First Generation: A story of belonging
and becoming.
Growing up, I was always a happy child.
My home overflowed with love, and my mind was free to dream.
My days consisted of running barefoot outside for hours on end,
until my feet were blackened by the earth and my shoulders reddened by the sun.
After a long day of play or school, I was often welcomed home by a new round of boxes full of food
that my mum got from the food shelter, each exciting me,
as I pulled out a new flavour of Cup Noodles and Corn Nuts or canned beans and Wonder Bread.
I loved pretending to be Amish when the
electricity bill didn't get paid,
begging my mum to let me light one of the candles, as I tried to make sense of the emotions on her face,
which I now know to be shame and desperation.
I didn't know I was different. I was simply happy.
I went to school with other kids just like me, some with more money, some with less,
but, all in all, we were the same. We knew of nothing more.
As we aged, and college applications rolled around,
myself and the other AP kids struggled to make sense of the process, as our parents had never done it before.
We were the first: the first to be confused, the first to be accepted, and the first to be denied.
I remember the day that I received my Kenyon acceptance letter.
It was a day of pure joy. My family was so proud of me.
All of the years of hard work had
finally paid off. I had done it. I was going to college.
Everything changed when I got to Kenyon.
I went from a place of belonging: a place where I understood my peers, and they me, to one of isolation,
where my experiences were ones that my
peers only read about in books at their private schools.
I soon discovered that most of my classmates learned from a very young age how to take an ACT,
write a college essay, and behave in an admissions interview.
They knew how to use phrases like hegemonic globalization in class discussions
and could use words like superfluous in everyday conversations.
They came from big cities, unpaid internships, and social connections.
I come from trailer parks, MacDonald's night shifts, and leaky high school ceilings,
brown from years of rain damage.
For the first time in my life, I knew I
was poor.
Over time, I have learned to look upon myself with pride.
I am proud of where I came from because I have never had anything handed to me.
I have worked extremely hard for everything I have achieved,
and I know that because of this
my success will be all the more worth it.
This is what being a first-generation
college student means to me.
It means that I can firmly stand with admiration, as I look upon my accomplishments,
knowing that it was my hard work, undying familial support, and perseverance
that got me where I am today.
For me, a college education does not simply mean a diploma wrapped in ribbon or a stellar resume.
It means I made it.
It means my kids will never have to see
tears roll down my cheeks,
as I plead with the bank and beg for one more month's grace on my mortgage.
It means that I'll always have food on the table and lights in every room.
It means that I can do what I want, when I want with my future, and nobody can stop me.
I am First Generation.
