunnel — especially when
it meant I could apply to the Business
School one last time. My parents
begged me not to attend the University
of Michigan, their pleas deriving from
fear to be let down again by another
rejection letter if I reapplied. My
resilient sister and poetry journal kept
me sane, becoming the only things that
kept me out of depression.
Imprisoned in a home where I was
not welcome and having no outlet to
vent to but to my sister, I poured the
only energy I had into hope, hope that
the grass was greener in Ann Arbor.
Move-in day. The sun was brighter
and my steps were lighter. The air
smelled sweeter, absorbing parental
complaints before my ears could.
Symbols of freedom decorated my
clothing and room decor: bright yellow
block M’s. Just a 90-minute drive stood
between me and the rest of my life.
I could feel a chapter closing in the
air — or perhaps it was just postponed.
All I had was all I ever really wanted:
a fresh slate for new friendships,
hopes,
whirlwinds
and
hopefully,
accomplishments.
I
persisted through two semesters
of snarky remarks and doubts
of my second admittance to
the Business School on the other line.
Then, in the middle of a meeting on the
first day of my internship, I refreshed
my email.
“Congratulations! You have been
admitted … ”
I ran on unadulterated adrenaline
for the rest of the day, and finally
called my parents after work, who
finally uttered, “We are proud of you”
on the other side of the line.
This was the first stepping stone
toward an authentic relationship with
my parents. In a deliberate effort to
cultivate a more personal relationship,
I began to steer topics during phone
calls home toward my personal life
and admitting small failures. Shifting
conversation from academia and grades
to dating and dealing with stress
resulted
in
unforeseen
friendship
with my mom and long, nourishing
conversations with my dad.
Though a measure of my parents’
love
was
never
what
you’d
call
unconditional,
their
expectations
always served as a barrier growing
up, culminating into which university
I’d leave the house for. Though an
unhealthy basis for our relationship,
it is a product of their own upbringing
to which I owe, in part, where I am
today. I haven’t yet addressed my
grievances with how they treated me
in high school in contrast to now, but I
endure in the ambition of changing the
only parenting style they know, hoping
to eventually shift their mark of value
from rank and numbers to simply love.
And perhaps that day will come.
BY ROMY SHARMA, CONTRIBUTOR
ILLUSTRATION BY ROSEANNE CHAO