Saturday's Child by Deborah Burns

Author:Deborah Burns
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2019-04-20T16:00:00+00:00

The Bloom

Ilaunched into my college search knowing that I would join the newspaper before I even registered for any classes. I surrendered to the writing dream and, although my parents and aunts cheered me on, I selected a college like a novice at a horse race—one who places bets by what feels right, like a name or a color, versus any intimate knowledge of the contenders or stats. It’s stunning to me now, but I never even considered going away or thought of leaving home to be on my own. I just completely ruled it out, attributing it to some arbitrary certainty that dorm life wasn’t for me. The truth was that leaving felt like quicksand at the end of a mossy, wild-branched path. It was too soon to leave her. I was nowhere near ready. I would stay close.

I did all of my own research, a massive college directory in hand. It was so heavy that I had to invent a feet-together yoga position to be able to balance it in my lap while I flipped through. I narrowed it down to colleges within a daily commuting distance and ripped those pages out. The other crucial requirement was a good journalism program, although I have no idea how I determined which ones were good or not. Also, the school had to be affordable since my mother had to find the money to pay for it.

The winner was Long Island University’s Brooklyn campus, but its commuting distance meant there was one more thing my mother had to fund—a car. I saved everything I could from my after-school job at the elegant British emporium Arnold Constable, which was at the time the US’s oldest department store. Two or three days after school, I would take the subway to Manhattan with my friend and fellow part-timer Diana to join the distinctly proper staff behind the beauty counters and in the fashion aisles. I loved everything about the job—it was more than just the feeling of having my own money, it was having all the answers to the perfunctory question, “How may I help you?” That simple ask revealed each female customer’s predicament and story, and I was the one to guide her on her quest.

I had just earned my driver’s license when my meager bankroll joined my mother’s larger stash to acquire what I envisioned as the only car for me—a Mustang. This dream vehicle called to me as a real-world incarnation of my plastic country toys, a motorized horse that would take me to and from college along the always-congested Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The lure wasn’t the “stallion” properties of the car so much as its “mare” attributes—I fell in love with its beauty, not its speed; with its style and design, not its roaring engine. The mare of it meant freedom, and I would be holding the reins.

While we searched for a Mustang old enough to be affordable, my mother taught me to drive in her latest Chevrolet—still considered by her to be the best car brand in the world.

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