Latino Parents Just Don't Care
Warning: this is what happens when you have an extended break spent on way too much Facebook. I have legitimate work that needs to be done by Monday morning, yup less than 48 hours from now. But, in the words of Ms. Lily, I DON'T WANT TO DO IT!! Picture the cutest little blonde girl with pigtails on the floor of a school entry way hollering at the top of her lungs as she lays on the ground pounding fists and legs into the ground. Then screech I DON'T WANT TO DO IT!! That's me about my work right now. Where's Lily? I want to join her. But, I digress....
Because of the magic of Facebook and extended conversations, I have been thinking of my father this morning. Dad had some serious expectations but he didn't show them in the way the school system valued. He didn't belong to or attend PTA events. He didn't do parent-teacher conferences, that was my mother's job. Didn't volunteer in the classroom, didn't chaperone field trips and didn't read to me at night. By every definition of parental engagement put forth by our system, my dad failed to be engaged. But he had (and has) some serious expectations. Probably why I ended up with a PhD even though I didn't have a quiet, well lit spot to do my homework.
My first recollection of his high expectations came with a fifth grade report card. I'm pretty sure there was a "C" amongst all the other "A's" and "B's". I know he pointed at the offending grade and clearly told me that if I ever did that again I shouldn't bother coming home. He probably meant it figuratively but I took it literally. In my 10 year old mind I understood that I would be homeless for being such a low achieving student. My dad would put me out. I didn't get a private tutor or get signed up at the nearest Sylvan Learning Center. There was no money for that! The message was clear: get off your ass and study harder, listen better, make it work! My next bad grade would come as a junior in college. An "F" in accounting. Oh the humanity! That one came attached with tuition money that my dad broke down to me so I understood just how hard he had worked so that I could have the luxury of failure. Probably why my GPA was a 3.75 for the BA and 4.0 for both the MA and the PhD (which were a scholarship and student loans respectively but somehow I am still making up for that "F").
In high school came an awareness that boys can be pretty hot. There's a little tinkling feeling that comes from flirting, holding hands and sneaking a kiss. I liked boys a hell of a lot better than Algebra or Biology. My dad sat me down and set his second, non-negotiable expectation: if I came home pregnant, he would kill me. Again, there was no doubt in my mind that he would and he would get away with it. I'm not saying I wasn't a sexually active teenager, I just didn't get pregnant and I made sure to get into the National Honor Society so that I was still on track to get to college which is what I was expected to do by parent, grandparents and every generation that came before me to sacrifice so that I may achieve. Done, done and done!
In my senior year of high school I worked at a local burger legend: What-a-burger. Did really well. I never do things unless they are 100% so I knocked the frier, veggie prep, the drive thru and the grill out of the park. I could whip out them What-a-burgers like nobody's business. Got me promoted to being the crew leader. I got to run my own shifts! Mirala!! I was so proud with my little bow tie (with a fan, not ribbons) and the privilege to not have to wear a hat anymore until my dad hit with this remark,"I'm so proud my daughter. You be a crew leader all your life." Can you hear my dreams deflating? My first leadership experience and my dad knocks it. Awesome! But he did it for two reasons: 1. I could handle it and 2. He wanted me to know that the position was by no means the end of the road. I could be more and he expected me to be more. I think I could have several of my own What-a-burgers right now but he killed that little jaunt into greatness.
The point of this recollection is that my parents were totally involved and engaged in their own way. They were tough. They pushed. They expected! My dad always is a bundle of mush at each of his girls' graduations. His chest gets all puffy with pride with each new degree attained, 7 and counting by his 5 girls. He always tells me his biggest dream for coming to the U.S. is to ensure that each of his girls becomes a college graduate and then he can call his life a huge success. I think it is also a success that none of us got pregnant as teenagers. Not one, out of 5. That's a 100% success rate. Well done mom and dad, well done!
My parents had no qualms about calling us out. They didn't care about hurting our feelings and they made sure we were both educated and schooled (topics for another post). So, in the current culture of everyone getting a ribbon I say we need to go back to my parents' philosophy: second place is the first loser! And, if you think Latino parents don't care ask them, they'll tell you just how much they really, really care.
Because of the magic of Facebook and extended conversations, I have been thinking of my father this morning. Dad had some serious expectations but he didn't show them in the way the school system valued. He didn't belong to or attend PTA events. He didn't do parent-teacher conferences, that was my mother's job. Didn't volunteer in the classroom, didn't chaperone field trips and didn't read to me at night. By every definition of parental engagement put forth by our system, my dad failed to be engaged. But he had (and has) some serious expectations. Probably why I ended up with a PhD even though I didn't have a quiet, well lit spot to do my homework.
My first recollection of his high expectations came with a fifth grade report card. I'm pretty sure there was a "C" amongst all the other "A's" and "B's". I know he pointed at the offending grade and clearly told me that if I ever did that again I shouldn't bother coming home. He probably meant it figuratively but I took it literally. In my 10 year old mind I understood that I would be homeless for being such a low achieving student. My dad would put me out. I didn't get a private tutor or get signed up at the nearest Sylvan Learning Center. There was no money for that! The message was clear: get off your ass and study harder, listen better, make it work! My next bad grade would come as a junior in college. An "F" in accounting. Oh the humanity! That one came attached with tuition money that my dad broke down to me so I understood just how hard he had worked so that I could have the luxury of failure. Probably why my GPA was a 3.75 for the BA and 4.0 for both the MA and the PhD (which were a scholarship and student loans respectively but somehow I am still making up for that "F").
In high school came an awareness that boys can be pretty hot. There's a little tinkling feeling that comes from flirting, holding hands and sneaking a kiss. I liked boys a hell of a lot better than Algebra or Biology. My dad sat me down and set his second, non-negotiable expectation: if I came home pregnant, he would kill me. Again, there was no doubt in my mind that he would and he would get away with it. I'm not saying I wasn't a sexually active teenager, I just didn't get pregnant and I made sure to get into the National Honor Society so that I was still on track to get to college which is what I was expected to do by parent, grandparents and every generation that came before me to sacrifice so that I may achieve. Done, done and done!
In my senior year of high school I worked at a local burger legend: What-a-burger. Did really well. I never do things unless they are 100% so I knocked the frier, veggie prep, the drive thru and the grill out of the park. I could whip out them What-a-burgers like nobody's business. Got me promoted to being the crew leader. I got to run my own shifts! Mirala!! I was so proud with my little bow tie (with a fan, not ribbons) and the privilege to not have to wear a hat anymore until my dad hit with this remark,"I'm so proud my daughter. You be a crew leader all your life." Can you hear my dreams deflating? My first leadership experience and my dad knocks it. Awesome! But he did it for two reasons: 1. I could handle it and 2. He wanted me to know that the position was by no means the end of the road. I could be more and he expected me to be more. I think I could have several of my own What-a-burgers right now but he killed that little jaunt into greatness.
The point of this recollection is that my parents were totally involved and engaged in their own way. They were tough. They pushed. They expected! My dad always is a bundle of mush at each of his girls' graduations. His chest gets all puffy with pride with each new degree attained, 7 and counting by his 5 girls. He always tells me his biggest dream for coming to the U.S. is to ensure that each of his girls becomes a college graduate and then he can call his life a huge success. I think it is also a success that none of us got pregnant as teenagers. Not one, out of 5. That's a 100% success rate. Well done mom and dad, well done!
My parents had no qualms about calling us out. They didn't care about hurting our feelings and they made sure we were both educated and schooled (topics for another post). So, in the current culture of everyone getting a ribbon I say we need to go back to my parents' philosophy: second place is the first loser! And, if you think Latino parents don't care ask them, they'll tell you just how much they really, really care.
