Home From Harvard, Back in the Holiday Hot Seat

Photo

A few weeks ago, I called an Uber to take me to the Boston airport for a flight home for the holidays. As I slid into the back seat of the car, the warm intonations of the driver’s accent washed over me in a familiar way.

I learned that he was a recent West African immigrant with a few young children, working hard to provide for his family. I could relate: I am the daughter of two Ethiopian immigrants who made their share of sacrifices to ensure my success. I told him I was on a college break and headed home to visit my parents.

That’s how he found out I go to Harvard. An approving eye glinted at me in the rearview window, and quickly, we transcended the boundaries of rider and driver. I became his daughter, all grown up — the product of his sacrifice.

And then came the fateful question: “What do you study?”

I answered “history and literature” and the pride in his voice faded, as I knew it might. I didn’t even get to add “and African-American studies” before he cut in, his voice thick with disappointment, “All that work to get into Harvard, and you study history?”

Here I was, his daughter, squandering the biggest opportunity of her life.

He went on to deliver the age-old lecture that all immigrant kids know. We are to become doctors (or lawyers, if our parents are being generous) — to make money and send money back home. The implicit demand, made across generations, which my Uber driver laid out explicitly, is simple: Fulfill your role in the narrative of upward mobility so your children can do the same.

I wasn’t offended. If anything, I’m used to these kinds of conversations by now.

They’re very similar to the ones many college students face from their families over the holidays. At some point during the festivities, a relative’s friendly question — “How are you doing?” — morphs into the more treacherous, “What are you going to do with that degree?” It’s part of the nature of college breaks. They are a time to procrastinate on papers and postpone mental breakdowns. For those of us who are fortunate enough to travel home, they are a time to trade dining hall food for home-cooked meals. But college breaks also mean being on the hot seat.

I used to feel anxious and backed into a corner by the questioning. But now that I’m a junior in college, the routine inquiries have lost their edge. No, I still don’t have a boyfriend. Yes, I should probably gain a little weight.

For the children of immigrants, going to a school like Harvard is a community event. My parents, aunts, uncles and all of their friends take pride in my accomplishments and that’s wonderful. They also take a certain degree of ownership, and that can be a little exhausting.

But it’s because they are wrapped up in my future, however it pans out. They sacrificed a lot for me and they are anxious to see me succeed. That the phenomenon extends to perfect strangers is part of the charm.

There are the Uber drivers who dish out well-intentioned advice, free of charge. The dining hall worker with the same name as my mother who persistently asks how I’m doing. And the African-American woman who stopped me in a campus bookstore, and after asking if I went to Harvard, gave my hand a little squeeze.

I’m grateful for their support. This holiday season, I’ve promised myself I won’t huff and get annoyed at their inquiries. I won’t defensively respond with “but I plan to go to law school!” when I get unsolicited advice. I’ll just smile and nod, and relish the warmth of the occasion.