did just now, that to this day I have never been immunized.
—MY INTERVIEW FOR THE Gates scholarship took place at St. John’s College
in Annapolis. The campus was intimidating, with its immaculate lawns
and crisp colonial architecture. I sat nervously in the corridor, waiting
to be called in for my interview; I felt stiff in the pantsuit and clung
awkwardly to Robin’s handbag. But in the end, Professor Steinberg
had written such a powerful letter of recommendation that there was
little left for me to do.
I received confirmation the next day: I’d won the scholarship.
The phone calls began—from BYU’s student paper and the local
news. I did half a dozen interviews. I was on TV. I awoke one morning
to find my picture plastered on BYU’s home page. I was the third BYU
student ever to win a Gates scholarship, and the university was taking
full advantage of the press. I was asked about my high school
experience, and which of my grade school teachers had prepared me
for my success. I dodged, I parried, I lied when I had to. I didn’t tell a
single reporter that I’d never gone to school.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t tell them. I just couldn’t stand the
thought of people patting me on the back, telling me how impressive I
was. I didn’t want to be Horatio Alger in someone’s tear-filled homage
to the American dream. I wanted my life to make sense, and nothing in
that narrative made sense to me.
—A MONTH BEFORE MY graduation, I visited Buck’s Peak. Dad had read the
articles about my scholarship, and what he said was, “You didn’t
mention home school. I’d think you’d be more grateful that your
mother and I took you out of them schools, seeing how it’s worked out.
You should be telling people that’s what done it: home school.”
I said nothing. Dad took it as an apology.
He disapproved of my going to Cambridge. “Our ancestors risked
their lives to cross the ocean, to escape those socialist countries. And
what do you do? You turn around and go back?”
Again, I said nothing.