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MATRICULATION FIXATION
Matriculation fixation
Two years ago, I was languishing in the waiting room of a Philadelphia hospital when a complete stranger unexpectedly began telling me about his daughter's college plans. As my 79-year-old mother was recovering from major surgery that afternoon, I could not give him my complete and undivided attention. But as the briefing session wore on, I did manage to garner most of the relevant details.

The girl, bright but not brilliant, had been accepted to a first-tier university without financial aid but had also been accepted to a local, second-echelon university where she was promised a free ride. Money being tight, with other college-bound children in the family queue, the man had persuaded his daughter to accept the second university's offer. Now he was worried that she would one day rue this decision. Because she would be graduating from a less prestigious institution, fewer contacts would be made and fewer doors would be opened. Her degree would put her within striking distance of the yellow brick road, but not physically on the road itself. Did this make her father the spawn of Satan?

As a man of the world accustomed to being told the most intimate details about complete strangers' marriages, careers and hobbies, I had long ago acquired the requisite skills to mediate this crisis. I told the man that many of my high school chums had graduated from the second-tier university in question and had gone on to live rich, full lives.

I told him that I myself had graduated from a second-echelon Philadelphia university not unlike the one his daughter was entering, and had managed to carve out a nice little niche for myself. I told him that my college days had been among the happiest of my life, that the sun never set without my thanking God for the illumination and inspiration provided by my talented, dedicated professors. Pressed for biographical data, I explained that I was a freelance writer, ticked off a list of my credentials and said I was pretty happy with the way my career had turned out.

The man had never heard of me, had never read anything I'd written. Though he tried to feign interest in my pathetic curriculum vitae, I could see that he was devastated. By following an academic path similar to mine, his daughter, who was also planning a career in journalism, was going to end up as big a failure as I.

I never did find out why he was visiting the hospital.

I mention this incident because it illustrates the neurotic gabbiness that afflicts parents when it comes time to send their children to college. I know whereof I speak. Next fall, my daughter goes to college. Three years later my son will follow suit. I will be sorry to see them go; over the years they have proved to be remarkably amusing. But every dark cloud has a silver lining. Once my children have left the house, I will never again have to participate in a mind-numbing discussion about where my children or my friends' children or my neighbors' children are going to college, and why. On this subject, I am completely tapped out.

This lack of interest does not stem from pure selfishness or unalloyed contempt for other people's offspring. Rather, I feel this way because I find almost all conversations about the college selection process to be banal, self-aggrandizing, self-flagellatory or punitive. I'd rather talk about cribbage.

The most infuriating conversation is the one where the parent clearly seeks a decisive, career-validating moment of emotional closure. Such individuals believe that securing admission to a top-flight university provides a child with an irrevocable passport to success, guaranteeing a life of uninterrupted economic mirth. Parents such as these upwardly mobile chuckleheads exude an almost Prussian belligerence when announcing their children's destinations, congratulating themselves on a job well done, while issuing a sotto voce taunt to parents of the less gifted. For them, the hard part of child rearing is now over. Junior went to the right prep school, made the right friends, signed up for the right activities and is now headed for the right school. Now we can get the heck out of here and move to Tuscany.

But in reality, life doesn't end at age 17. Or 21. In real life, some children get the finest educations but still become first-class screw-ups. My own profession is filled with people who went to the right school but ended up in the wrong career. (They should have been flacks; the phone ringing in the next room is not and never will be the Pulitzer committee.) Some of those boys and girls most likely to succeed are going to end up on welfare or skid row. At which point they'll need parental input. Or cash. A parent's responsibility doesn't end once the kids leave. A parent's responsibility never ends. That's why Nature gives you the job.

A second, far more numerous class of obsessives consists of people who suddenly realize that their Brand X children aren't going to make the cut. Seventeen years of unread textbooks, unvisited museums and untaken A.P. courses are now finally taking their toll, and those grandiose delivery-room dreams of Amherst, Bard and Duke are suddenly going up in smoke. Bashfully, shamefacedly, miserably, these parents now mumble the names of the glamourless institutions their progeny are skulking off to. Invariably, they are colleges you never heard of in towns no one wants to visit in states whose capitals only repeat winners on ''Jeopardy'' can name. The market has spoken, the glum parental expressions seem to say. My child is an idiot.

But once again, reality has a way of upsetting the worst-laid plans of mice and Mensa. Some kids are late bloomers. Some kids are better off in a less competitive environment. Lots of people achieve huge success in this society without a degree from a prestigious university. Just because your child has failed to clear the first, or even the 20th, hurdle doesn't mean you should disown him. Matisse didn't get rolling until he was in his 40's. Bill Gates, David Geffen, Michael Dell, Graydon Carter and Madonna are all college dropouts. Ronald Reagan attended tiny Eureka College, while Warren Buffet went to Football U in Lincoln, Neb. Despite what you may have read in F. Scott Fitzgerald (who dropped out of Princeton in 1917), life doesn't have just one act. There is often Act II. And Act V. Not to mention the sequels.

Matriculation fixation reaches its dottiest form during the obligatory campus visit. Here it is never entirely clear what parents are looking for, particularly in high-profile institutions whose renown has in some way preceded them. During a recent visit to M.I.T., I watched the first 30 seconds of an admissions office video poking fun at the university's reputation as a nerd factory. While my wife and daughter watched the rest of the video, which assured applicants that M.I.T. nerds were hard to find, I took a stroll around the campus. I saw a lot of nerds. And I do not mean this as a criticism.

Later that morning, a guide showed a bunch of us around campus. At one juncture, she pointed out a restaurant where students could grab a fast, inexpensive meal. ''How much?'' asked one high-strung mother. ''About eight bucks,'' she was told. The woman shuddered, noting that forking over $8 for dinner every night could get pretty darned expensive.

''It's going to cost you 40 grand to send your kid to school here, I interjected''''Don't start worrying about dinner prices.''

Since that visit this fall, this incident has become an invaluable part of my repertory. Now, whenever I am dragooned into the 30,000th interminable conversation about the college selection process I indicate that sedulous monitoring of on-campus restaurant prices should be a vital component of the winnowing procedure, particularly vis-脿-vis panini. People who hear me say things like this can't decide whether I am insensitive or ornery or flat-out dumb. Well, let's just put it this way: I was never M.I.T. material.

1. 两年前的一天，我坐在费城一所医院的大厅里焦急地等待着，一位素不相识的人突然向我讲述了他女儿的大学就读计划。由于那天下午我79岁的老母亲刚动了大手术，还没醒过来，我无法全神贯注地听他的叙述。但是随着他讲述的深入，我却记住了其中的大部分与话题有关的细节。  
2.   这位女生虽然算不上出类拔萃，但还算出色，她已经被一所一流名牌大学接受，不过没有助学金。与此同时，一所当地的二大学也录取了她，并承诺全免学费。由于家里还有几个孩子排在后面将上大学，经济自然有些紧，这位父亲便说服 女儿接受了第二所大学的录取通知。现在，他担心她某天会 懊 悔 这个决定，因为她将来毕业的学校名气较小，结交不广，为她敞开的大门也少些。虽然她的学位证书使她离通往 成功的黄金大道并不遥远，但却不会把她直接放在这条大道上。   
3.   我本世俗百姓，对一些陌生人的婚姻、职业和嗜好最为私密的细枝末节耳熟能详，因此很早便掌握了调解这类危机的必备技巧。我告诉这位男士，我许多高中同学都毕业于这所 二流大学，但他们都过上了丰富而充实的生活。  
4.   我告诉他，我自己就毕业于费城一所二流大学，和她女儿要就读的学校并无二致，而我也已在世上为自己找到了一小块立足之地。我还告诉他，我的大学岁月是我人生中最快乐的时光，教授们既有才识又很敬业，对他们的教诲和启发我永怀感恩之心。他又追问我的个人情况，我解释说我是个自由 作家，我扼要罗列了自己的资历，还告诉他我对自己的职业生涯也很满意。  
5.   这位父亲从来没有听说过我，也没有读过我的作品。尽管他对我那可怜的履历佯装兴趣，我依然看出他已经崩溃了。他女儿也计划从事新闻行业，如果走上和我一样的学术道路，最终也会像我一样失败。  
6. 我始终没有弄明白他为什么去那医院。 
7. 我之所以提及此事，是因为它折射了在该送孩子上大学的时刻到来时家长们神经质到了什么程度。我知道我在说什么。明年秋天，我的女儿就要上大学了；三年之后，我的 儿子也要跟着上大学。看着他们离开家门，我会难过。这些年，他俩带给了我无尽的欢乐。但是事情总是有两面性的。我的孩子离家后，我将不必再加入到那些令人头脑麻木的讨论，探讨我自己的孩子或者哪个朋友或邻居的孩子上哪所 大学啦，为什么要上那所大学啦。在这个话题上，我已经 彻底落伍了。  
8.  我对此不感兴趣，并非因为我自私，也不纯粹是因为我瞧不起别人的子女，而是因为我发现，这类关于择校的谈话几乎都很庸俗乏味，不是自吹自擂，就是自我贬损。与此相比，我宁愿聊聊怎么打纸牌。  
9.   最令人愤慨的是，在有些讨论中，家长显然是想替孩子做主，决定孩子的职业，并从中得到情感上的满足。这些人相信，进入一流大学等于拿到了通向成功的无限期护照和一生财运亨通的保证。这些一心往上爬的傻瓜家长们，在宣告自己孩子的归宿并庆贺自己干了件好事的同时，也流露出了一副普鲁士式的好斗，低声挖苦那些子女天赋不高的父母。天赋不高的父母。对他们而言，抚养孩子最艰难的部分已经熬过去了。孩子初中毕业上了对头的预备学校，交上对头的朋友，参加了对头的活动，现在又瞄准了对头的大学。现在我们可以闪人离开这儿搬到托斯卡纳了。  
10.  但在现实中，人生并非止步于17岁，也不止步于21岁！在现实生活中，有些孩子虽然接受了最好的教育，但人生却糟糕无比。做我这行的，不少人虽上对了名校，但最终却入错了行。那些最有可能成功的少男少女之中，有些最终将靠福利救济生活，或者沦落于贫民区，需要父母的接济。父母的责任并不止于孩子离开家门之时，父母的责任永远不会完结，这就是为什么大自然赋予你当父母的职责。  
11.  第二类人是数目更为庞大的强迫症患者，他们突然意识到，自己平庸的孩子将不会有出息。17年没有好好读过书，没有参观过博物馆，没有修过的高级预备课程，现在终于酿成恶果，那些步入阿默斯特学院、巴德学院和杜克大学宏伟的演讲大厅之梦瞬间化为乌有。这些家长们羞愧难当，无地自容，咕哝着那些名不见经传的学校名字，他们的孩子正 要灰溜溜地到那儿读书了。毫无例外，这些学校在人们闻所未闻且都无人知晓的小镇上，连它们所在州的首府也只有那些《勇闯险关》节目的多次获 胜者才知道。脸色凝重的家长似乎在说，市场说了算，我的孩子是笨蛋 ！  
12.  然而，现实总能打乱老鼠和门萨策划得最糟糕的计划。有些孩子开窍较晚，有些孩子则在竞争不太激烈的环境中表现更优秀。许多人虽然没有名校的学位，但在社会上照样成就斐然。同样，你也不应该仅仅因为孩子没跨过人生第一道、甚至第二十道栏杆，就不认他。马蒂斯40多岁才成名，比尔·盖茨、大卫·格芬、迈克尔·戴 尔、格雷顿·卡特和麦当娜 都曾在大学中途辍学 。罗纳德·里根曾就读的是很小的尤里卡学院，沃伦·巴菲特上的则是内布拉斯加州林肯市的足球学校。即便你可能读过弗·斯科特·菲茨杰拉德（其本人于1917年从普林斯顿退学）小说中的故事，人生并非一出独幕剧，通常还有第二幕和第五幕，更不要说续篇了。上述择校问题之荒唐程度，莫过于人们按规定参观大学校园时看到的景象了。家长们根本不清楚自己想要什么，特别是在那些引人注目、名声在外的学校。最近我们到麻省理工学院参观，我看了30秒钟招生办公室摄制的视频，该段视频自嘲地说该校是个书呆子工厂。随后，我妻子和女儿继续观看视频，听它向申请的学生保证说，麻省理工学院生产的是人间难觅的书呆子，而我则在校园漫步。我真的看到了很多书呆子。我这么说并非指责他们什么。  
13.  那天早晨晚些时候，一位导游带我们一群人参观了校园。走到一处，她指给我们一个餐厅说，学生可以在那里买到便宜的快餐。“一顿多少钱？”一位母亲兴奋地问。“八美元，”导游回答道。这位妇女不禁打了个哆嗦，说每天晚餐八美元实在太贵了。   
14. “你得花四万美元才能送你的孩子到这里上学，”我插了一句，“请先不要担心晚餐的价格 。”  
15.  自从今年秋天参观了这个校园之后，这件事就成了我的一个重要的保留话题。现在，每当我被卷入有关大学择校的无休止的讨论时，我就表示校园餐厅价格的持续监管，尤其是帕尼尼三明治的价格，也应成为大学择校的一项重要参考指标。那些听过我的类似言论的人，也无从判别我到底是感觉迟钝，脾气乖戾，还是纯粹是个白痴。不过，我们可以这么说：我从来就不是上麻省理工学院的那块料。

A Conversational Ballgames

By Nancy Masterson Sakamoto

1 After I was married and had lived in Japan for a while, my Japanese gradually improved to the point where I could take part in simple conversations with my husband, his friends, and family. And I began to notice that often, when I joined in, the others would look startled, and the conversation would come to a halt. After this happened several times, it became clear to me that I was doing something wrong. But for a long time, I didn’t know what it was.
2 Finally, after listening carefully to many Japanese conversations, I discovered what my problem was. Even though I was speaking Japanese, I was handling the conversation in a western way.
3 Japanese-style conversations develop quite differently from western-style conversations. And the difference isn’t only in the languages. I realized that just as I kept trying to hold western-style conversations even when I was speaking Japanese, so were my English students trying to hold Japanese-style conversations even when they were speaking English. We were unconsciously playing entirely different conversational ballgames.
4 A western-style conversation between two people is like a game of tennis. If I introduce a topic, a conversational ball, I expect you to hit it back. If you agree with me, I don’t expect you simply to agree and do nothing more. I expect you to add something- a reason for agreeing, another example, or a remark to carry the idea further. But I don’t expect you always to agree. I am just as happy if you question me, or challenge me, or completely disagree with me. Whether you agree or disagree, your response will return the ball to me.
5 And then it is my turn again. I don’t serve a new ball from my original starting line. I hit your ball back again from where it has bounced. I carry your idea further, or answer your questions or objections, or challenge or question you. And so the ball goes back and forth.
6 If there are more than two people in the conversation, then it is like doubles in tennis, or like volleyball. There’s no waiting in line. Whoever is nearest and quickest hits the ball, and if you step back, someone else will hit it. No one stops the game to give you a turn. You’re responsible for taking your own turn and no one person has the ball for very long.
7 A Japanese-style conversation, however, is not at all like tennis or volleyball, it’s like bowling. You wait for your turn, and you always know your place in line. It depends on such things as whether you are older or younger, a close friend or a relative stranger to the previous speaker, in a senior or junior position, and so on.
8 The first thing is to wait for your turn, patiently and politely. When your moment comes, you step up to the starting line with your bowling ball, and carefully bowl it. Everyone else stands back, making sounds of polite encouragement. Everyone wait until your ball has reached the end of the lane, and watches to see if it knocks down all the pins, or only some of them, or none of them. Then there is a pause, while everyone register your score.
9 Then, after everyone is sure that you are done, the next person in line steps up to the same starting line, with a different ball. He doesn’t return your ball. There is no back and forth at all. And there is always a suitable pause between turns. There is no rush, no impatience.
10 No wonder everyone looked startled when I took part in Japanese conversations. I paid no attention to whose turn it was, and kept snatching the ball halfway down the alley and throwing it back at the bowler. Of course the conversation fell apart, I was playing the wrong game.
11 This explains why it can be so difficult to get a western-style discussion going with Japanese students of English. Whenever I serve a volleyball, everyone just stands back and watches it fall. No one hits it back. Everyone waits until I call on someone to take a turn. And when that person speaks, he doesn’t hit my ball back. He serves a new ball. Again, everyone just watches it fall. So I call on someone else. This person does not refer to what the previous speaker has said. He al