the senior

It's just some Thursday in the dregs of February. A day after day after day.  But then she sits down and asks to talk, and it becomes something else. 

She starts in the middle of the discussion, right where we left off last time we plotted her strategy. She is inclined to believe that she is destined for a lifetime of taking orders for sweet and sour chicken, and she does have reason to think so.  The restaurant is the be all and end for her parents, and for good reason: it is their income, their hope, their come-to-America story. 

I am not going to call it a dream

As she launches into her doubts, any twinge of been-there, done-that evaporates in the suddenly serious atmosphere.  On another day in this same spot we'd pasted together a delicate framework of if-this, maybe-that intended to bridge the gap between her college hopes and her parents' expectations. If she went part-time, if just took English. . .we'd hoped the mutual benefit would be a toe-hold. 

Alas. 

Alas they are steadfast. They are intent. Whether out of belief or need they have offered up a steady stream of reasons why she could not, should not go to the community college she's mapped out.  They tell the girl who's breezing through pre-calc that she's not smart enough to try. They tell the best writer I have that her English is not sufficient. They tell her there's no point, no hope, that she cannot work, that she'd be taking a job from an American. They tell her-- and this is the crux-- that if she were to go it'd be doubly expensive because then they'd have to pay a worker. 

"I understand," I say a thousand times.  


And then I tell her what I know about her smarts and her potential. I tell her why I know she can do it, and despite all truths about Asians and eye contact she looks at me directly when I say, "I am not wrong. I believe in you."  


My heart breaks when she says I'm the only person who does. "You and me," I remind her. "That's two." 


As we sit huddled across the corner of the desk, we acknowledge all realities and my encouragement is tempered except for my urging to have faith. What she wants is possible, eventually, if she does not concede the dream. I make no promises to this girl I met in August except to be there for her long past her May graduation. I give her my phone numbers and addresses. She takes the card and cries.