College/Corona: What I Want to Say

We’re sitting at the dining room table in front of Max’s laptop, waiting for a video call from the admissions counselor at a culinary school in Denver.  Max is wearing shorts and a tennis shirt; I’m wearing a crumpled knit jacket over a T-shirt advertising a bluegrass festival held 10 years ago.  Suddenly it occurs to me that this may be an interview—should Max be wearing a coat and tie?  Too late. 

Suddenly I remember to ask Max: Is it okay if I ask questions?  Or do you want to do the talking? 

Yeah, you can ask questions, Max says. Most of mine have already been answered.   

I must’ve looked doubtful.  I mean from the last time we talked with her, he adds.

He’d had three questions:  Do you have a culinary arts program? How about a tennis team?  A gaming club?

That was the sum total of what he needed to know.

Meanwhile I was fretting about the sticker price: tuition is $33,000 a year.  Add another $13,000 for room and board.  So far the school has offered $16,000 in financial aid.  Not nearly enough.

Max doesn’t want to hear it. Anything’s possible, he tells me, looking pleased with himself.  Impossible has the word “possible” in it. 

Precisely at 1:00, Max dials the number and the admissions rep—Lisa—answers right away.  Max puts her on speaker.  Hi Max, she says cheerily, and they chatter on.  I begin to form a picture: southern twang (Texas or Oklahoma?), late 20s or early 30s, petite, slim, blond hair, business-casual dress, an open-face, and a stunning lack of self-doubt.  She probably married in her early twenties, had older teens of her own, and went to church every Sunday.

Finally it was my turn.  Here are the top three things I wanted to know:

• What are your contingency plans for COVID in the fall?  (Are you really going to pretend this will be over by then? Please stay closed.)
• Can he defer entrance for a year? (He’s delusional!  He thinks he’s going to be a famous chef and run a Michelin-star restaurant!)
• Can we get more money?  (I already know the answer is no.)

And then the lesser—but equally important—items:

• What is the primary instructional style?  (Are the chefs going to be mean, like Gordon Ramsay?)
• What’s the first-year retention rate? (Do the kids have nervous breakdowns under the strain?)
• How do they evaluate the students?  (Are there tests and quizzes?  I hope to God not, because Max hates reading, writing, memorizing—studying in general.)
• What’s the gender ratio? (Does the poor kid have a shot at a girlfriend?)
• Is the school in downtown Denver? (Is he going to get mugged?)

At this point in Max is looking pained.  My mother’s overprotective, he announces loudly.

My therapist says kids have to believe in their omnipotence in order to make the leap from home to the wider world.  I did: I was going to be like Albert Schweitzer, saving the poor little black children of the Third World.  What if my mother had been cautious? “Best not to put all your eggs in one basket … better have a plan B in case things don’t work out.”  It would have felt defeating.  Don’t you trust me?  Don’t you believe in my dreams?

Which is what I must be communicating to Max.  I want to say it’s not that I don’t trust him; it’s that I don’t trust the rest of the world.  But when I force myself to look deeper, I land upon a terrible truth: It’s easier to picture him dropping out and coming home than to imagine him thriving.  Because if he thrives, he will be well-and-truly leaving me. 

Go away, I want to tell him, and succeed beyond my wildest dreams.