30-Nov
After toggling back and forth between a couple of websites, I realize we can’t apply Early Decision anywhere because Etta would have to choose to attend said university before we hear about any kind of tuition assistance package. That’s good information to know because in our house it’s financial aid first, acceptance second, pack your bags third. That narrows our options down to applying Early Action and Regular Decision. Ugh, Early Action applications are due in two weeks. How has Etta not been on top of this? I’m annoyedthat my conscientious seventeen-year-old has chosen now, of all times, to fall down on the teenage job. That said, Etta and I have pulled off more difficult feats in our past, like when Etta was one and I had to lose six pounds in five days for an Alexander McQueen show in London. We made it happen by both of us subsisting on baby food alone for 120 hours. As a grown woman, if I can eat applesauce and strained peas for a week straight, I can get Etta to pull it together to apply to Cornell and Dartmouth Early Action. And then I can march down to the San Francisco Ballet School and shove two quarters’ worth of tuition down Jean Georges’s leotard.
Getting this college thing tied up before life goes dark with admissions work in January would be a huge relief. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I can pull off yet another intense three-month stretch of the Fairchild admissions season and the stress of getting Etta into a top college regular admissions. The last time life felt this out of my control was when I peed on the pregnancy sticks in Paris, but at least then I got the answer I needed immediately. This waiting to know Etta’s future is forcing me to live waaaaay outside my control freak comfort zone.
I decide this is no time to be subtle; immediate action is required no matter how small. I bold and increase the font size for Cornell and Dartmouth and add a few more asterisks for emphasis. When I sit down to show Etta this chart before we head to tonight’s odd mix of events—drunk college counseling—I want her to be clear on what the Bordelon game plan is and what our prioritized college picks are for next year.
TEN
“Aunt Viv, Etta and I are headin’ out for sushi on Geary before we go to Fairchild for college night. Can we bring you back anything?”
“Why you pay good money to eat at a restaurant that don’t even cook your food for you is beyond me. I can make you plain rice with a bite-size chunk of raw fish right here, won’t cost you nothin’. Sushi,phf, what a waste of money. Every time you girls go out for sushi you come home pokin’ around my kitchen looking for somethin’ real to eat ’cause you still hungry.”
I knew that would be her answer, hence why we’re going to sushi. Bringing Aunt Viv any kind of takeout is a testament to patience and, knowing elder abuse, will land you in jail. Doesn’t matter where the food comes from, according to Aunt Viv it’s always cold, limp, and tastes like plastic by the time it reaches her plate. “All right, I’ve cut up a ton of veggies for you in the fridge and there is some good lentil soup to heat up. Dr. Golden’s gonna ask you about your diet at your follow-up. So stay away from the chicken pot pie and the thin mint chocolate chip ice cream Etta bought this afternoon. Both are off limits.”
Aunt Viv is about to launch into a snappy comeback when Etta walks in the room. We are both confused by her choice of outfits for the evening. I do a quick scan of potential parental comebacks that are filed in my brain that may (or may not) be suitable for this occasion and decide to enter into the inappropriate clothing conversation from the angle of motherly love and support. Here’s hoping...
“Etta baby, the lavender leotard looks divine on you.” (Her nipples are showing.) “And I do love it with the flowy skirt.” (I can see her crotch.) “But, well, tonight at the college event there will be university booths for us to visit as well as all the other senior Fairchild families,” otherwise known as smarmy divorced dads three times her age who will have no problem lusting after a young woman built like a Roman goddess with the innocence, or so I will continue to believe, of the Virgin Mary.
Etta looks down at her outfit, as if noticing for the first time this evening what she’s wearing. “But this is who I am, and this is what I do. I’m a dancer; I dance. These clothes don’t bother you when I wear them Monday through Saturday.”
Aunt Viv is enjoying viewing this interaction in silence. I know what the smirk on her face says. That one eyebrow creeping toward her wig line is a reminder of my 1994 fashion phase of only wanting to wear black lacy bras under see-through white T-shirts. Not a look Aunt Viv appreciated for church on Sundays no matter how liberal Glide Memorial Church was or still is. After a few weeks of Aunt Viv tolerating my rebellious look, rather than talking about it she took action. I came home on a Saturday afternoon after a track meet to find a pile of my black lace bras cut into tiny pieces with Aunt Viv’s shearing scissors. Next to the pile was a brand-new crisp, white button-down shirt and an unadorned neutral padded bra with a note:The Lord would prefer you wore this.
Big parental pause. I take several inconspicuous breaths and remind myself to play the long game. The goal is an acceptance to anIvy League school. Parenting is a marathon, not a sprint. Out loud, sweet as molasses, I say, “Yes, you are a dancer, it is one of the most incredible things about you. But maybe for tonight, you can emphasize something else that is phenomenal about yourself, the fact that you have near-perfect grades, have been on the Dean’s List every semester, and that you rocked the SATs.” Oh my God I can’t believe I saidrocked. I’ll have to tell Dr. Golden.
“So you, who always tells me to be exactly who I am and whatevs to anyone who wants me to be something or someone different, is telling me that tonight I should be someone I’m not?”
I’m startled by Etta’s aggressiveness. Disrespectful children may rule the roost in white folks’ homes, but in black households, the mama rules supreme when it comes to attitude. It’s been like that for generations and history is not about to go changin’ tonight in the Outer Richmond. “But that IS who you are! You are a well-rounded, top student in a competitive school in a competitive city, and I want you to be well prepared to compete with the other students who will be applying to top colleges, too. We can’t afford to make even the tiniest of mistakes in the home stretch of senior year.”
“But I don’t need to compete with those kids because I don’t want to go to those schools; I want to go to Juilliard. And Director Martin thinks I have a really good chance of getting in.” The edge is off her tone because she is smart enough to know what’s good for her and back down, but she also knows the mere mention of Director Martin can send me into a tailspin. And, indeed, it does. Mission accomplished.
“Have mercy on your sweet soul, you talked to Jean Georges about college before you talked to me?” I start to sweat at the mere mention of Jean Georges. How is it that he’s become the man of the household, directing life decisions for the daughter that I have spent the last eighteen years raising?
“I haven’t talked to him about college. I’ve talked to him aboutJuilliard. Director Martin and Aunt Viv listen to me because you don’t. You’re literally incapable of listening to me about what I want to do next year. It’s like you want me to make up for all the mistakes you made when you were my age.”
I never thought Etta would go there, but she did—pointing out how my past mistakes have affected our lives, and have the potential to ruin her future, too. I knew Etta and I might be exchanging words at some point this evening, but I thought we would at least get past the edamame and miso soup. At this point our reservation has come and gone.
I slowly turn to Aunt Viv. She pulls her afghan over her head. How dare she talk with Etta about her future behind my back. We’ve always been on the same page when it came to prioritizing Etta’s education so she can go on to live a life unshackled by financial insecurity and professional regrets. I’m not stupid, I know Juilliard is one of the best possible stepping-stones for a career in the arts. But when you look at the short list of famous Juilliard graduates they are overwhelmingly actors and musicians. One Google search and a person is hard pressed to find a famous Juilliard dancer, let alone one who actually made a decent living spinning around on stage. Plus, assuming limitless talent and no injuries, how long is a dance career going to last? Eight, ten, fifteen years max? And then what? She becomes the next Jean Georges holding on a little too tightly to a long-lost past of curtain calls and starvation? No thank you, not for my daughter.
Through the afghan holes Aunt Viv speaks up, “I got you the job at Fairchild. I’m one of the reasons Etta has attended that world-class school. I have paid some of her ballet tuition over the years and I’m always the first one seated at her opening nights. I’m allowed to listen, and I’m allowed to have a say in the future of my baby girl.” So that’s how they are going to play it, yet again, two against one—with me forever the bad guy.
“May I remind you, Aunt Viv,” I respond through clenched teeth, “that Etta is MY baby. And, Etta, you would do well to remember that, too. Aunt Viv don’t make the decisions about what’s next for you. And Jean Georges shore don’t make the decisions about what’s next for you. You know who does that? I do. Your mother.” My temper is hotter than fish grease. I don’t even want my drawers touchin’ me right now. Have these two lost their minds? It was me who missed the window for an epidural and pushed and puffed in excruciating pain all alone in that hospital room to bring this big-headed girl into the world. It was me who cried alone in that same hospital room when the nurse’s assistant, averting her eyes, handed me Etta’s birth certificate with the declaration of paternity to fill out. And it was ME who decided that since I left the space labeled “FATHER” empty, I would do both jobs of mother and father myself. I might be leasing the boat by living with Aunt Viv, but I AM captain of this ship.
“Do you hear me, Etta? ’Cause I’m definitely hearin’ me. And right now I’ve decided that you will go change your clothes. And I will go to the car. And when you get in that passenger seat I want to see Etta the intellectual. Etta the academic. Etta the Fairchild student, who is interested in imagining a future wider and brighter than ballet.”
“I hear you, Mom, but I wish you would try to hear me,” Etta whines and turns on her toes to go to her room. I turn on my heel and head to the car to cool off. Aunt Viv decides to keep her head under the blanket until we are long gone.
