Then it was a year and a half later, the week before Christmas, 1984.1 still believed I was going places, but reality had reared its head. The financial picture looked futile. My choices had narrowed. I had the grades and extracurricular activities needed for qualification to college, but I surely didn’t have the money. I had attended a program at the University of Maine for gifted and talented math and science students. They had offered me a full scholarship to study engineering, then after graduation a job at a paper mill. This was not the mind-expanding, world-exploring future I had dreamed of. But it was affordable. And what were my choices?
I was small-town. Simple and sweet. And poor. No one left Bucks-port. What made me think I could? My best friend already had a baby, my family was here, it was safe here. People lied and bad things happened “out there.” I would need money “out there.” I would be unknown “out there.” As comfortable as Bucksport was, its placidity gave me no outlet for my dreams. A bank-teller job in town was the biggest thing that could happen to me here. I needed out, I wanted out.
Halfheartedly, I was expecting a reply from an Ivy League school. Brown University had been proclaimed the number one college in the country by Life magazine. A guidance counselor at my high school had spread the article across my desk, planting the ridiculous idea in my head. I will admit, my insides fluttered. Rather than fear not fitting in, I felt a thrill at the thought of the adventure. What kinds of people would I meet? The brochures bragged that they came from all over the world, the best and the brightest. I could learn about the world from my future classmates, maybe even travel. Surely I would qualify for a fancy job. I would wear neat suits like the women in Cosmo. And like them I would stroll down city streets confidently, importantly. People would look at me and think, She has something to say. She has places to go.
I had applied for early action admission, even more competitive than regular admission, but I did so with grave doubts. I remember skipping the heavily weighted essay — a conscious affront, I realized, but I was convinced I’d never be accepted. Even if I was, the costs were unthinkable. Instead I handwrote this message directly on the form:
If you want me to come to this school I will need a lot of financial aid.
Somewhere deep inside me I did hope for the incredible, the extraordinary. But on the surface I didn’t really expect a positive response.
Most of the kids in my high school class hadn’t even applied to college. The paper mill in town was good enough: union labor, union pay. Buy a trailer home, have babies, acquire a used snowmobile from your cousin down on Mill Street, and then, after pinching for five years, take a week’s vacation in Florida. It was practically all I saw, and it was looking all right. My big city dreams were in danger. I could be a bank teller right here in Bucksport — dress up for work, look responsible, get married. Apart from the cold winters, that sounded almost fine to me. I knew I could do that.
But I couldn’t deny my conscience. I wanted more. Maybe I could make it happen? But how, here in small-town Maine, where nothing ever changes? My practical nature was in the process of convincing me that I wasn’t meant for more. But one December afternoon opened my horizons, allowing me to believe in the impossible and strive for the extraordinary for years to come.
It was a chilly day but clear. I jogged through town to the junior high school. The music department had hired a chorus teacher who could not play the piano, so I got the job of accompanist — no money but it excused me from classes. I ran down the sledding hill, passed my grandparents’ house, Swedish and American flags waving brightly, then turned north, running parallel to the river. A few minutes later I was crossing the frozen playground of the school.
My dad was outside loading junk into his truck. He was one of the most loved men in town, always helping people, always happy. Dad was always there for me: my track meets, piano recitals, my biannual performances in the school plays, and the hikes in the woods where he taught my sisters and me how to walk on thin ice and read animal tracks. He also had a knack for soothing a cut hand or broken heart with a combination of sympathy and healthy perspective: “Well, at least you’re not dead, ayuh!”
He and my mother believed that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They were always quick to mention that while your finger was bleeding, or when the world was ending because your boyfriend had been seen holding hands with some other girl. Their other favorite quote was “You’ll appreciate it more because you have to work harder for it.” Predictably, this one came up a lot with four adolescents in a struggling household. My dad was satisfied, though, with very little. He grinned as I jogged up to him, grinning back.
“Hey, Heididly, I’m making a dump run. You comin’?” The dump runs used to be our time together. He even nicknamed me “Seagull” because, like the birds at the dump, I scrambled with him for leftovers at dinner. Between us, the last bit of dinner was coveted, but he usually gave in. He was an easygoing man with simple pleasures and an air of passivity. I knew Dad would’ve enjoyed a dump run with me, so I felt a flicker of guilt when I declined. “No, Dad, gotta work. See you tonight.”
Across the parking lot from the school was the shed that served as the music room. Having stripped my layers off, I played the piano for an intent but sickly twelve-year-old. He was preparing his solo for the Christmas concert. His voice was awkward, but singing was very important to him. I was happy to support his efforts as best I could from the piano bench. His sniffles and nose wipings were only small distractions. We worked a half-hour, until he felt proud and confident, then I bundled up again for the run home.
I ran through town, past captains’ homes with widow’s walks, then north out of town past the mill. The structure partially blocked the view, but the water was always beautiful, even in the cold. And on a sunny day like this, it glistened enough to hurt your head. I continued north out of town. It was several miles to our house. The halfway point was the abandoned graveyard where lilacs grew in the spring. Occasionally I had given Mom a few sprigs.
I was nervous about giving presents to Mom. We had been close a few years earlier, but her work pressures as a graveyard-shift nurse and my eagerness to grow up had strained our relationship. I knew she loved me, but I was sure she misunderstood me. Timing was everything: if she hadn’t had enough sleep — stay clear! Even my girlfriends were afraid to call or come over. When they did, they would whisper to me nervously, “Is your mom sleeping?” Or my sisters and I would confer: “How’s Mom today?”
Mom wore the pants in the family and took her role very, very seriously. She was responsible for her four daughters, and although it may hurt us, we were going to turn out right! I recalled that tonight she was off. This meant she would be in a good mood, trying to catch up with her daughters and what she had missed during her work week. This was pleasant but often disarming, and I mentally prepared myself while I ran.
The run, I remember, was uneventful — no orphaned birds, no boys driving by proclaiming my butt (under heavy sweat pants) to be anything special, and only a couple of logging trucks (the same dangerous trucks that inspired local resident Stephen King’s Pet Sematary). I picked up the mail at the top of the driveway, heart pounding and sweat running down my chest under the heavy layers of cotton and wool. Jogging slowly down the gravel driveway, I rummaged through the bills and advertisements. The Brown University seal on a clean white envelope abruptly slowed me to a walk.
I was anxious. I didn’t want it to be bad news. Intellectually I understood the odds and was completely prepared for rejection. Begrudgingly I allowed myself a smidgen of excitement. I opened the letter slowly, remarking to myself that this was a moment to remember. All my defenses fell for a few seconds when I read that I had been accepted (early action!) to Brown University. My head raced, my stomach bobbed and weaved. What an honor! It didn’t matter that my self-protective side was screaming, “Too much money, too much money!” I had the offer in front of me.
I could be Ivy League.
Dr
eams could come true! Nothing was wrong with Bucksport, both my parents had grown up there, but nothing was wrong with checking out the other possibilities either.
I would live in a big city; a place with tall buildings and Touch Tone phones. I would go shopping. I would be powerful and smart and sophisticated. My future was secure. The best school, the best education, the best job … I had choices! Maybe there would be enough financial aid? I could always think about Brown. At least I had the choice.
Everyone will be so impressed.
But I wasn’t in a hurry to tell people. The pressure to accept would be enormous. And I couldn’t help thinking of the money. I wasn’t sure I was ready for the letdown of not receiving enough financial aid. I wouldn’t know my award for another three months. I was, however, eager to tell my family. It would put my parents in a good mood and my sisters would be happy for me. Because Christmas was so close, I decided to wait till then.
It wasn’t a problem hiding the news. I was busy, my family was busy, and the traditional Christmas Eve party was only a few days away. Cookies to be baked, joke presents and the accompanying poems to be written, gifts under the tree to rattle. The biggest mysteries were always the joke presents — what we lacked financially we more than made up for with ingenuity and humor.
That may be why my parents giggled when I handed them a gift at the Christmas Eve party. The extended family was gathered around and I had everyone’s attention — the perfect setting for a joke. My mother visibly swelled with pride when she finally opened the box and saw the envelope. She knew right away. The tears welled in her eyes; my father just grinned. I was proud but uncomfortable. I knew the expectations of my family would grow higher with the good news. Mom quickly regained her composure and in a rare display of showiness, read aloud: “Dear Miss Mattson: I hope you are as pleased to get this letter as I am to send it to you. You have been admitted to the 222nd class to enter the College of Brown University You are to be congratulated for your record of academic and personal achievement to date.
The congratulations and pride crowded the room. First the group applauded, sincerely excited. This was real news! Then my mother hugged me, embarrassed by her watery eyes and her cheeks that regularly turned rosy when she was angry or laughing. They were bright red tonight, but she was more proud than anything else. I think she felt vindicated, as if she could say, “Yes, I brought her up correctly. I did it right.” My dad, on the other hand, was simply pleased. He gently exuded a feeling that touched all my sisters and me. It was a feeling that said, matter-of-factly, in a heavy Maine accent, “You are special just by being you. ‘Nuf said.” He hugged me, too, with a “You done good, Heididly.”
My sisters beamed knowingly at one another from different corners of the room; I had previously let them in on the secret. I had to tell someone! They remained clear of the crowd of relatives descending upon me. Aunt Pearl was the first to reach me, telling me with a wag of her head, “What a good girl. We always knew.” After her came Uncson, Uncle Butchie, Uncle Byron, Meme Mattson, Aunt Hilda….
After a few minutes of this I felt smothered and was eager to bring everyone back to earth — after all, I was the same person whether accepted to Brown or not, wasn’t I? I motioned for silence and quietly said, “But, I may not go.” Sweetly, they dismissed my statement. “Oh yes, the money.” “Oh, you’ll find a way.” “It’ll work out, Heidi,” well-meaning relatives assured me. I was just being cautious, they thought. But it was more than that. I couldn’t understand going to school to learn liberal arts. Yes, I read about the “art of learning,” the importance of a rounded education, etc. Abstract arguments couldn’t convince the practical nature in me. Granted, Brown was an incredible place with limitless opportunities, but this Ivy League stuff was for fancy people.
Finally attention turned to the buffet table laden with traditional foods: Swedish meatballs, of course, Aunt Hilda’s Jell-O salad, cookies from the Mattson girls (my sisters and me), Mom’s mysterious but popular pineapple delight (often referred to as “the green stuff”), and, off to the side, the hardest tradition to swallow — aquavit. “Firewater! It’ll put hair on your chest!” my dad declared merrily, handing me a miniature glass full of the liquor. I was used to his expression but could never grow accustomed to the burning sensation the aquavit created in my stomach. That was the last thing I needed, with all these relatives hugging me and my best (only) party dress limiting my breathing. “No thanks, Dad, you forget I’m a girl — I don’t want hair on my chest!” I pleaded, putting the glass down. Luckily my grandfather approached me just then, arms outstretched, and the aquavit patrol turned to its next victim.
I looked up smiling, resigned to hearing it again. “Oh, we’re so proud.” He had to lower his tall thin body as his arms moved in, his graceful hands ready to clasp my face, one cool palm on each cheek. Intense blue eyes shining, white hair neatly combed back, he pursed his lips, and through his age-tempered Swedish accent, cooed, “Oh, Heidi, Heidi, we always knew you were special. We’re so proud. Don’t you let us down now.” Then Auntie Astrid clasped my shoulders. “Ah, there she is, the special one. Give me a kiss.” Although happy to have pleased them, deep down I knew that I had to do what was right for me. I wasn’t sure what that was.
How could the Ivy League be right for me?
I had never ridden a city bus, or a train. Would the classes be too much? My school was certainly far from academic. I had been assigned one book — My Antonia — during my high-school years, and I had never taken trigonometry or anything beyond basic science. Sure, my school was state champ in football, basketball, and baseball. Even our cheerleaders were almost state champs. Academically, however, I had never been challenged. Besides, I probably didn’t even look right. My pants were always too short — I was growing faster than my parents’ budget — and I didn’t know much about makeup. A haircut was a straight trim in the kitchen with Mom. Fashion was a foreign language.
Ivy Leaguers probably don’t buy their clothes once a year at Sears.
Then again, I wasn’t the type to be discouraged by being different. It was the money that seemed out of my control. My parents offered to mortgage the house again; one of my best friends was even ready to sell his beloved Corvette. When my financial aid package arrived, it was substantial, but still far short of the total cost. But after hesitating for several months, I finally decided I would enroll. The support of friends and family was a factor, but what really pushed me over the edge was this: in twenty years will I wonder, What if …?
After all, how could I say no? It was an honor. A dream. I felt this was the event that could change my life forever. I tried to imagine the people I would meet, the places I would see. As scary and new as it would be, I wanted this. Perhaps those years moving from place to place when Dad was in the Navy had created this restlessness in me. Every two or three years we had lived in a different military housing project, in a different state, and made new friends. Each move was cause for celebration, I thought. My sisters had never shared my joy, nor did they display any restlessness as they matured in Maine. This puzzled me. I had my chance, there was no way I was going to miss it.
For outstanding scholarship, Brown accepted me and charged me $22,000 to attend their university. For outstanding scholarship, Brown also awarded me an $8,000 grant. The gap I was responsible for, $14,000, was no more affordable than was their full fee.
Now I really knew I didn’t fit the mold. That was OK. I would persist.
I needed an income. I hadn’t qualified for enough loans to pay for my first semester, let alone my freshman year. In addition, the “family contribution” listed on my Brown paperwork was absurd — were my sisters supposed to go hungry so I could be Ivy League? Besides, the hourly wage my dad was paid equaled the rate I made at my university awarded work-study job. Both he and I were insignificant wage earners, only coins echoing in the deep bucket of Brown. I didn’t see this as clearly then as I do now. I believed if I worked as hard as I could everyt
hing would turn out all right. I had scraped together twelve hundred dollars, my parents had squeezed an additional fifteen hundred from their savings, and I had been awarded a thousand-dollar scholarship from the paper mill. But the fact remained that at the age of seventeen I was in debt to the tune of more than ten thousand dollars in school loans. And that scared me. I took my commitment seriously. I needed to earn money for books and expenses for next semester, and the next year, and … I was so busy keeping myself from being overwhelmed by the financial issue I didn’t think of my studies. I simply assumed that I would excel as naturally as I always had.
My parents and I made the six-hour trek from Bucksport to Brown in the family Chevette. I was eager to get settled in. Mom and Dad were probably more excited than I was. They rarely looked up to anything, but an Ivy League institution seemed beyond reproach. Dad parked on a street crowded with BMWs and Mercedeses. The cars alone impressed me. I had heard from a competitive girl at my high school (who also applied but didn’t get accepted) that the campus was full of Jaguars, Mercedeses, and BMWs. I’d thought she was trying to intimidate me.
Ivy League Stripper Page 3
