It was a topic I didn’t want to bring up myself, but I wanted to discuss it. After all, my parents already knew that I was somehow—miraculously, I think—accepted to Columbia University’s grad school for the Fall 2010 term, but for some reason, they weren’t talking about it when they got back from Hong Kong earlier this evening. At all.
Dinner was filled with small talk, as I agonized every other topic that was not related to what I wanted to say.
“What can be done in Singapore?” my dad asked over bites of dimsum.
“Erm… Night Safari?” I suggested.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, nodding to himself. “I’ll look it up later.”
It was maddening. No one, not one, seemed to care about my making it to grad school when I thought it was the biggest deal in the world, primarily because I never even expected to pass at all. Every time someone asked about the colleges I applied to, I always started with a disclaimer: “Hey, I just applied to Columbia just so I could say I tried. I know it’s a really long shot, and I’m not expecting anything, but there you go; it’s too much of me, right?” I would say in a nervous, rushed whisper.
Finally, 40 minutes into dinner, I gave up waiting for someone to say something. I was wondering if the grad school acceptance was actually an overblown event in my mind, and not really something to run, jump, sing and dance about. There was only one way to make sure.
“So, Columbia…” I began.
“What about it?” my mom asked in between bites of chocolate-covered toffee.
“Uh, is it not a big deal to have made it to an Ivy League university?” By then, I knew I sounded like an attention-hogging, needy middle child who needed validation. I admittedly needed the validation, because I spent sleepless weeks working on my application. Plus, the additional months of anxiety after submitting my application were pure hell.
“Oh it is,” my mom said, looking surprised. “When you told us yesterday, we replied to your text right away. I even cried when I found out.”
My younger sister was watching the scene, an amused smile on her lips. “Well, you already had your moment yesterday. But we could make you a banner if you want,” she offered.
“Forget it,” I said, clearly looking pathetic and despondent by then. There were a few more comments, with a few heroic attempts from my mom, to keep the conversation flowing in my favor. But I finally realized no one was really interested. Eventually, dad changed the topic, and they all went up to watch a DVD.
You know what they say about middle children. An article on MSNBC said that “Middle children have to try a little harder to ‘be heard’ or get noticed. The middle child usually has to fight harder for the attention of their parents and therefore crave the family spotlight. They may feel that they do not get as much praise as the older children for simple firsts like tying a shoe or riding a bike. Those things just become expected.”
My youngest sister and I, both middle children (3 girls and a boy, four kids all in all, though my sister claims I’m the “middlest of the middles” because I’m the middle girl as well), get this a lot. She’s an academic achiever and is set to graduate with a degree in Management of Applied Chemistry (I don’t know what it is exactly they do there, but they spout a lot of nerdy terms). Up until high school, I didn’t pay much attention, although I did much better in university and managed to get a couple of scholarships for short courses in journalism abroad. And there’s the crown jewel of my academic career so far: an offered spot in an Ivy League university. Which woefully failed to get the parental reaction I was hoping to have.
Granted, my mom didn’t want to focus on it because I’m still waiting for the word on financial aid (a year at Columbia’s crazy expensive, so selling my kidneys may not be enough), but I had hoped for a little more than a reply to a text message abroad. Somehow, it bugs me that I’m 25 years old, with a lot of things to be proud of on my own, but I can’t feel good about them unless they’re parentally approved. And it makes me feel horrible that my acceptance to grad school, which I was insanely proud of and happy about yesterday, was somehow downgraded because a trick from the family dog usually got more attention than it did.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still over the moon about Columbia. It came at a time in my life when it felt like nothing was going right, and when I doubted myself and what I could do. Regardless if I go or not, the acceptance still means the world to me, and restored a little faith in myself.
Jan Brady, poster girl for Middle Child Syndrome
Back in the ’90s, I used to watch reruns of “The Brady Bunch” on StarWorld. The character I related to the most? You guessed it: Jan Brady, the perpetually insecure middle girl who muttered “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia” to herself whenever her eldest sister got the most attention. Ironically, I prefer to have my parents pay as little attention to me as possible—unless I ask for it, and I was definitely asking for it over dinner. Otherwise, I thrive without living under a magnifying glass. On rare days like this, not having someone listen to what I felt was a big deal to me stung. A lot.
But it’s part of growing up, I guess. When you need your parents less, it also means they’re entitled to pay less attention to you. This is one of those sad, KSP days, but I’m learning how to deal.
I’ll need to, if I ever find myself alone in another city on the other side of the world.
hey! I’d die to study there! but i’ll have to work my ass off in up first, I guess.
How’re you?
Hey PL! What course are you taking in UP?
I’m okay naman, might head to New York this April to check out the Columbia Open House.