Tiny Imperfections

by Alli Frank

  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 an Ivy 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 said rocked. 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 about Juilliard. 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.

  * * *

  • • •

  Even though we’re going to Fairchild as parent and daughter, I still have to put on my professional game face the mome
nt I walk through the front doors, whether I want to or not. Occupational requirement: When you’re a parent and an administrator at a school, leave your baggage in the parking garage.

  Since we missed dinner I bring Etta a plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes to make up for the sushi. I grab a glass of Chardonnay that I recognize from the locked storage closet in the director of development’s office. Not my favorite, but holding it gives my hands something to do other than want to cover up the backless black leotard Etta swapped for the lavender one. I didn’t see it until she walked into the gym ahead of me and shed her coat. I have underestimated Etta’s cunning ways, but she quite possibly has also underestimated mine.

  “Sam has done a fabulous job pulling this evening together. I think it represents the high standards of execution I have set for Fairchild.” Like a slick cat Nan has slid in next to me, watching over the sea of mothers and fathers, taking in the view of soon-to-be-potential-alumni-parent donors. I can almost see dollar signs in her irises.

  “I believe it was Krista who brought this event together. Sam has only been here a year, so I think he’s still learning quite a bit.” While Krista and Sam work closely together, I want credit to go where credit’s due.

  “Yes, well, in his short time here, I can tell Sam has true leadership qualities. He is going to make something of that college counseling department. Excuse me, Josie, I see the Jacksons and I have my eye on them funding the completion of our glass-blowing studio.” Nan is off to hang on the arm of a father who will undoubtedly believe the compliments she showers upon him as she pickpockets his financial portfolio. Tonight, I am a parent and not an administrator, so I salute her fund-raising efforts and watch her go.

  I take a big breath, refocus on the college acceptance goal at hand, and remind myself that, as the adult, I should smooth things over with Etta. I cross the room over to her gaggle of friends and tap her on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s sit down, I think the counselors are about to start,” I say softly to Etta in an attempt to repair some of the damage done tonight. I head to two chairs at the front of the gym, and as I take a seat I see Etta hang back and sit down with two of her best friends. Okay, Etta, message received loud and clear. You hate me right at this moment. But, please, have a little faith. When you have everything in life you could ever want, you will thank me. You’ll be part of a professional power girl posse. You’ll find a man who wouldn’t dream of walkin’ out on you, and one day you will have a child and you’ll realize every move I made, every thought I had, was in your best interest.

  To my surprise, Nan steps out from behind the curtains onto the stage. She has managed a new coat of lipstick to soften the biannual lip filler she had done on Friday afternoon, when she had Elsamyassistant e-mail the faculty and staff to say she was “out of the office” having quality “face time” with other San Francisco school heads.

  “Thank you for gathering tonight for our college cocktail hour. For years I have been begging Krista to come up with a better way to fully share with parents about the college application experience because this is where Fairchild Country Day really shines. Last year we had nineteen students go to Ivy League colleges and three to Stanford. Go Fairchild Flyers!” Nan gives an uncomfortable woo-hoo and fist pump, her team spirit falling flat in front of this anxious audience. I shrink in my seat. Witnessing Nan out of her element is painful.

  When no one cheers back in response to her callout, Nan clears her throat and continues, “Lucky for this graduating class, Sam and I fell upon the fabulous idea of combining two of Fairchild’s favorite activities: counting Ivy League applications and socializing.” Nan pauses hoping this will elicit a rousing round of applause, but again she is met with lukewarm claps. “I look out at this room and see a landscape of parents who have raised the next poet laureates, neurosurgeons, and tech billionaires.” I turn in my chair and look around me. Statistically speaking, there are parents of at least three Uber drivers and one kid here tonight is headed for the clink.

  “Before I bring Krista out here for the less inspirational information on the nuts and bolts of the college process, let me say that I have dedicated my life to ensuring that your children not only succeed, but achieve their greatest aspirations. I want you to know that whatever the final outcome of your child’s college acceptances, it is not for my lack of effort to provide your child with a quality education. I want you to know no one in this school cares more for your child than I do. Best of luck to you all!”

  Krista walks onto the stage, a strained smile plastered across her face. Nan exits quickly without even a glance in Krista’s direction. A sense of relief overcomes me. Even though Nan has alpha dogged me publicly at least two dozen times by now, I always wind up in analysis paralysis, deconstructing each slight to figure out what I could have done differently to make her like me more, support me more, maybe even go so far as to praise my work to the Fairchild Board of Trustees. But apparently, I’m not the only woman regularly snubbed by our head of school. Krista, I feel you, sister.

  As Krista adjusts the mic at the podium, the sense of being alone in this parenting game flares. I know this feeling well; it has been a constant companion for eighteen years. It’s the feeling I had the first time I rushed baby Etta to the ER with a 104 temperature in the middle of the night while working in London. The feeling I had flying with Etta over the Atlantic to start a new life for her in San Francisco and reengage in an old life for me. It’s the feeling I have time and time again walking around the city with Etta knowing I’m being judged by strangers for being yet another single black woman parenting a child I probably had no business birthing at barely twenty-two. And it’s the feeling that became my truth when Michael left us—not even for another woman, but because he chose to be alone rather than being with me. I know alone, and I’ve learned to do it well. That said, there’s definitely a difference between being alone and feeling lonely in the uncharted waters of parenting a teenager. Tonight, both plague me.

  “Welcome to Fairchild Country Day School, a school that has been an intimate part of your day-to-day family life for upward of thirteen years for those who started with us in kindergarten. Together we have eighty-eight incredible human beings, have we not?” Applause erupts and woo-hoos break out. I do love Krista. She always knows how to reach right in and pull on the heartstrings. I give her a thumbs-up and she winks, which I know is for me, but I suspect the balding dad in flannel at the end of my row thinks it’s for him as he smirks and winks back. Ah, men. They can be flaccid, stanky, and wearing a spaghetti-stained T-shirt and they will still believe every woman looking their way has been touched by their testosterone magic.

  “There are two rules of the college application process that I want each and every parent in this room to take to heart. Students, I want you to hear this, too. RULE NUMBER ONE: Deciding where to APPLY to college is a partnership between parents and child. This is a family conversation to happen over multiple dinners together, on college trips, during lazy Sunday afternoons, after receiving SAT and ACT scores. As a family you will talk about school size and location: east, west, south, north, urban, rural. You will discuss program specialties, housing, transportation, social environment, and, of course, cost, scholarships, and tuition assistance. THIS stage of the process is a team effort.” See, Etta, I knew I was right. So glad to know Krista is on my side and she just shared it with the world, or at least with this unique microcosm. Despite their general thinking, teenagers do not know everything,

  “RULE NUMBER TWO: And, parents, you really want to listen up on this one. Deciding where to GO to college is ultimately your child’s decision, because remember, you have agreed to everywhere your child has applied if you have properly followed rule number one. At this point in the process it is NO longer a team sport, it is for the individual to decide. Your child may or may not ask for your consultation in these final moments. This fact may be painfully difficult for some of you”—Krista looks pointe
dly in what I hope is flannel dad’s direction—“but please wait to be asked for your consult at this final stage of the process. Additionally, after acceptances have been received and your child is leaning one way or another, you must remember this exact moment, when, a few minutes ago, we were all clapping and cheering and congratulating ourselves for raising incredible human beings. They are capable of making the important decision of where to go to college. We have been preparing them for this exact moment for years. After all, you have been to college and you have created your life path. The time has come to let your child follow their chosen path, the successes and the stumbles. Best to stomach this difficult fact now and not when the acceptances come because—trust us in the college counseling department—in that moment, your child will know exactly where he wants to go, and your job will be enthusiasm and excitement for their journey. Yes, I said THEIR journey. Not your journey, theirs.”

  I can feel Etta’s eyes drilling a hole into the back of my head from four rows behind. Krista, you are dead to me, I decide on the spot. I will have to text her and let her know I’m canceling our walk on Thursday. Oh wait . . . On the walk she’s telling me all the juicy info she knows about the athletic director at Three Winds Academy being fired effective immediately, vital gossip given the competitiveness of admissions among San Francisco private schools. Okay we’ll go for our walk, but after that she’s officially dead to me.

  MID-SEASON

  ELEVEN

  FROM: Nan Gooding

  DATE: November 6, 2018

  SUBJECT: Admissions Check-in

  TO: Josephine Bordelon

  Dear Josie,

  I can’t believe it’s that time of year again to dig our heels in and get to work on admissions. Let’s meet on Thursday from 1:00–1:30 p.m. so you can tell me how things are looking for this year and I can tell you what I need you to do to ensure that we have our best admissions season yet. Check in with Elsa, my assistant, first and don’t be late, I’m booked solid with meetings in my office so there will be a line at my door of people waiting to meet with me.