The Value of Experience

Author’s Note: To give this story context, I’ll need to say a few words about the socio-economic circumstances in which I grew up. We lived in a somewhat affluent neighborhood on the shores of Lake Michigan, where the community was also a resort destination for very wealthy Chicagoans. I basically didn’t know anyone who was struggling. Or, if they were, their struggle was not apparent to me. Everything, both inside and outside our home, was immaculately kept. My parents always owned two cars, one of which was never more than three years old, and we had all the latest technology available. We were the first family on our street to have a color television set, which was a very big deal at the time. My mother owned and wore a mink coat, a chinchilla stole, and beaded cocktail dresses. We benefited from a membership at a private 18-hole golf club that also boasted three pools and several tennis courts. My parents went to a very fancy resort somewhere in the U.S. each year for a week to attend a convention associated with my father’s line of work. A new wardrobe for the trip was always purchased. And we vacationed in Florida during our Christmas break from school. To me, it seemed like we were very well off.

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Right at the start of my ninth grade year–early September 1972–one of the history teachers came into our French class holding a handful of color brochures. He joined our French teacher at the front of the classroom and explained that the two of them had organized a fabulous opportunity. Every student taking French this year was being invited to participate in a trip to Europe. Our French teacher went on to explain that the program opportunity was scheduled to begin in June, after school was out for the year. She said that it would be for an entire month, and that the cost of participating was all-inclusive.

My eyes grew wide with the idea as the two teachers spun their tale of what an adventure this would be. They talked about what a unique and unprecedented experience was ahead of those of us who would be joining the program, and that it was a chance in a lifetime. I was 15 years old.

We would fly from Chicago to Zürich just a few days after the last day of school. We would each be assigned to a homestay family with whom we could practice the French we would be learning during the coming year. Monday through Friday during the first three weeks, we would attend the Academia International School to take classes in the French language and in French history. We would be immersing ourselves in French culture with cooking classes as well. On the weekends, we would take a coach bus to Zermatt, stay in one of the ski resorts, and spend the time snow skiing, or for us beginners, learning how to ski. During the last week, we would take the coach and do a little loop that would take us to Paris, where we would see all the sights over a two-day period, then to Luxembourg, Belgium, for a day and a night, then on to Frankfurt, Germany, for two days. We would return to Zürich for one more night before flying back to Chicago. By the time we got back to the states, the promise was that we would be speaking nearly fluent French, know how to downhill ski, understand European history and Europe’s relationship to the United States, and perhaps even be able to prepare a perfect souffle for our families. I was rapt with excitement.

At the end of their overview, the history teacher passed out the brochures. I poured over the text and photos, already seeing myself on the slopes conversing in French with my fellow students. I went home from school that day determined that going to Switzerland and doing this trip was my destiny. 

I didn’t even bother talking to my mother about it. I knew her immediate response, without even giving it a thought, would be, “Absolutely not!” I had been at junctures like this with her before. During the past summer, the only reason I had been able to go to a sleep away camp was because I had earned the money myself. That expense was only $120. This one was $1,000. So I bided my time and waited for Dad to get home.

After dinner was over and Dad was getting ready to head downstairs to turn on the television and read his newspaper, I said, “Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” 

My mother didn’t even wait for Dad to respond before she jumped in to ask, “What? What do you need to discuss with your father?” I could tell she was feeling usurped as if I was going over her head to a higher authority, which was exactly what I was doing. 

I said, “You won’t understand, so it’s something I need to talk to Dad about.” They exchanged looks. My mother’s back was up.

Dad calmly said, “Well, I think you can discuss it with both of us.”

I didn’t want to, but I agreed. I handed Dad the brochure. Mom tried to grab it but I said, “No, let Dad have it.” I then went on to give them both a similar overview to the one we had been presented in class. I highlighted the advantages, especially the educational aspects. 

Mom started, “There’s no way she’s going to Europe before I do,” but Dad held up his hand to indicate that she was not to continue.

He said, “Let’s go downstairs to discuss this.” Mom gave him a piercing glare but he ignored her.

We sat down at the bar in our finished basement and Dad took a close look at the brochure. I honestly had never been so excited or so keen to do anything else in my entire life. Clearly, Dad knew this and wanted to be careful about how he treated the situation. Mom would cut you off at the knees. She was simply not equipped to consider anything outside her scope of experience. Her coping mechanism was to block it out, give it no oxygen, say, “no discussion.” It was a very difficult response to receive as a child. And there was probably a bit of competitive jealousy thrown into the mix as well. As an adult, I understand completely that what she was covering up was her own emotional vulnerability. She didn’t want anyone to see this nor did she want to delve into the whys and wherefores that certainly were anchored in her own subconscious. 

Dad began, “Do you have any idea how long it takes me to save $1,000? Not just to earn it, but to save it.”

“No,” I admitted.

He paused before saying, “Six months.”

I blinked at him as I calculated that this was September and that the trip wasn’t until June. The deposit of $500 wasn’t due until February. My face brightened as I said, “There’s plenty of time then!” I think if slapping your forehead was a thing people did as an exasperated gesture in 1972, Dad would have done it. Instead, he shook his head because he knew there was no getting around the hard truth of what he was going to have to say to me. He and Mom were not going to fork out $1,000 for me to go on this trip. 

I was bitterly disappointed. I expect I whined and argued and maybe even cried. But, it was all to no avail. I didn’t go and then refused to listen to anyone talking about the trip when we returned to school for our sophomore year. 

When I told this story to my daughter, I said, “I’m trying to imagine what your dad and I would have done if one of you kids had come to us with a similar proposal. I’m thinking we would have done it.” I waited to see whether she agreed with me or not.

She thought about it and said, “But Mom, you and Dad have always valued experiences for your children. I don’t think your parents did.” And there it was, all neatly packaged up in just a few words…the value of experience. She was exactly right. My parents valued things that served as status symbols for themselves. They had a whole list of unchecked boxes of their own. Checking those boxes off for their children made no sense to them at all.

I’m not saying that there was any sort of negligence towards my sister and me. Not at all. Our parents were coming from a completely different history. And who’s to say that it wasn’t because of their history, and the lack of providing experiences such as the Switzerland trip, that I was imbued with a need to provide experiences for my own children, whether I had had those experiences yet myself or not. My history made valuing my kids' experiences a priority. And my children’s history of experiences will mean something different yet for their children.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022