It must have been one of those passing days during the summer break after my freshman year at Carleton when one of the most prominent class factors dawned on me. I can’t remember when, yet knew I was talking to my parents as I moved around the space of our home, and probably doing a chore like the laundry. (That was a common summer chore I could do while having a conversation.) Though my memory of the exact conversation is a shabby one, I started talking along the lines of, “My friends are very different from me.” What followed was a reflection of little things I noticed living for the first time in a relatively more diverse setting, in that everyone came from a different kind of socioeconomic set. Maybe something like:
“You know, several of my friends and colleagues... their parents are really educated. Many of them have a doctoral degree. Some of them are professors in other colleges and universities, or they are educators of an advanced level. Some of them have higher professions, like in medicine or law. Their families are really at a different place in life.” (I write the details here somewhat vaguely because I wish not to single out people in the community.)
These were little things found over time, thinking back on conversations with floormates about their lives, or whenever I’d socialize in the dining halls or Sayles about family. The backgrounds of my friends and colleagues aren’t representative of the composite of campus, I’ll admit, but the range of people I ended up being around seemed to have family backgrounds of a status unimaginable to me.
This is not to say my parents were relatively uneducated in terms of having a degree. To disclose fully, both my parents have undergraduate degrees outside of the United States. To disclose even further, I consider our family to be mostly zeroeth-generation Americans – we all emigrated from the Philippines a decade ago. My mother majored in elementary education, which she’s practiced for the past fifteen years, twelve of which were spent stateside. In fact, she’s pursuing graduate classes in special education. Meanwhile, my father majored in political science. This was not an ultimate path he pursued: he was a stockbroker for one decade, then in the next when our family moved to Maryland, he was between many jobs one would consider “overqualified” for his degree. That included some time at Subway, making sandwiches; then some time as a valet driver; now he is an independent driver up in DC.
I explained here more about my parents because I knew there was something strange when I stepped back and thought about where people at Carleton came from in terms of parents’/guardians’ backgrounds. For one thing, the ways my friends and colleagues carried conversation with here at Carleton were marked by worldliness, and a deep knowledge of all sorts of literature. One friend – a savant among my circles – noted that he picked up his skepticism and free inquiry from his father – and I couldn’t help but notice that his parents had advanced degrees, so I picked up from previous conversation. I felt I could not say the same, or at least that my parents had not instilled something so elevated, beyond common-sense advice on life. This is a tenuous connection to make, but I would think that to some extent, an amount of education must correlate with some kind of intellectualism or open inquiry, and this looks like something parents could endow to their children. If I recall, there are statistics out, concluding there that those born into more educated classes would be likely to be as educated, or more so, continuing a line of education and intellectualism across generations.
Many of my peers seemed to be very intellectual in connecting to all sorts of literatures, or making great philosophical challenges over lunch. I noticed too where they came from. Clearly I risk reducing their intellectual abilities to just this single factor, which is not the case. Name any other factor, and I’d see that too: schooling, other familial or close influences, one’s own independent discovery. Lots of things define us. But I won’t discount that their parents’ education – and the life ensured by it – must have been a factor. Where did my parents play in this? For one thing, I knew there wasn’t much formal literature they directly exposed me to, maybe save for the times they gave me books from the Harry Potter series as gifts. In fact, I noticed my parents didn’t even read much for fun. Every time I suggested to them that they should, they would say the same thing: “We’re too busy.” Which they were, and still are now. Yes, my siblings and I were read to as kids, we did have time to read at home, and books were bought for us. But we weren’t getting book suggestions from our parents, being told about canon classics, nor were we noticing them trying to read, even anything considered “vulgar” in popular culture. When I told my dad that I was going to read Tolstoy this past winter term, he said that it sounded scary.
You’ve got to wonder how much your parents’ status has affected the potential of your life. If anything, knowing where people came from in terms of their parents and their education and profession seemed to me a big marker of the kinds of experiences available to them, and thus the possibilities available to them. Career inclinations were one thing: one good friend planned to become an educator, much like her parent who held a PhD as an educator. Or, at least there was a sense to have a professional job afterwards at a similar level as their parents: a colleague I know with both parents as scientists intends to pursue scientific work as well, though in a different field.
In my case, I am (hopefully) figuring out my way in studying the sciences, namely physics. This was not something I got an idea about from my parents. Nor are the motives the same between us in regards to why I should go through with my education. On my side, I’m figuring out bridging romanticism of the pursuit of knowledge with a desire to leave an impact on society – or civilization, really. On my parents’ side, they’re hoping that my studies will land me a financially-secure position for myself and for themselves too. (This was an expectation I hold for myself too, to take care of my parents as I advance in my career.) But not necessarily a research or academic position: they’ve often suggested government work, or analyst work, or consulting work, any work really. Regardless of differences, we both acknowledge one thing: I’m doing something completely different and outside of the sphere of experience of my parents. I’m sort of on my own.
Which brings me to a question: what does it really mean to be here at Carleton? Or going through higher education, for that matter? We all romanticize our time here at Carleton as a formative time intellectually and emotionally, which is very true. This is what makes it awkward when my dad calls me and asks, “How are your grades doing?” For one thing, I know they aren’t updated often, which I don’t mind. For another thing, I have tried to emphasize grades less as a source of academic progress or success, as many students try to observe with reason. I am trying to live outside of the context of a supposed defining number on a screen. But grades are the context my dad thinks in. I’ve wondered why this is the case. Perhaps there was an emphasis on grades in his college to some extent. Or perhaps he may be stuck in the mentality that pervaded how he paid attention to my academics in high school, a likely possibility.
I speak of grades and my parents as symptomatic of a difference in guiding philosophies between us when it comes to my time in college. I have always felt that my parents were more utilitarian about college, a given of life, another hurdle to jump in order to secure yourself in the world. It’s a valid view, and one they had in their time. This sometimes can come to a head with the more romantic view we try to uphold, all in the name of pursuing some fulfilling, professional life for ourselves and for others. My parents’ view admittedly sounds less romantic, but it does beg the question to me of what it truly means to be here: a tug-of-war between our romanticisms and our realities of having to make a living. I think of this tug-of- war from the arc of my experience as well. I’ve been told by my uncle, who lives in Manila, that my family’s lucky to be here – in America – mentioning that we’re better off living here and finding work here too. It’s an idea that sometimes seems so dire, one my parents feel, forming the basis of our existence here. It’s an idea that’s in the back of my head whenever the question of the meaning of my Carleton life seeps into my head. It’s that nagging question which makes me wonder if I’m making the most of my time here, that bugs me when it seems I’m being “too social” and not “working,” or when it seems I’m not on top of my academic life.
After two years with this question, kept mostly all to myself, I still wonder how anyone else has dealt with it. Superficially, it seems that the question isn’t out there so much. I won’t make any claims yet as to why. But if there’s anyone out there that’s searching, let me tell you that you definitely are in a similar boat as me. We’re all, as Fitzgerald wrote, “boats against the current.” Shall we sail on?
- Gaston Lopez
“You know, several of my friends and colleagues... their parents are really educated. Many of them have a doctoral degree. Some of them are professors in other colleges and universities, or they are educators of an advanced level. Some of them have higher professions, like in medicine or law. Their families are really at a different place in life.” (I write the details here somewhat vaguely because I wish not to single out people in the community.)
These were little things found over time, thinking back on conversations with floormates about their lives, or whenever I’d socialize in the dining halls or Sayles about family. The backgrounds of my friends and colleagues aren’t representative of the composite of campus, I’ll admit, but the range of people I ended up being around seemed to have family backgrounds of a status unimaginable to me.
This is not to say my parents were relatively uneducated in terms of having a degree. To disclose fully, both my parents have undergraduate degrees outside of the United States. To disclose even further, I consider our family to be mostly zeroeth-generation Americans – we all emigrated from the Philippines a decade ago. My mother majored in elementary education, which she’s practiced for the past fifteen years, twelve of which were spent stateside. In fact, she’s pursuing graduate classes in special education. Meanwhile, my father majored in political science. This was not an ultimate path he pursued: he was a stockbroker for one decade, then in the next when our family moved to Maryland, he was between many jobs one would consider “overqualified” for his degree. That included some time at Subway, making sandwiches; then some time as a valet driver; now he is an independent driver up in DC.
I explained here more about my parents because I knew there was something strange when I stepped back and thought about where people at Carleton came from in terms of parents’/guardians’ backgrounds. For one thing, the ways my friends and colleagues carried conversation with here at Carleton were marked by worldliness, and a deep knowledge of all sorts of literature. One friend – a savant among my circles – noted that he picked up his skepticism and free inquiry from his father – and I couldn’t help but notice that his parents had advanced degrees, so I picked up from previous conversation. I felt I could not say the same, or at least that my parents had not instilled something so elevated, beyond common-sense advice on life. This is a tenuous connection to make, but I would think that to some extent, an amount of education must correlate with some kind of intellectualism or open inquiry, and this looks like something parents could endow to their children. If I recall, there are statistics out, concluding there that those born into more educated classes would be likely to be as educated, or more so, continuing a line of education and intellectualism across generations.
Many of my peers seemed to be very intellectual in connecting to all sorts of literatures, or making great philosophical challenges over lunch. I noticed too where they came from. Clearly I risk reducing their intellectual abilities to just this single factor, which is not the case. Name any other factor, and I’d see that too: schooling, other familial or close influences, one’s own independent discovery. Lots of things define us. But I won’t discount that their parents’ education – and the life ensured by it – must have been a factor. Where did my parents play in this? For one thing, I knew there wasn’t much formal literature they directly exposed me to, maybe save for the times they gave me books from the Harry Potter series as gifts. In fact, I noticed my parents didn’t even read much for fun. Every time I suggested to them that they should, they would say the same thing: “We’re too busy.” Which they were, and still are now. Yes, my siblings and I were read to as kids, we did have time to read at home, and books were bought for us. But we weren’t getting book suggestions from our parents, being told about canon classics, nor were we noticing them trying to read, even anything considered “vulgar” in popular culture. When I told my dad that I was going to read Tolstoy this past winter term, he said that it sounded scary.
You’ve got to wonder how much your parents’ status has affected the potential of your life. If anything, knowing where people came from in terms of their parents and their education and profession seemed to me a big marker of the kinds of experiences available to them, and thus the possibilities available to them. Career inclinations were one thing: one good friend planned to become an educator, much like her parent who held a PhD as an educator. Or, at least there was a sense to have a professional job afterwards at a similar level as their parents: a colleague I know with both parents as scientists intends to pursue scientific work as well, though in a different field.
In my case, I am (hopefully) figuring out my way in studying the sciences, namely physics. This was not something I got an idea about from my parents. Nor are the motives the same between us in regards to why I should go through with my education. On my side, I’m figuring out bridging romanticism of the pursuit of knowledge with a desire to leave an impact on society – or civilization, really. On my parents’ side, they’re hoping that my studies will land me a financially-secure position for myself and for themselves too. (This was an expectation I hold for myself too, to take care of my parents as I advance in my career.) But not necessarily a research or academic position: they’ve often suggested government work, or analyst work, or consulting work, any work really. Regardless of differences, we both acknowledge one thing: I’m doing something completely different and outside of the sphere of experience of my parents. I’m sort of on my own.
Which brings me to a question: what does it really mean to be here at Carleton? Or going through higher education, for that matter? We all romanticize our time here at Carleton as a formative time intellectually and emotionally, which is very true. This is what makes it awkward when my dad calls me and asks, “How are your grades doing?” For one thing, I know they aren’t updated often, which I don’t mind. For another thing, I have tried to emphasize grades less as a source of academic progress or success, as many students try to observe with reason. I am trying to live outside of the context of a supposed defining number on a screen. But grades are the context my dad thinks in. I’ve wondered why this is the case. Perhaps there was an emphasis on grades in his college to some extent. Or perhaps he may be stuck in the mentality that pervaded how he paid attention to my academics in high school, a likely possibility.
I speak of grades and my parents as symptomatic of a difference in guiding philosophies between us when it comes to my time in college. I have always felt that my parents were more utilitarian about college, a given of life, another hurdle to jump in order to secure yourself in the world. It’s a valid view, and one they had in their time. This sometimes can come to a head with the more romantic view we try to uphold, all in the name of pursuing some fulfilling, professional life for ourselves and for others. My parents’ view admittedly sounds less romantic, but it does beg the question to me of what it truly means to be here: a tug-of-war between our romanticisms and our realities of having to make a living. I think of this tug-of- war from the arc of my experience as well. I’ve been told by my uncle, who lives in Manila, that my family’s lucky to be here – in America – mentioning that we’re better off living here and finding work here too. It’s an idea that sometimes seems so dire, one my parents feel, forming the basis of our existence here. It’s an idea that’s in the back of my head whenever the question of the meaning of my Carleton life seeps into my head. It’s that nagging question which makes me wonder if I’m making the most of my time here, that bugs me when it seems I’m being “too social” and not “working,” or when it seems I’m not on top of my academic life.
After two years with this question, kept mostly all to myself, I still wonder how anyone else has dealt with it. Superficially, it seems that the question isn’t out there so much. I won’t make any claims yet as to why. But if there’s anyone out there that’s searching, let me tell you that you definitely are in a similar boat as me. We’re all, as Fitzgerald wrote, “boats against the current.” Shall we sail on?
- Gaston Lopez