There comes a time in every American college student's life when she must confront the fact that her best friend did not arise from a vacuum - that her friend did, in fact have a life, home and family before college. With campus diversity increasing, your best friend could be the lovechild of a former cult member and a New York financier. Maybe her parents were one of those Dartmouth "power couples." Regardless of how your friend arrived at her existence, it's this sort of thing one discovers during Sophomore Summer Parents' Weekend or a get-away to your best friends' native New England or Tri-State Area enclave.
If you're especially lucky, you will get to see your friend in his or her native environment, instead of the face her parents put on for the other chino'd adults. For me, that time was two weekends ago, and the place was Bayside. - Bayside, Queens, that is.
If I may confess, I have wanted to go to Queens since freshman year, when the first skinny-jeaned people I met talked about how they were hipsters (something I later learned a hipster would never do) and how at least one of them lived in Queens. I admit, however, that my hajj had an ulterior motive: meeting the mythical New York Jew.
Now I recognize that Queens is not the right borough for this sort of a thing, but I'm from Georgia: give me a break. Being a Jew from Georgia yes, we do exist I understand New York Jews to be socialized differently, in a way that means more bagels, less grits, and in general less explaining to your first grade class that Channukah is not "Jewish" for Christmas.
It was a long drive from Hanover to Bayside, but it was well worth the exorbitant fees of New York toll booths. Not only did I wake up from my nap in the Buick to a driveway with people eager to envelop my roommate, but I exited the car, shoeless and un-presentable, to the soundtrack of thick Queens accents. More importantly, they were accompanied by a particular Queens attitude.
"Are you hungry? You must be hungry. You want some salami? Are you thirsty? We've got beer, wine, water. You want water? Do you need to go to the bathroom? There's a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Here's some salami. Take anything, take whatever you want!" This is a direct quote from Aunt Karen.
I'm not sure what that meant, but my roommate's high school-age brother shrugged and said, "Well, take whatever you want."
Very hospitable people, these Baysiders, if a little overwhelming, and whatever their welcoming strategy, they all had impeccably arranged hair. I remarked on Aunt Karen's, to which she replied un-ironically, "Hair is a very important thing in this household." Her husband or as he as known by his kids' friends, the Silver Fox strolled in five minutes later, fresh from working out;. Likewise, his hairdo could have been plucked from a Redken ad , all the way down to his earring.
My roommate's family was so willing to squeeze me into their familial vortex that the grandfather figure even lectured me on career options.
"You're studying English? What do you want to study books for? Do something useful," he croaked caringly.
"Well...I might be interested in doing some sort of law," was my weak response.
Enter the Silver Fox.
"I was just in Boston doing business and you know what the guy at the consulting firm majored in? Comparative literature! What the hell is comparative literature? Incredible"
You mean how vindicating for me, Silver Fox.
In the middle of dinner, Aunt Karen got up to make a toast. To family.
"I'm so glad everyone can be here together, my wonderful smart niece, and my nephew, and my two sons, and Grandma, and my sister-in-law and everyone, and my niece's roommate look we met a new person and Grandpa"
It was only mildly overshadowed by the drunk girl at the table behind us bonking her head on the booth and then falling under the table. When I had to ship off for Manhattan shortly after the toast, all eleven people hawkeyed my plate to see how much I'd eaten.
"Look! She even eats like a Southerner!" Someone said.
"We should all eat so slowly," Grandma intoned, "I've read it's healthier."
When I finally got on the train, I was a little sad to leave the family. My premature nostalgia, even if muted by the prattle of clubbers on the 10:56 to Penn Station, was not unwarranted. They were well worth missing.
When I came back from the city on Sunday morning, I was uneasy. I had really tied one on the night before, slept only a couple of hours, and looked, for all intents and purposes, rough. I felt that I should be as presentable as they had been hospitable only two nights before. It was rude of me to appear in such a condition, which I apologized somewhat incoherently for immediately upon yet another gracious driveway reception.
The fact that my roommate's aunt was willing to overlook my resemblance to Charlize Theron in "Monster" was classy, if partly due to the fact that her sons were in the same shape. I think it speaks more to a standard of hospitality. however, that I did not even know existed up North.
Since my roommate and I had to get going, we hugged her relatives goodbye, accepted the water bottles "for the road" and left for the gas station. After going in to ask the attendant for help with the pumps, my roommate came out irritated.
"Queens is the worst place to need help. People are just such jerks about everything here. He just insinuated that I was stupid and couldn't pump gas or something."
While this may or may not be the case, the juxtaposition only highlighted the merits of her own family's behavior all of which leads to the ultimate question.
Did meeting her family help me understand my friend better? Yes. Like any good novel, history contextualizes her, enriches her as it were. Moreover, her family is so goddamned warm and open that it'd be hard not to just like them.
Now I not only know why her response to any crisis is, "Are you healthy? You're going to be fine" - her family is explosively demonstrative - and why she also thinks her mission in life is to have beautiful Jewish children, even if I still can't quite understand how she's so reserved. Of course, we must leave something to genetics.
While you might say such an experience is particular to me or my roommate, I challenge you to visit any of your friends' families and tell me that it doesn't explain something about them.
