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 mom 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 mom 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, McDonald'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.
