Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
Entrepreneurialism ran deep in my family’s DNA but was a concept tough to grapple with when I was in 3rd grade.
At the age of 8, students were deemed mature enough to have a “meeting” with the school principal, Dr. Roth. Being removed from the familiar and comfortable safety of Ms. Logan, who rewarded our reading improvements with coveted American pixie sticks (something unheard of in Venezuela in the 1970s) and treated us much too often to story time in the corner of the sundrenched classroom, meeting Dr. Roth — a solemn man, at best — was not something I particularly looked forward to.
Dr. Roth wore a starched short sleeve white dress shirt with a thin silver pen peeking out of the front pocket and a bland striped tie. His white hair appeared starched as well, swooped to one side and locked in place and he bore eyeglasses with thick black rims that signaled no real interest in fashion since 1963. To reach Dr. Roth one had to descend a grand staircase that fed to the entrance of my international school perched against a lush mountain in Caracas. Dr. Roth’s office was tucked away beyond a maze of friendly secretaries typing important memos on pastel colored IBM machines. Rumor had it they’d give kids candy and reassure them that everything would be just fine.
Most children were anxious about the meeting itself. After all, only those who set off the fire alarm or got too rowdy in art class were subjected to Dr. Roth’s sterile space. But I had another phobia to contend with — answering the pivotal question I knew would be posed to me: “What does your father do?”
Kids who returned from their visit relayed the experience with the same gusto as a solider returning from war. Those yet to be drafted formed a circle around the seasoned veteran and took in all the details: “He’ll shake your hand, ask a few questions, and ask what your dad does,” they’d all said.
Almost instantly, I felt panic. What did my father do? I knew he traveled a lot for his job. I knew he had an office full of people that worked for him. But beyond that, I was clueless. I yearned for the ease with which my friends would answer this particular inquiry. Their fathers were doctors or lawyers or worked with big companies like Pepsi or Colgate. I brought my malaise to my father’s attention, noting that soon I’d be summoned to Dr. Roth’s and would have to stand my ground. He chuckled and dove into what he considered the more important lesson: how to give a proper handshake (always firm, always make eye contact), before instructing me to say he was a “Business Administrator.”
This answer served as no consolation. The words felt like rocks coming out of my mouth. But my father assured me it would suffice, particularly if I’d delivered a firm handshake.
The dreaded day arrived and the walk to the front office seemed to both never end and arrive too fast. Sure enough, Dr. Roth’s secretary smiled and handed me a cellophane-wrapped candy, whispering, “for when you are done.” While I waited, I rocked the words “business administrator” back and forth in my mouth, hoping to smooth the phrase, but I was called in before I ever got the chance.
Dr. Roth was every bit as terrifying as I’d imagined, so I dug in my heels, locked my eyes on his and extended my hand out. He seemed slightly taken aback by my assertiveness but offered his hand. While it was much larger than mine, I used all the force I could muster to make sure it was a firm handshake.
The rest of the encounter was a blur. I remember him asking about my two older sisters, who’d already been privy to this ritual, and, at some point, asking what my father did. “Business Administrator” spilled out like loose marbles and we both just left it at that.
As I was leaving I slipped my hand into my pocket, crinkling the cellophane of the candy awaiting as my reward.
“Young lady,” Dr. Roth called out before I could escape. I stopped and turned, “That’s a very solid handshake,” he said, a tiny smile betraying his austere face.
Happy Reading,
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com