From my Facebook inbox:
Hi,
So… I have no idea why I’m sending you a message. Yes, I do. I’m freaking out right now. I’m freaking out because I failed my Accounting exam (meaning I’m one step away from being dropped from my Business program), and I’m going to make what seems like a radical move in my academic move in my career.
I remember a post you did a few weeks (maybe months) back where this girl had such a similar situation. She was basically doing a major for her parents, and I have for the past year and a half been doing Business. I know I hate it. My friends know I hate it. But somehow I rationalized it in my head to make it work so that I was making a sacrifice. But the truth is probably that I’m scared shitless at my parent’s reaction if they knew I was even CONSIDERING switching to become an English major. They will freak out, and consequently, I’m freaking out right now.
I’m sorry if I’m rambling. I just got done with an hour long convo with my best friend who kept trying to reassure me that being an English major is not so bad and my parents will just have to deal. I don’t feel any better. I have no idea how to determine if this is the right decision. I really don’t want to talk about it anymore with people close to me, hence, I’m leaving you this incredibly long message, partially in an attempt to get it out, and partially because for some reason, you’re like my Indian Dear Abby.
You really don’t have to reply… I know I must sound strangely pathetic right now. But again, I’m freaking out. I don’t know if I should tell them or if I should just graduate and have it be a surprise (joke… kind of). They might pull me out… I’m not sure what will happen if they find out. Right now, I’m thinking I don’t tell them. Do you think this is a good idea?
I don’t really have that many Indian friends, and I find it hard to find people who relate to my freaking out. It’s always been the same old “do what you love and fuck the rest” little miss sunshine philosophy with them… which is fine when you don’t have two extremely strict and not-so-forgiving parents. (My parents) mean well, and that’s why I didn’t mind doing business, because I feel they’ve given me a lot and I should give back. But now, I’m at the point where it’s impossible for me to do that. I don’t know…I’ll end it here.
::
[I’m going to call you Maya, because you’ve gone through enough, the least I can do is protect your privacy.]
~
Dearest Maya,
You don’t sound pathetic, you sound very scared and you have every right to sound scared, not to mention grim, confused and alone.
Thank you for trusting me enough to write what had to be an excruciating email.
Thank you for thinking so highly of my abilities that you believed I could in any tiny way be of assistance to you during one of the most challenging periods of your life. I am touched and humbled that you think I might have answers to the exact same questions I do and have asked, of myself, of others.
Will you believe me when I tell you that you’re going to be okay? That everything is going to be all right, though it sure as taxes won’t be easy? I’m naively exhorting you to buy what I’m selling because 14 years ago, I was you.
And it was horrid.
I felt depressed, anxious and hopeless.
I wouldn’t wish it on certain commenters here.
I desperately wanted to change my major— my Political Science was your Accounting/Business. You see, I had not even chosen PoliSci for myself— my father had, when I went “on strike” and refused to fill out the UC application, to protest his refusal to consider Barnard or Sarah Lawrence, a school I was so interested in, that when I was 13, I wrote the admissions department. They sent their “precocious young friend in California” course catalogs, letters and little tchotchkes every year. For four years I imagined going there and when it came time to send my application, my father wouldn’t write the check.
“You’re going to UC Davis. That is final.”
“I don’t WANT to go to Davis. Why can’t I at least apply to Berkeley?”
“Because you can’t drive to Berkeley, daily.”
And there it was. I sat there and wept in an emotional stand-off (sit-off?). In the middle of us, the University of California application and an “auspicious” Waterman pen waited.
“I’m not filling that out. I want to go to New York.”
“You’re too young, you’re only 17.”
“I’m not filling it out.”
“Then I will.”
I was stunned. “But…you don’t even know what I want to major in…”
“Of course I do. I called Judge _ and they said the three most popular majors for law school applicants are Political Science, Economics and History. Political Science will be your major. Finished.”
See, this is where you’re better than me Maya— I gave little importance to the “but they’ve sacrificed so much!”-angle, because I was so totally wounded and heart-broken. My parents had suffered and endured much to give me all they could; now it was my turn to commence repaying that impossible debt.
And I didn’t want to.
Not at 17, at least. It’s different when you’re old and almost 33, but I digress. So I know, dear girl. I know what it feels like to be yoked to a course you did not choose and do not want. And I am so, so sorry.
A year in to college, I tried to make the best of a frustrating situation. My International Relations class was a revelation, so was Comparative Lit. I was fluent in Spanish and taking Intermediate French. Maybe…there could be a compromise? IR was similar to Poli Sci…and my father’s favorite niece was an expert on all things Shakespearean. I felt a tiny flare of hope.
Obviously, it was stomped on.
“No, absolutely not. Go find something productive to do.”
Unlike you, it didn’t even occur to me that I could change my major without some permission slip. I miserably muddled along in Political Science, cramming my schedule full of the stuff I REALLY liked: ancient history, french lit, religious studies.
And I grew so resentful. And guilty for growing resentful. And then paralyzed for feeling guilty. It was a craptacular situation I found myself in, which only worsened when I told my father I wasn’t going to apply to Law School. By my final year, I was burned out and bitter. I had been in a near-fatal car accident, I had commenced the school year with an assault I hadn’t dared come to terms with and I was lost. I took an incomplete in one of my required classes, but never told my parents about it. When I walked in my graduation ceremony, I felt like the biggest fraud, ever.
I was certain of only one thing— that I was a massive failure and that my future was being destroyed by every second I cried, simpered, whimpered and wavered. I couldn’t conceive of my parents reacting in any positive way to what I needed to tell them. It was pure misery and I remember the maelstrom so well, I was crying by the end of your message. It all came back to engulf me, immediately and brutally.
But like you, I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth. I was scared to tell them. And that was a huge mistake, one which caused an already toxic situation to deteriorate.
When my parents found out that I had lied to them, not only did I hurt them more than I ever had, I disappointed them and lost all of their trust. I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I had during the “Should I change my major”-quagmire, but guess what? I FELT SO MUCH WORSE. Now I wasn’t just a failure, I was in emotional exile. So as impossible as this sounds (and yes, I know it’s easy for me to type— you’re the one who has to face the parental firing squad) ‘fess up.
After you do, head to the school counseling center and see if they have anyone with experience in “cultural” issues. That was the vague thing I mumbled and they understood. While there was no one desi to talk to (for free, I might add!), I was matched with a 2nd Gen Mexican American who picked grapes to put himself through college.
I often contend that we have more in common with others than we care to admit and I’m right. He understood it all, the anxiety, the guilt, the obligation…the isolation, the confusion, the doubt. AND IT WAS FREE. Avail ye of such beneficial things, when they are offered; the fact that I did changed everything. I wish our community could get over our dangerous, unnecessary issues regarding the stigma associated with seeking help, whether via talk therapy, meds or both, but that’s another post.
Breathe through the freak-out. It sounds stupid, as advice goes, but it’s surprisingly significant. I never noticed it until a few years ago, but I’m a really shitty breather. And when I’m stressed or losing it, if I’m not taking worthless, shallow-little gasps, I’m hyperventilating. Both bad. Breathing good.
No really, it calms and brings clarity. Calm and clarity are your friends.
Make radical moves if you choose to, but not out of despair or more accurately, depression. When you’re low, you’re thinking differently. Me, I try to refrain from deciding anything important at moments like that (cough.entire.month.of.dec), because my perspective is skewed. When I’m “normal” and I have a bad day at work, I grimace and bear it and think, “this is a bad day at work”. When I’m depressed, I catastrophize: “this is the worst day EVER. this is the worst job EVER. omg, i should quit. OMG, I CAN’T AFFORD TO QUIT!” Etcetera ad nauseum. When you’re calm, well, that’s the moment to change your life.
I think you should be commended on recognizing that something isn’t working for you. I spent years in jobs, relationships and other situations which weren’t working for me, because of a variety of reasons which are too stupid to recount. Realizing that “this is not working” is not the same as “I am a fuck-up”. Took me a while to be able to discern betwixt the two. “Hmmm. Maybe I am not so bad, the situation is.” Ah, look! Different situation, and I am fine. Whew.
Your parents will get over it, if they are like 90% of parents, because parents love you more than anyone else ever will; they want you to be happy. They want you to thrive. If you are in the unfortunate 10%, and your parents are abusive, indifferent or very, very capable of grudge-holding…then, my sympathies.
When my cousin Nisha married a white guy almost ten years ago, my father’s livid outrage was only exceeded by my Uncle’s. They were ranting, “and…he’s a CATHOLIC!” when they weren’t announcing that she was dead to them. Dead, I tell you. Dead! Two years after that, a very cute baby was born and my Uncle melted. See? They get over things. It’s not easy or fun, but eventually…they move on from the bad place. That’s not to say that your life won’t suck while they get it together but I warned you, none of this is going to be glitter and my little ponies.
You mentioned that you are worried your parents might “pull you” out if they discover what is afoot; I think you mean, “cut you off from the comforting font of cash which comes with much string”. Maya, I implore you to do something I didn’t do, because I was too naive and scared: explore financial aid. Lots of kids don’t have their parents paying for everything, including dual-ended highlighters with embedded post-it flags. They actually survive despite this shocking handicap and graduate. And then, like me, they spend their entire life fretting about their student loans. Pull you out/cut you off does not equal “the end”.
Your final two sentences contain your answer.
But now, I’m at the point where it’s impossible for me to do that. I don’t know…I’ll end it here.
If it’s impossible, then it is just that. Do not continue to trudge towards a dead-end. End it here. Take a few huge deep breaths, have a contingency plan (ahem. financial aid, yo!) ready and tell them the seemingly unbearable truth. Visit the counseling center and make an appointment to cry to someone far more qualified than me. Be extra nice to yourself— after this cluster, you deserve it.
Now, after that awfully difficult to-do list, I’m going to tell you two things NOT to do.
1) Don’t give up on yourself. Ever. English majors make the world a better place. Once, when I was a pre-teen, I shyly told my Hapa pediatrician (whom I loved so much, I saw her until I was 22) that I wanted to study ancient history, not medicine or law. She told me how very important that was. “The world needs scholars and artists just as much as it needs doctors and lawyers.” Believe in your choices and wishes and work to make them reality. You are not defined by this situation. You are not doomed. You are going to be okay, eventually.
2) Don’t imagine the worst. If you had told me, way back then, that despite NOT going to law school and NOT getting married and NOT doing anything else for my parents to be that proud of, that I would survive such scandal and be fine with it, I would’ve laughed. If you had told me that I’d live in the city I’ve wanted to move to since my fifth grade trip to the Smithsonian, that I’d have just enough of a salary to pay for rent in my favorite gay nabe AND cover my student loan payments, and that most of the time, I’d feel cheerful and grateful, I would have burst in to tears while exclaiming that such a scenario was a sick, cruel joke, an impossible-to-reach 22k ring.
But I’m here.
And for the most part, I’m okay. If I’m not okay, it’s because of trolls and missing dead family members, but that has no bearing on any of this. None of the things I did when I was your age, in your shoes caused the problems I have now. So, trust me when I tell you that you will be okay.
I am.
You will be, too.
Love and much culturally-relevant fussing,
Akka
p.s. I feel you on the “other people don’t understand”-bit. Even if you aren’t so outwardly desi, your heart is, and you are bound to values and expectations that many people can’t fathom. Smile when these people tell you not to effin’ worry about it. Then remember that there are thousands of us who know exactly how torn you are, who feel just as obligated to our families and who understand that when it’s least tolerable, the hyphen in our identity becomes a tight rope.
You’re not the only one.





