by Luke Loaghan
“College is for people that want a paycheck every week for the rest of their lives. I’m talking about doctors, teachers, accountants, office workers, pencil pushers, order takers…they take a weekly paycheck, get married, buy a house, and have kids. And then boom! Life is over.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I asked.
“If you want to suffer for the rest of your life, there is nothing wrong with that at all. Don’t get me wrong; I think society needs people who get dressed in the morning, go to work, eat lunch, go home, and live for the weekends. A part time life, distracted with the demands of a mortgage, and bills, and hungry mouths.” Mike drank another cup of coffee.
“What’s wrong with it is that no one ever asks if that’s really going to make them happy. They do it because it has to be done. They need the security of knowing that they went to college and now they are getting a paycheck, and one day they start asking questions and looking in the mirror. They next thing you know they are having a mid-life crisis, getting divorced, and deciding that all along they just wanted to be photographers or writers or artists. They leave behind a spouse and kids, and they vanish.”
Mike was shouting. Everyone could hear him. Christine thought he was yelling at me. But he was yelling at himself, at his life, at his own misfortunes. It was surprising that a guy who had spent the first half of the day catatonic was now doling out advice about life.
“I would love to be one of those people with a job and a paycheck,” I said to Mike. “A member of society. A non-homeless member of society.”
“A low member of society? Without passion and thirst and pursuing your dreams? It’s better to be among the dead than live without doing what you love.” Mike walked away.
Christine asked about the shouting.
“So now you’re speaking to me?” I asked in complete amazement.
“Why would I want to talk to you? I guess you don’t want to date me, and if I needed to know anything about our friendship, I’ll just ask Eddie Lo,” she said and stormed off.
I kept working, refilling the cups, making more coffee, wiping down all the countertops. I learned not to stand around doing nothing, in case the owner ever walked in. “The secret to keeping a job is looking busy” - good advice from my father.
Late in the afternoon, Mike asked about the SATs. I revealed I have been studying but was scoring average on practice tests.
“People don’t care about the SATs in the real world…outside the bubble of high school and college,” Mike said calmly. “Its difficult for certain people to do well on the verbal part because it’s culturally skewed.”
“Culturally skewed in what way and what do you mean by certain people?” I asked.
“Well, let’s just say if you grew up in a household with college-educated parents, especially if you live in the suburbs, then the Verbal is easier. Words that you are accustomed to hearing at home are on the test.”
Perhaps I was at a disadvantage. No one in my family ever went to college. I started feeling a little depressed about my situation. Was I at a disadvantage in other areas of my life as well? I could not compete with kids that were well off. I never liked rich people, and now I liked them even less. To be truthful, I really did not know any rich people, except for Delancey. I kept thinking about my family’s economic circumstances, and how it had impacted my vocabulary, and the way I wrote. Christine seemed to sense that I was taken back by Mike’s comments.
“Don’t listen to that bum. What does he know? He’s doesn’t know anything other than how to sleep at work. Don’t listen to a loser. The SATs are not much of a test anyway. It doesn’t test science knowledge or decision making. So what if you do well on the verbal part? What does that mean…that you can be an English professor somewhere? That you can write poems. Who cares? The world needs scientists and engineers. China, India, Russia, all reward their good math and science students. But not in America…we reward poets and great speakers…with jobs in sales. As if they can create jobs for people. Poets can’t feed the mouths of the masses let alone themselves. The kids from my high school ace the math portion every year, and they can’t even speak English. If they gave the verbal test in Cantonese, I could get a perfect score. Chinese kids that do well on the SATs can’t get into top colleges. There’s a quota on Asians, you know. Like there is on immigration.” She walked towards a customer.
Several hours passed and I was thinking about the kids at Stanton. Many of them did well on the SATs by just studying hard and building their vocabulary. I went into the rest room dejected, and looked in the mirror. Was I at a disadvantage or was I going to be like the other Stanton Students and study even harder for the SATs? I was through feeling sorry for myself and my social class. I was through taking advice from Mike. I really didn’t care if I was at a disadvantage; nothing had changed since the time I arrived at work that morning. I wasn’t going to let Mike’s advice get me down.
At quitting time, Christine wanted to go for sushi. While I waited for her to get ready, Mike exchanged my paycheck for cash and I couldn’t have been happier.
We went back to the same Japanese place. Christine and I talked for a while. She was taking the SATs also, but had hardly studied. Christine had a different approach. While I had spent the past few months studying in the hopes of getting the highest possible score, she was trying to score high enough in order to get into community college. She explained how all the girls in her neighborhood went to the same college to learn accounting or bookkeeping or office skills in order to get a job. Christine planned to study computers in order to get a job in an office.
“Any job, in any office, with benefits. Why are you studying so hard for the SATs?” she asked.
“I want to do really well; I want to do my best,” I said.
“If you don’t get the score you want, will you be depressed?” she asked.
“Maybe initially, but I’ll get over it.”
“Why not get over it now? Your score on the SAT’s is just a number. It does not determine your life. Your destiny is already decided. All you have to do is show up,” said Christine.
“I make my own destiny.”
Christine laughed and said that I “drank too much of the American Kool Aid.”
I did not find this funny.
“That’s a horrible expression. Do you know where it comes from?” I asked.
“What expression?” she said.
“Drinking the Kool Aid.”
“It comes from drinking fruit punch?” she said with a smirk on her face.
“It comes from a tragedy in the South American country of Guyana. A cult leader poisoned nearly a thousand people with Kool Aid,” I said.
“Where was this cult leader from?” she asked.
“He was a minister from the Midwestern United States,” I said.
“American Kool Aid.”
I remained silent, and then she apologized.
“All I am saying is that the big things in life are predetermined by destiny. Who you marry, where you live, who you meet, your kids, your grandkids, etc. Maybe even where you go to college. And what is not determined by destiny is determined by luck,” she said.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it or not, it affects you as well. And as for those people who drank the Kool Aid, well, religion is the opiate of the people.”
“Thank you, chairman Mao.”
“Besides, the whole college admission process is nonsense anyway. My high school had a Chinese girl who scored a near perfect score on the SATs. Her grades were very high, but she was rejected from all the top colleges. They said her essay was no good, and she failed the interviews. But I know the truth; they probably had too many Chinese people already. Instead, a guy that ran track and had average grades was accepted to the Ivy League from my school. What is he going to do after college? Run track to pay the bills, not likely.” Christine’s stories were taking a lot of the pressure off the SAT’s.
“So, is there a g
irl in your life?” Christine asked.
“Well, not really. There is a girl in school I like, and I have liked her for years, but she’s out of my league,” I said.
“Out of your league? Is she on the Yankees? Are you on the Mets? Just ask her out or ask someone else,” Christine said.
“You need a date?” I asked.
“No, but you do,” she smirked.
We ate for a while and then I paid the bill for both of us. She smiled and said, “I thought we weren’t dating.”
“Don’t consider it a date; consider it a loan.” We both giggled. Christine loved to flirt.
At home, my father asked where I had been. I told him I ate sushi. He lectured me about getting sick eating raw fish. I told him that Japanese people don’t get sick eating sushi. My father reminded me that I wasn’t Japanese. “Certain things are built up for generations.”
I studied for six hours that night, and felt I made progress on the verbal part of the SATs.
At school, I needed to talk to Mr. Zoose about Mike the Manager’s comments. Mr. Zoose confirmed that in Europe they do a lot of things differently. “The SAT’s are a big deal, but they are not an indication of how much money you will make or how happy you will be or if you will be a good person. Not everyone fails in life, and not everyone succeeds in life,” he said. “Most people settle in the middle. The middle can be pretty good. And you are only at a disadvantage if you see yourself that way.”
I really didn’t want to be in the middle. “Do you think the SAT’s are easier for people from educated families?”
“There are students whose parents are professors, but if they don’t study for the SAT’s then they won’t do well. If their parents were taking the tests for them, they would be at an advantage,” he said. “Besides, if you go into a field that you are really good at and passionate about, you will be the cream of the crop, in that field.”
“I am not really sure of what to major in, or what career path I want to take, or anything. I just tell people I’m going to study business because I don’t want to seem indecisive,” I confessed to Mr. Zoose.
“Many kids are in your shoes. Until you try something out, you may never know if it’s for you. I once had a job for an airline. I quit after two months, realizing it was not for me. Since you don’t know what direction you want to take, do this instead. Write down how you want your life to be in twenty years, and then figure out how to get there. Call it a Life Map.” I thought it was a good idea.
“By the way, please do the school play. I wrote it myself.” He was pleading with me.
“I won’t do Ave Maria.”
“You have the right voice for it, and you are the best guitar player I have ever seen at this school.”
“I’ll do another song,” I tried to compromise.
“I only need you for Ave Maria,” Mr. Zoose said.
“No deal.” Mr. Zoose smiled. As I was walking out, I bumped into his desk, causing the apple to roll off. I picked it up before it could hit the floor and placed it perfectly in its previous position.
Throughout the school, even at lunch, everyone was studying for the SATs. Test prep books were everywhere. In New York City, you know it is SAT season when kids are studying the prep books on the subways.
The anticipation of the test is worse than the test itself. So much rides on one test; so much of the future is influenced by the scores of the SATs. If I did well, I’d get into the college of my choice. College could determine my future career opportunities, not to mention the impact on my personal growth because it would determine the people I would meet in college.
Sam wasn’t worried about the SAT. He was taking a private study course in the city and was acing his practice tests. This is one of the benefits of having a father who was a doctor. But he had a different philosophy as to why he would do well.
“Don’t forget I went to school in England before I came here. The British education system is way more advanced than the American system. Any junior high school student in England could take the SATs and do well. And before that I went to school in Iran, and their schools were much more difficult than Stanton or any other American high school.”
Once Sam started bashing the American education system, he would bash the rest of America as well. He felt crime in America was too high. “People in Europe and other countries are much more civilized than people in America.”
He remarked, “I’ll never buy an American car when I’m older. The Americans can’t make cars the way the Germans or the Japanese can.” Sam slammed the subway system. “In London, the metros are so clean, with no graffiti. And the people are much more civilized than the animals that ride the New York subways.” I was sick of listening to Sam.
It was hard to argue about the subways. The F-Train was covered in garbage and graffiti. There were panhandlers and the omnipresent smell of urine. He definitely was right about the trains. Sam frequently complained that Americans were deliberately trying to ruin tea. “The rest of the world actually brews tea leaves. You guys stick a tea bag in hot water and call it tea.” I told him that he should move to another country.
Sam complained just to complain, like a grumpy old man. He complained about Israel, but complained equally about the Palestinians and Arabic nations. Overall, I did not think of Sam as a bad person. He was adjusting to a new country and his goal was to return to Europe after college.
I fully understood why people who didn’t know him strongly disliked him. Sam was hard to take and hard to listen to if you were the type of person that believed what you heard. But half the time he was smiling when he spewed his venom. Sam looked different from American kids. He had short curly hair, tanned skin, and his bushy eyebrows nearly connected in the middle. He had a large nose, and was often mistaken for being an Arab or an Israeli. This would really light his fire. He wore sweater vests and Oxford shirts, not to mention penny loafers. No one in high school – anywhere, with the exception of the suburbs of London, dressed like Sam.
He busted my chops about my proposed career of entering into business. He’d say, “Business, what business? Are you going to sell Coca Cola, Pepsi, or McDonalds? Because that is all this country is going to be left with one day.”
Then he’d go on about how America doesn’t manufacture anything anymore that anyone wants to buy, except Levis jeans.
Sam’s college essay was going to be centered on his sister’s death, and how this motivated him to want to treat cancer patients. Sam said colleges loved this sappy stuff, but I knew that he really meant it. His grades were the most important thing in the world to him. Sam often said that a student who doesn’t do well in school is like a person who goes to a job and performs poorly. “Like a doctor killing patients,” he would say.
Carlos and Sam had a symbiotic relationship. Sam needed Carlos to do the things that Sam couldn’t risk doing. Carlos always agreed with Sam’s suggestions. Carlos was banking on Sam becoming a rich doctor some day. Sam frequently said to Carlos (whenever Sam needed money) that “one day I’ll be a rich doctor and pay you back.” John and I often just laughed.
Carlos was an unusual character. He lived in Jamaica, Queens, and in a very tough neighborhood. His mother was Hispanic, and his father looked Indian or Pakistani. As a result, Carlos looked like a gypsy cab driver. He rarely spoke of his father. He dressed poor, and spoke with a strong Queens accent. I once asked him how a Hispanic woman came to marry a South Asian and he replied, “someone needed a green card.”
I asked Carlos if he had fired the gunshot on Halloween. He said that his gun didn’t have bullets. “What were you going to do with a gun without bullets?” I asked him.
“You were plenty nervous when all you knew was that I had a gun. Besides, the gun cost $50. Sam made $150 from collecting money from the other students. He spent the other hundred on himself. For a guy likely to be valedictorian…he didn’t have the brains to save a little money for bullets.”
We both laughed. “Academic smarts is
not street smarts,” said Carlos. I agreed.
“Besides, this is a girl’s gun. It’s got jewels on the handle. He couldn’t even buy a masculine gun.” Carlos laughed again.
A college fair had been organized at the school gym. Everyone was attending, except John. He remarked he was too smart for a college fair, that it was for kids who needed a sales pitch. I knew John wanted to go, but had to work at his family’s store. I agreed to bring back some brochures for him.
“And posters of the schools,” John reminded me. “Something I can daydream about.”
At the college fair, Harvard had the center table. Harvard admitted two kids from Stanton every year. That was their limit, and their tradition. Harvard was the goal for Stanton kids; everything else was second place or worse. Harvard would definitely admit the valedictorian. The second admission was up in the air. It was a big deal, not because Harvard was the best, but for bragging rights.
It’s an understatement to say that Sam really, really, wanted get into Harvard. It would have guaranteed him admission to a top medical school. If Sam was accepted to Harvard, he’d be keeping pace with his older brother, who was already pre-med at Harvard. Intelligence ran in the family, as did the lack of it.
I asked the Harvard representative about the cost of the application fee. I couldn’t afford it, so I didn’t bother asking about admission requirements. The rest of the day felt like the wind had been taken out of my sails. It would have been nice just to apply to Harvard, and have delusions of grandeur that I might be miraculously accepted.
Delancey was speaking to reps from small private colleges located in towns hard to find on a map. The reps from these small private colleges all looked like Delancey, all spoke with the same flare, with the same expressions. From a distance, Delancey looked like she belonged to the colleges, not to our high school. When I asked her if she was interested in Harvard, she laughed, covering her mouth to avoid a loud guffaw.
“Harvard is not for me. I just wouldn’t be happy there. My father has been pushing me to apply; he has contacts that can get me in Harvard for sure. But there is no way I would feel comfortable in that kind of an environment. I’m looking for a liberal arts school where I can fit in.” I guess Harvard was not the goal for everyone.