As I prepare for a college tour in California this spring break with my 16-year-old son, my husband, and our younger child, I can’t help but reflect on the journey ahead. “Remember, parents, it’s not about you,” say the experts, and while they’re right, this experience signifies so much for our family that I can’t help but think back to my own college exploration days. Parenthood has a way of reviving poignant memories from our past. I distinctly recall being a high school junior, gazing hopefully toward the future.
In 1990, my mom and I took off from Los Angeles to visit various college campuses during my spring break. She was thrilled to take a break from work and make this trip a reality. We cruised up the coast in her trusty Honda Civic, the sounds of U2’s The Joshua Tree filling the car. We stayed in roadside motels, choosing where to stop based on “Vacancy” signs, sharing laughter and singing along to our favorite tunes as we took in the stunning coastal views. Our visit to UC Santa Cruz was short-lived; I leaned over to whisper that there was no chance I would attend that school. My mom, a free-spirited individual, would have thrived there, but I was still navigating the norms of the late ’80s. We did, however, snag a Banana Slug shirt before leaving, a nod to my fondness for quirky mascots even amid my attempts to fit in.
Our road trip was a joyous adventure, filled with anticipation. We didn’t know how we would afford college, but that didn’t dampen our spirits. Now that my son is 16, I can appreciate the unique blend of joy and melancholy that comes with this stage of life—a bittersweet mix of pride, relief, and a touch of heartache.
Before our journey, my mom relocated us from a charming 1920s bungalow near Griffith Park to a more traditional, suburban apartment complex known for its strong school district. I transitioned from a small, alternative magnet school to a larger, more conventional high school, which was undoubtedly better funded. My mom commuted long distances to ensure I received the best educational opportunities, emphasizing the importance of my academic success. As a former literature professor and educational editor, she guided me through writing and studying, while I juggled sports and activities to present a well-rounded application to college admissions—something that was highly valued in the ’90s.
We were like a quirky, liberal immigrant family, navigating a suburban landscape that felt foreign to us. I worked hard to fit in, while my mom remained unapologetically herself. We both understood that college was a given for me, and that it would set the stage for my future. There was never any doubt that hard work would lead to success, and during our spring break road trip, the American Dream felt palpable. Back then, UC schools didn’t charge tuition, and fees were remarkably low—an idyllic time for a high school student from a single-parent household.
Fast forward to today; I find myself wondering how my son perceives his future. What thoughts swirl in his mind about his unconventional mom? Perhaps he’ll share his reflections when he’s older, preparing to take his own child on a college tour. I’m sure our upcoming trip will be enjoyable, with more comforts than my experience—better accommodations, a reliable vehicle, and a wider range of colleges to explore, all without financial stress. I plan to blast The Joshua Tree and roll down the windows for that refreshing ocean breeze.
Despite the upgrades, I doubt we’ll match the sheer joy my mom and I shared back in 1990. That bond, that adventure, was something truly special.
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In summary, taking this college road trip with my son has stirred up a treasure trove of emotions, blending nostalgia with excitement for the future.