Rosie Goes to School

            When I was finishing Back to School, a book about people seeking a GED or entering an occupational or academic program at a community college, I imagined what it would have been like if my mother, Rosie, had been able to go back to school.

            Rose Emily Meraglio Rose, like so many poor immigrant women of her generation, was taken out of school in the seventh grade to help her mother care for her younger siblings. Though I never heard her speak ill of her mother, my grandmother, life in the Meraglio household was terribly hard on Rosie, laborious and oppressive. She eventually moved to Los Angeles with my father, took care of him as his health failed, and waited tables to support us. After my father died, my mother eventually remarried, and my stepfather had a union job that enabled her to live the rest of her life in relative security and comfort.

            Rosie was shrewd, masterful with people, and endlessly curious about psychology and human behavior. I often wondered what might have happened if she could have stayed in school—or been able to go back. I talked about it with friends of mine who knew her well. We imagined her as a social worker or counselor working with young people. She would have been a natural.

            So there I was, wrapping up Back to School, and one afternoon I let fancy take over and wrote a short sketch about my mother. I offer it simply to honor her—and all the newer incarnations of Rosie.

            It is early in the morning at the local community college. Somewhere in the distance a church bell rings. Students are coming in from the commuter train and a few line up at food trucks. A young woman walks by me cradling a cup of coffee; she takes a sip and lets out a low sigh of comfort. I have spoken with a number of women here who remind me of my mother. They’re the children of immigrants or immigrants themselves. They live in crowded households, work in the afternoon or evening, care for younger siblings or nieces and nephews, are wrapped up in demands and worry.

            I imagine Rosie in a place like this. Coming back to school in her twenties, nervous, unsure, but feeling the rush of excitement, a new beginning. Would she enroll in the culinary program? Or child development? Or maybe psychology—her fascination—with hopes of becoming a counselor or social worker? What would have been possible for her? I take the stairs to the second floor of the Humanities Building and sit in the back row of the Freshman English course. Students are coming in both doors, filling up the room. I picture Rosie in the front row. She tentatively looks around, smiles at the woman taking the seat next to her, reaches into the bag she’s holding and pulls out a notebook. She opens it, lays it flat in front of her, and runs her hand over the smooth white paper.

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