Harvard Lady

My dad thinks he's clever. And he is, but sometimes his "smart little tricks" don't work out, and that's when the rest of the family is triumphant. When he and I were flying back from Boston over the end of first term break, he told me his oh-so-brilliant strategy of buying the window seat and the aisle seat on flights. This way, he explained, there is a high chance that the middle seat will remain open and we'll get more space. Just before the plane doors shut, a fat lady in a lumpy maroon sweatshirt toddled towards our row. I gave my dad a look. He avoided my singing eye contact.

She sat down and her hips, barely contained by her own black yoga pants, spilled into my seat. I looked out the window at the airport workers in fluorescent vests, pretending not to notice.

Somewhere over Pennsylvania (or wherever,) the three of us created conversation. I told her I was a junior in high school, that the two of us had been looking at colleges. Amherst, I listed, and BC. "And Boston U, his alma mater," I finished, jabbing my thumb at my dad.

"And Harvard, I see." She had seen my newly purchased hooded sweatshirt, capital letters spelling out the school synonymous with prestige, potential, promise.

I made a face. "We were only visiting a few friends there." I pointed at my dad again. "He said he'd buy me a sweatshirt if I promised to apply."

"You know, my whole family went to Harvard."

"Really?" I was surprised. I mean, a whole family going to Harvard! And, well, I'd misjudged her.

"Except me. I didn't get in."

"...oh."

She waved away my sympathy like it was a pesky fly in the air. "I decided I didn't need to. My family still loved me. I had a grand old time in college. Everything turned out okay."

She told me what she did now, compared herself to her uncles and aunts and brothers and

sisters. My dad joined in the conversation every once in awhile, throwing me a few knowing looks now and then.

The plane landed in good time, and as soon as it hit the tarmac, I whipped out my cell phone and typed a text to myself: "Harvard Lady, Boston, don't forget." We pulled into our designated gate at MSP Airport. The other passengers lept into the aisle at the first chance (everyone always does that, even though they'll just be standing there for ten minutes. I still don't get that.) Harvard lady scooted her large backside in front of my dad and took her carry-on from the overhead compartment. She waddled away, her fleshy hand gripped around the handle of her luggage.

Isn't it funny, that even though she was the lone member of her family without that ordained acceptance letter, I'll still know her as Harvard Lady?