A Reason to Believe_ Lessons From an Improbable Life - Deval Patrick [19]
That was part of the burden, the insecurity, of straddling these two worlds, and I could only do it by being true to myself. I was part of both communities, and they were part of me. I certainly did not give up on the people at Milton whom I had come to love. I became a loyal graduate, a trustee, a benefactor, eventually a parent of two students, and a mentor to many other scholarship students. But somehow I knew back then, even during the stirring lectures and quiet revelations, that I would get a great education at the risk of a broken heart.
By the time I went on to Harvard, it was easier to find my bearings in a place that I once would not have been able to contemplate. I knew the basic geography, of course; Harvard Square was at the opposite end of the Red Line from Milton and a frequent destination on weekend excursions with other students. And I was a Milton man at Harvard, after all, surprisingly but indisputably part of a long tradition, so I thought I had a leg up. My freshman roommates were eager young men from Alabama, Iowa, New Jersey, and Belmont, a wealthy suburb of Boston. All of us were afraid of failing or being outed as admissions mistakes, so we worked hard. On the weekends, we dated Wellesley women and went to movies and drank too much. I was trying to belong, to forge an identity, but even at Harvard I could not escape the temptation of false choices.
As a sophomore I was “punched,” or recruited, for one of the Finals Clubs, all-male relics from the days when the campus had no dining facilities. These private social clubs were filled mainly by the wealthy legacy students who had attended private schools. Apparently, one once joined the Hasty Pudding Club as a freshman and took one’s meals there. Then you moved on to your “final” club, where you dined with other members, presumably of the same social set. After a tortured period of being courted at fancy lunches and dinners and rejecting invitations, I finally joined the Fly Club. Roosevelts and Kennedys had passed through the wide door into those cool, dark rooms, so why not me? Even so, except for an occasional black-tie dinner or garden party with the graduates, a cast of marvelous New England characters, I hardly ever went near the place. It was just too expensive and too weird: servants older than my father dressed in livery waiting on nineteen-year-olds, refreshing our drinks and serving us lunch. I should have known something was wrong when I felt embarrassed and apologetic about going into the building. At the time, I just wanted to be validated by one world or the other. In fact, I seemed eligible for neither.
Still, my experience at Harvard was far more positive than not. I made some close friends, and through them, through professors who opened more new worlds for us, and through mentors who inspired us, we burrowed ahead in our effort to be considered part of the elite, which pleased my mother as much as it appalled my father.
I graduated on an overcast day, but I was elated. I was about to join a storied group. My grandparents, mother, and sister came, as did Mrs. Quaintance, my sixth-grade teacher. Their pride and enthusiasm reminded me why this journey mattered.
Later that evening, after graduation was over, we all went out to dinner at a restaurant on Boston Harbor. It was a fun but low-key evening: Everyone was pretty worn out from the abundant festivities Harvard offered to soften us up to become grateful and generous lifelong donors. I caught Rhonda looking at me strangely throughout dinner, and I suspected she was again judging how far I was from what I was supposed to become. She had finished high school, lived in her own apartment, and was working on her cosmetology license. She was living on the South Side and making her way. I was graduating from a prestigious college with no certain plan except to travel overseas. We were clearly on different paths.
After dinner, Rhonda pulled me aside, looked me in the eye, and said softly, “I am so proud of you.