My ‘Tiger Mom’ made a surprise visit at Penn

“Sarvenaz, open the door, I beg of you,” my mom screams from my hall in Provost Smith as I desperately grasp for twenty seconds of alone time.

A quick 30 minute visit for lunch turns into a 48-hour interrogation about my classes, friends, exercise regime (which does not exist), and the number of water bottles on my desk.

It reminds me of when she used to chase me with a hairbrush and an SAT book during my junior year of high school… on a Saturday.

After working for the whole day, I would be allowed to go to dinner with a friend of choice—her choice—as long as I got back within the 11.30 curfew. 11.31 would warrant three missed calls, two FaceTime requests, an Instagram post functioning as an amber alert, and of course ten thousand texts, to me and to my friends.

As I slyly tiptoed into the house, I would find her sitting in her paisley pajamas at the top of the stairs, eager to give me the breath check and see what mayhem I caused at the ever-wild Mezzaluna.

Although the number of frantic phone calls has slowly decreased since coming to Penn, I can always count on a midnight text asking if I’m in my room. To these I respond with a carefully executed selfie with my Econ textbook from the morning.

While this may seem deceitful, I am in fact in a room, just a large one drenched in beer and sweat with 50 people I do not know.

Thursday night, while I was carefully putting on my eyeliner, my phone suddenly buzzed with a text from the infamous “Mama Rosh.” As the screen flashed, I saw the ominous two words that no college student is waiting to hear: “I’m downstairs.”

I drop my eyeliner in horror and quickly run down Fisher to see my mother, waiting to document our three day reunion on instagram and give me, yet another, swiffer.

I greet her with “Mom, great to see you, truly, but I have to go to a meeting,” as I casually try to hide my dress from her reproachful glare. I had told her I joined some clubs at school, carefully not specifying that they were called Rumor and Recess.

“Sarvenaz, don’t be silly, I am just going to come and clean your room. You’ll have no idea that I’m there.” Reluctantly I lead her upstairs, and as I open the door, I see her face drop in horror.

I turn my eyes to the floor and see that fateful blue Trojan wrapper on my white rug. Mind you, the only time I have used it was to make a balloon for a friend’s birthday—college student funds, people.

I hear The Twilight Zone softly playing in the background as my mother picks up the wrapper and gives me a 36 minute lecture on how I’ve become increasingly “uncouth” as I’ve gotten here (yes, very uncouth).

On the positive side, my mom ensures that I do physical exercise at Penn as whenever I see her I am constantly running away. The SAT books have been replaced with internship forms, as finding a job remains very important to my mother.

I consider myself blessed when she allowed me to take one Russian lit class this semester only “for pleasure” and that’s about it.

Through this class I met Justin Straggi, who told me about his real talk with his “tiger dad” when he got his first B: “Justin, you are an investment. A bad one at that.”

For his entire high school career, they had exclusive access to his email, Facebook, and Find my iPhone. Now, they have limited themselves to logging on to his sister’s snapchat to look at Justin’s notorious stories, a live feed into his social life and utter “debauchery.”

“Just consider yourself lucky,” my mother assured me, “you think I’m overbearing? Your grandmother used to wait outside of clubs to drive me home.”

Since the trauma of senior fall wasn’t enough the first time, my mom has taken on her fourth business as a self-acclaimed college counselor, teaching parents all over the tri-state area—sorry, “I’ve gone global”—on how to get their children into America’s elite universities.

What is her key to success? “Work hard and play significantly less.” Apparently it’s also helpful during the primitive stages of a child’s life to quietly whisper into his or her ear, “3.9 or bust.”

However, while my mom is certainly absurd and borderline crazy, she pushes me to push myself.

As I lay in bed at 3pm on a Tuesday, I at least think about doing work, and as they say—it’s the thought that counts.