Page 44 of Through Quick and Quinn
Throughout my childhood and adolescence, not once did I watch even one second of a sports event. Growing up in America, however, I had heard of March Madness and had a vague understanding of what it was: a college basketball tournament.
During my junior year in high school, I ascertained that perhaps the people of the basketball realm were onto something. All around me, I sensed stress, instability, and quick-tempered fuses. Our own version of March Madness.
At school, we were studying for tests and writing papers, all the while the end-of-school-year exams were looming over us. There was a readiness for Spring Break that was palpable, for both students and faculty alike. An uptick in hallway arguments over minor things, like accidental collisions, had taken hold, as well as an increase in students being ejected to the office for disciplinary action. Student stress was high, teacher tolerance was low, and school was a pasta pot ready to boil over.
Our house was not any calmer. Mom was on a daily rampage. I tried to determine the cause of her irritability so as to gain compassion and understanding. I settled on a mixture of the stress of her upcoming parent-teacher conferences, her hormonal imbalance due to her premenopausal state, and of course the tough time of year ahead regarding our Troy.
I mustered as much compassion as I could, and yet it was still difficult to navigate through our conversations that month. If she wasn’t berating me about college readiness, applications, and resume inclusions, she was demanding that I do more research regarding potential university choices. It didn’t matter if I tried to voice my opinions or if I complied; every instance was a lose-lose situation. She was simply foul.
Midway through this variety of March Madness, it registered with me that perhaps a fourth issue was generating this upheaval. My mom was most likely dealing with the struggle to accept my aging out of our family home.
I stopped trying to tell my mom that I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to college, or at least not right away. I wanted to tell her that most of the things I’m interested in aren’t offered areas of study at typical colleges, and that there are plenty of career opportunities that don’t require me to accrue tens upon tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of debt before I even graduate from college. Alas, she wasn’t hearing me or having it anyway. While I understood that she was under an immense amount of stress, I wanted to tell her that I was, too. She wasn’t the only one who was feeling overwhelmed by responsibilities, emotions, and upcoming changes. I was, too.
I tried talking to Dad, but as close as we were, he was not the type to engage in deep conversations. Besides, there were some things I wanted to talk about with my mom, woman to woman. There was a plethora of things: my different interests, my career desire to help people heal in unconventional ways, the feelings about Quick that I didn’t understand, and the fact that Mandy said hello to me at school. But I knew that trying to have rational conversations with her that month would have been exercises in futility, so I grinned, bore it, and hoped the April showers would wash the madness away.
***
Mandy / 7:19 p.m.
hi it’s mandy
Quinn / 7:32 p.m.
Hi.
7:33 p.m.
how are you
7:33 p.m.
I’m good. You?
7:34 p.m.
good, just thought I would say hi
7:35 p.m.
I’m glad you did.
7:35 p.m.
crazy that we’re almost seniors huh
7:36 p.m.
Yes, it’s definitely hard to wrap my brain around.
7:37 p.m.
are ur parents freaking out about college and stuff too
7:37 p.m.
Yes! Oh my gosh, it’s good to know it’s not just me!
7:38 p.m.
