To First-Generation College Students: You Are More Than ‘Lucky’

BeVisible Latinx
Aug 23, 2017 · 6 min read

As a first-gen there is nothing typical about the college application process. It felt obscure and impenetrable to me then, without any point of reference or direction. Latinxs going through the same ordeal now may not have it any easier, but just because this process looks different for us doesn’t mean we’re doing it wrong. We’re just doing it our way.

I decided where to apply to college in a game of roulette.

The wheel, in my case, was a gargantuan guide book of every institution of higher education in the United States; the croupier, the randomly assigned college counselor at my high school in Miami flipping through the pages as if shuffling a deck of cards.
She kept her hand close, asked only a few questions:
– small school or large?
– high or low student to teacher ratio?
– how do you feel about snow
?

I didn’t do well in crowds so answering the first two was easy and having never so much as seen snow I figured, how bad could it be? I don’t know how my answers to these questions informed the page flipping but after a flourish of ink the book settled open somewhere in the middle with a deadening thud. The big reveal? A tiny liberal arts college tucked away in the Berkshires, population 2,099, and average winter temperatures about half my age.

And that was that. This is how I applied to college.

My college application process was really just a long list of all the things I did not know: that PSAT’s mattered, that most people prepped and had tutors for the SAT, that I should probably have taken it more than once, that my ‘list’ should perhaps have consisted of more than just MIT, Caltech, and a begrudging application to the UF Honors program (the smallest radius to home I was willing to consider).

Growing up in a Nicaraguan household in south Florida to immigrant parents who did not go to school in this country, my only frames of reference were the colleges I heard about on TV (the Harvard’s and Yale’s of the world) and the massive Florida state schools whose colors I learned to recognize before ever knowing what they represented. That I applied to the tiny college at all was a happy accident manifested out of that guidebook and a counselor I only ever met once.

Despite receiving a yes from the tiny college, it didn’t feel like acceptance.

Where I come from, a real school goes by University. As silly as it may sound now, the only other place I knew that went by ‘college’ was our local community college. In my head, the tiny college stood alongside our good, old neighborhood MDCC.

No one around me knew what to make of the whole process, not really. My parents were supportive, but with their understandably limited experience, left all the decision making up to me. And this, I learned, was the big difference between growing up how most of my tiny college peers did and growing up Latina in Miami, the first kid in my family to ever even leave the state.
Those first few months of school, before majors and student groups, before friends — everyone talked about why they chose the tiny college, compared the places they declined, told epic stories about going against parents’ wishes and forging their own path. There was no argument with my parents about where I would go for college. There were no opinions to contend with at all. Just “did you decide?” and “do we have to sign anything?”

We’ve been taught since day one about ‘the land of opportunity.’ But no one tells you that opportunity looks different for different people.

After receiving the envelope in the mail, I’d like to say I went home and researched the tiny college, piecing together its amazing reputation or impressive list of faculty. But reputations and lists only mean something if you know what you’re looking for.

What did I look for?

Sitting in the middle of my living room, with my mother rattling around the kitchen and my dad taking off his muddy work boots, I skipped the glossy brochures and earmarked course catalog and went straight to the financial aid package looking for the one phrase I did know: full ride. When it came down to it, the questions the college counselor asked me were romantic, playing into the fantasy of a life molded by desire: what do you want. But really, the only question I knew how to ask was: what do I need.

Did I realize I was saying yes to four years in a town with one streetlight, the lowest concentration of people of color I would ever live in, and no Pollo Tropical? Not at all. But this would have to do.

The thing with acknowledging the disproportionate effect of luck and randomness in my college application process is that I allowed it to seep into my actual college experience.

If I felt lucky that the tiny college was even brought to my attention in the first place, then I had to feel lucky that they let me in, I had to feel lucky that I was allowed to be here.

Luck, though, turns quickly into gratitude and soon I was feeling so grateful that I was in these classes that I stopped speaking, so as to not take up more space than what was allotted to me. So grateful I couldn’t bring myself to ask for help when I needed it because they already did me the favor of admitting me and I couldn’t keep asking for more. Every hiccup became a tell, a little red flag hanging over my head announcing to the tiny college and all its inhabitants that their magnanimity was too great, that I wasn’t holding up my end of the deal. Or so it felt.

What it would have meant for someone, anyone, to acknowledge that no one granted me a favor…

I may not have known exactly what I was doing as I navigated the process on my own, but I made a choice and got myself what I needed. That my parents taught me damn well. That is what our communities do every day.

To the first-generation students (that’s what they’ll call you from now on, by the way) beginning the process, to the timid freshmen walking onto brick campuses older than the countries your parents fled from, to the sophomores finding your footing and your family despite the distance and the cold, to the juniors wondering whether you’re asking too much by also wanting to maybe go abroad, to the seniors who are slowly realizing the first four years were just the beginning of the battle — I suspect no one has told you this, so I will:

You are not ‘lucky’ to be where you are.

You are not lucky to be where you are.You fought your way to be here and whether it was your first choice or your 6th you are not just arrimados. You did what you had to and that likely did not look like what brochures or TV told you it would, but that doesn’t mean it was the wrong way. You’re here. You belong here. So do not mistake feeling grateful with being indebted. Take up as much space as you can. Ask for everything: more money, more aid, extensions, adjustments and alterations until this place feels like it fits. This is not a favor, this is a test. Luckily, we all passed hustling 101 generations ago.

About the Author, Soraya Membrano: Writer. Poet. Nica. A pre-Lebron Miami native writing about accessibility, representation, and culture-straddling/identity building in literature, academia, and the world at large. You can connect with Soraya Membreno here and check out her full profile on BeVisible here

Want to Join the Conversation on first-generation Latinx students?
Join us back on the BeVisible platform to hear the voices of other Latinx professionals on this article and connect with the change makers addressing issues with solutions.

)

BeVisible Latinx

Written by

Get Connected with the career network for Latinx. Join the community www.bevisible.soy

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade