From Hereafter: A Collection of Memoirs

Fate or Free Will?

When I told my mom and grandma about being awarded the highest merit scholarship that the University of New Haven offered, they both cried out of joy and hugged me. I told my dad while he was putting a bowl of soup in the microwave. He did not respond, and then after a few seconds, called for his wife. 

"Did you hear me?" I asked, standing in the middle of the dining room, looking at his face in search of any sign of emotion. 

"Yeah I heard you," he responded blankly and pulled out the silverware drawer to grab a spoon.

Years ago, I had been one of only three freshmen that were placed into the sophomore-level math class-- geometry. At the very back of the classroom was a bulletin board, and every year the same tradition was followed for Ms. Behr's senior students. There was a colorful cutout of "So, Where Are You Going to College?" and everyone wrote their names and schools underneath. I couldn't wait to become a senior and to feel that pride. I couldn't wait to finally get my name up there on that board and show everyone what I was capable of. I waited years for that triumphant moment. Yet, after committing to the University of New Haven, I never wrote on that board.

I never wanted to go to UNH. It was my safety school, and I had two other schools above it that I would have rather attended: the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, and the University of Southern California. My best friend Kat and I got to take a tour of UTK together and I fell in love with it. Tennessee was beautiful and the people were friendly and kind. I applied to their esteemed anthropology program and got accepted quickly, but I was not given a merit scholarship, I only received need-based aid, and there was still an estimated $20,000 per semester that I was left to pay for. I displayed my acceptance letter proudly on the fridge for my family to see, though I never heard a word from anyone until I finally asked my dad about going.

"Hey dad did you see what's on the fridge?" I asked finally one night at dinner. I had told him before that I got accepted, but wasn't sure if he retained that information. He tended to forget things I told him.

"Yeah I saw it," he responded with what I took to be mild annoyance.

"Do you think I can go?" I asked, wanting his input on what was supposed to be an important life decision.

"Go ahead, if you can afford it," he answered me. His response was so nonchalant that it completely confused me. I had no idea what he was talking about. I asked him for clarification. My dad then dropped the bomb on me like it should have been obvious. "You're an adult and you're choosing to take your education further. It's got nothing to do with me. If that's the path you want to take, as an adult you have to figure it out yourself."

Maybe it was obvious. I had to pay for my driver's education on my own, which is why I didn't get my driver's license until a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, thankfully, otherwise I would have had to start over with an adult learner's permit. My dad wouldn't get behind the wheel to teach me either, even though the school required eight hours of practice with a parent before the classes started. He signed a contract saying I received that practice from him when I never did. 

Everyone in driver's ed drove themselves to class with their parents as their passengers, but my dad was not willing to do so. My classmates were so ready and comfortable to get their licenses, meanwhile I truly wasn't even sure which pedal was the gas and which was the brake. When I finally got it all taken care of on my own, I bought my first car myself too. That whole process should have been the big hint that I would have to pay for college myself as well.

So I researched scholarships and grants for countless hours, to no avail. They all seemed to have specific conditions and requirements that I did not meet. I then got denied for every loan I applied to because I had no credit. I had to tell UTK I could not afford to go, and I rejected my spot at the school.