Relearning Family Life

I greet my parents in a chunky Cal sweatshirt much thicker than the heat wave warrants. Two ruby beauties, on my neck and left collarbone, and wearing a scarf in this weather is out of the question. I tried arnica gel, I tried concealer, and in the end, settled for a sweatshirt, counting on the crumpled hood to hide those, yep, you guessed it, hickies.

As my family piles out of the car, I leap into their arms, first my mom and then my dad, who can give a bear hug even if he is a Stanford alumnus.

My mom surveys me at arms length with maternal concern, noting my bony shoulders, the dark circles under my eyes, the skinned knee, souvenirs from a particularly brutal finals week. At last, she decides not to file damage claims against the University and releases me, but then—

“Honey, what’s this?” My neck.

My doe eyes would impress Lana del Rey. “It’s probably a rash from my sports bra. Sometimes there’s chaffing…when it’s hot.”

She’s buying it. And then my dad comes over. “Looks like a hickie.”

Dad, please, so much is wrong with this.

My mom’s reaction, for instance: “Ooh, who gave you the hickie?”

I dodge her query, play it cool. “Nothing happened, God, we just hooked up.”

A paroxysm of horror rolls over her face like the Northridge earthquake; her eyebrows take shelter in her hairline. “What does that mean?”

“Kissing, mom, what do you think it means?”

My first night in the house, my younger sister and I mashed out an old duet on the piano, struggling to remember four-year-old chords and arrangements. Needless to say, I hit a few wrong notes.

“F—!”

My mother’s reading glasses flashed fire in the next room as she lifted her head from her desk. Realizing my blunder, I dropped an involuntary “shit.”

My sister giggled.

I could have strangled myself. “Darn.”

When I started this post, I had plans to joke about vocabulary and lifestyle contrasts between college and “The World Beyond.” Problem is, we’re not going to stop drinking or closing down cafes or oversleeping or eating weird food, so all that’s left is to remind you that the wickedly nebulous phrase “hook up”—which I use to mean anything shy of sleeping together, some use to mean anything more than a peck on the cheek, and some use as an innocent “hang out”—meant full Horizontal Naked Dance to our parents’ generation. Best not to use that phrase at home. Actually, just give it up in general. Love’s complicated enough without language that can stump Urban Dictionary.

But with the boilerplate special bundled away, let’s get to the real meat here.

For the nine months I spent in Berkeley, excluding a few scrambled weeks in December and March, I inhabited a world where using the same mug every day—and washing it almost every month—is socially acceptable, meals are opportunistic, language is as liberal as the political views we express with it, bedtime is tomorrow, morning is afternoon, and clothing is optional.

Now I share a house with my parents, three cats, two dogs, and two siblings. From a purely materialistic perspective, I’ve got it pretty good. There’s a kitchen stocked with luxuries like allspice, baking powder, plantains, Dijon mustard, cupcake pans, baking parchment, lox, saffron, and live yeast. There’s a piano. The microwave is not possessed with a maniacal desire to cause mass blackouts. Food is free. So is laundry. There’s a car. Better yet, there’s parking.

And let’s be real, I missed home this past school year. I love Cal, but I have always cherished my family, confiding in my sisters, seeking advice from the parents who have made my Berkeley education economically and emotionally possible. Coming home hasn’t felt like a prison sentence.

Yet many Golden Bears had to fly or drive or maybe just BART to homes where they never fit in. Many of my peers support themselves at college; maybe their families discouraged them in leaving for Berkeley. Maybe they feel pressure about certain majors or careers, get grief for participating in Greek life or activism, hate their siblings or have none. Transitioning back into a former life has probably challenged them. And even I have had to relearn family life; or, perhaps more accurately, I’ve had to learn how to live with a new family. The dynamic I left behind in August will never come back.

The first lesson for me as I pop Claritin like popcorn and snuggle with my darling kitten: this summer, we get to redefine ourselves. We can rebuild friendships formerly strangled by competition and drama in high school. We can demonstrate emotional, intellectual, and economic maturity to our families. Even students who never quite fit in at home now have new authority in distinguishing themselves from their family—you lived through freshmen year. You are no longer a minor and dependent, you’re a functioning adult.

So, rather than reprimanding you for colorful language, I’ll stick to four personas to avoid this summer as you continue the transition back to family life.

 

Don’t be a hero.

“It ain’t the same ‘round these parts,” I’m thinking on a muggy summer night with my two sisters smothered in their social media, my mom scratching through bills, my dad on a plane to some distant business trip. I let a little of the camp counselor slide into my voice as I try to coax my family into joining me for a sit-down dinner reminiscent of the years before I graduated.

Call it love, call it ego, but I’ve internally shouldered the blame for every negative development in the last year. And I’m probably not alone. I want to protect and care for my family, and during the stress of dead week, I promised myself that a few days of downtime at home would fix everything. So I’ve been disappointed on both counts.

 

Don’t be a genius.

As I packed up my dorm room during Finals Week, I imagined all the stories I have to tell, the victories to recount. I would impress my younger sisters with my thrilling and glamorous college life. The eldest and first to leave for college, I finally had the upper hand in our eternal sibling rivalry.

To my chagrin, both of my younger sisters greeted me with incredible new music and gossip. My middle sister taught me the latest dirty jokes and delivered serious advice about the drama in my life. My youngest sister showed maturity beyond my years when she complimented me on my writing and set out to teach me about the best television shows.

Takeaway—you can learn from younger siblings. Actually—big shock coming here—you can’t always pick out teachers for their raspy voice, reptilian expression, filing cabinet of degrees and chalky slacks.

So you’re double-majoring at the numbahr wahn univuhrsity in the wurhld.*

You and a couple thousand other undergraduates. Get over yourself.

Yes, families pile on the academic pressure, and it’s tempting to show off for this audience. Yes, there will be uncles who tell you that journalism is dead and grandmothers who don’t understand that a UCB+ in Chem 1A is just as impressive as an A+ was in high school.

But don’t brag about your fancy internship or flaunt the achievements of your professors. More importantly, don’t feel guilty for working as a lifeguard or a barista. You haven’t disappointed anyone, and you are under no obligation to live up to the ridiculous fanfare with which the general public regards our school.

The genius factor at Berkeley is overrated.

 

Don’t be a victim.

At Berkeley, used dishes with artfully placed forks constitute an inalienable part of the dorm aesthetic. They are decorations, paperweights, and occasionally, chemistry experiments. At home, I have to hang up the shower mat, soak my bowls before oatmeal welds to the rim, put dirty clothes in a hamper, fold and put away clean laundry—no chair piling allowed—and feed the cats. Although my parents spoiled me over Spring Break, living long-term with Mom and Dad again doesn’t mean 24-hour maid service. To make matters worse, my first year of college, which taught me to savor four-day-old pizza and reuse socks (ew), has supposedly imparted the responsibility to maintain a parent’s standard of cleanliness.

But I needed a job, I needed a break from Berkeley, and I definitely can’t afford to jet set around the world. And until they lock me up in a steel-walled geriatric ward, I will have to deal with people of different age groups—mentors, mentees, bosses, coworkers, children…might as well coexist with parents. If you’re in the same boat, let’s not make it as the Titanic. We are still ambassadors from Berkeley.

I spent four days shuffling around in an oversize Berkeley nightshirt and my pink-pantied ass hanging out the back before I realized that this sullen, gaunt, lazy caffeine addict hardly pitched a compelling sale for our wonderful school.

Who’s going to tell her about midnight movies with my dorm friends, or the joy of sorority brunch? Who’s going to tell her that Peet’s espresso tastes like chocolate? Who’s going to tell her about the English lectures that moved me to tears or the late-night debates? How do I describe the vitality on Sproul or the smell of jasmine in the spring?

I’m not saying you should roll out the gold and blue balloons or CAL frosted football helmet cupcakes (please, it’s not worth your dignity), but especially if your parents foot the CARS bill, show a little gratitude. And do the goddamn dishes.

 

Don’t be an absentee.

Over our first dinner conversation this summer, my dad walked me through every cocktail known to man, explained the distillation processes of various liquors, taught me the dollar-rule for beer (if a 6-pack is more than $6, or $1 for one beer, it’s legit). My mom texts me “wtf,” “af,” and “dgaf.” She likes the song “Let It Go.” She went Greek at UCLA, so I call her for advice on sorority life. Whether or not you are lucky enough to have parents that survived college too, parents have watched us grow up for years. They see us from an outsider’s perspective and evaluate us with an insider’s blunt honesty. They get it. They get us. The worst mistake is to shut them out entirely.

If you are the only child or the first to go away to college, your homecoming returns life to its former equilibrium. Be that life giver! Be that joy-bringer! Have dinner with your parents a few nights a week. Volunteer to help out in the garden. Walk the dogs. Don’t use the stress of Dead Week to be a sullen, shuffling wad of sweatpants and runaway misanthropy. That was so eighth grade.

This summer, I’m sharing my former bedroom with my younger sister. Last night, as we dozed off, we whispered about clothes we liked. She recommended new TV shows, movies I’d never seen, songs I’d never heard. Then we talked about nightmares, forms of death we fear most, what else we’ll do this summer. As I crumpled into sleep on my rollaway cot, I realized: the real conversation happens here not over Skype calls that start to sound like itineraries. “And then I ate a sandwich at the GBC, and then I went my Political Science lecture. And then I went for a run…”

I missed my sister, her high school impulsivity, her zest for life.

There is a thin line between accepting a new family dynamic and forfeiting your role in it. As I boxed up my dorm room for the drive home, a crushing realization shot through me: I had no dresser for my clothes. My sister repainted my old bedroom, sold my old furniture, and adopted my bedspread. All the changes that had taken place in my absence—from new teachers replacing old mentors at my high school to favorite businesses closing up shop for good—meant nothing without this immediate physical need, want, lack, void…call it what you want, I had no dresser for my running shorts or purple socks.

Point being—it will take effort for me to outline my space at home again and over the last month I’ve made strides. I’ve been putting up posters, hanging pictures, sticking postcards to the wall, stocking the kitchen with my idiosyncratic favorites—almond milk, Lucky Charms, Pink Lady (but no other species) apples—and leaving my clothes everywhere to remind the world that I live here too.

So if you’ve moved back in with your parents for the entire break, don’t “crash” in your old house. Live there.