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

