Episode 11 | First generation college students

This episode sheds light on the role of caring adults in paving the way for first generation college students and tips for success for first gen college students. 

Transcript

Welcome to the Voice Podcast. I’m your host Zayda Sorrell-Medina. I am a social scientist, a  social work educator, and advocate for positive social change. The Voice Podcast combines storytelling and research to shed light on a variety of urban and social work topics. This podcast seeks to inspire, empower, and motivate.

This episode draws from my personal life story to shed light on the role of caring adults in the lives of first generation college students. 

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I was a senior in high school and once again I found myself couch surfing. I lived with my Aunt Doris for a few days. But that didn’t work out...Then, I checked a group home, and that didn't work out. So I ended up living with my boyfriend Diego.

I hated living with Diego. I hated that his apartment was located on a busy street making walking anywhere impossible. There were no parks, libraries, or quaint mom and pop shops. There were department stores, post office centers, and battery shops. The suburbs of St.Louis, Missouri was certainly not for a city girl like me. I hated that the only person I knew in the neighborhood was our next-door neighbor Laura, a loquacious alcoholic. I was effectively living in isolation.

Diego came home one day and said that his car was having trouble and that from that day forward I needed to find a way to school. Certainly, I thought that was a lie as the following day he used the same car to go to work.  Diego lived some twenty miles from my school and the only bus that came by operated infrequently. I had to be at school at 7a.m. and the only solution I could think of was to ask my teacher Mrs. Baker if she could pick me up and drop me off since she lived nearby. She said yes, and I was so grateful. On days that she couldn’t take me to school, I stayed at my friend’s Malena’s house, where I slept with Esmeralda’s, drank Mexican agua de Jamaica, and listened to her mother talk my head away about her life’s woes. Once again, I found myself couch surfing my senior year of high school.

One a day I was working at the Spanish Restaurant. I was a hostess. The money that I made working at the restaurant pretty much covered my primary living expenses: food, bus fare, and my cell phone bill. I looked up in the midst of the pale sun and I saw a girl walk by whose face looked too familiar. Her elegant smile and confident walk reminded me of someone I had met in my childhood. It was Martine—my cousin Marelda’s best friend from high school. I remembered the day Martine told me when I was a little girl that I could come by her house any time for a turkey sandwich. 

She made the best turkey sandwich in the entire world. She topped that baby with lettuce, tomato, green peppers, mayo and onions and used whole wheat bread. How could I forget Martine and her turkey sandwich offer?  I remembered how tender she was with me and wondered if she was the same Martine from years ago. She must have been in her mid-twenties now, with a college degree, working some full-time job.

I ran through the restaurant’s front door and tapped her on her shoulders from behind. She was with another girl around her age, someone I didn’t know, laughing gaily.

        “Martine,” I said, and she looked at me and paused, and then smiled.

        “Hey darling!” Martine remembered me immediately, and there we stood in the middle of the sidewalk, hugging each other.

 She asked me how I was. How was I doing in school? What grade was I in? I told her all of my good news: How I had a full-ride to college, how I was awarded wrestling scholarships, how I was working part-time at the Spanish restaurant.

        “That is great news,” she said. “Well, you know I just returned from Bolivia.”

“Really? How was that?” I asked.

“Just wonderful. I loved the people, the topography, the food! Oh my goodness!” She 

exclaimed. Martine spoke with the same zeal as before.

And then my world seemed to stop right there in front of me. I could feel my body tensing up. Before I knew it, I could hear myself asking saying, “Martine I have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“Can I stay with you? I don’t have a place to stay right now.”

Martine did not hesitate and said yes immediately. I knew nothing about Martine. And she knew very little about me. Nonetheless, somehow our destinies lined up with one another that evening. And just like that, I was once again saved. I realized a very wonderful thing that night. In a few weeks, I was going to graduate high school and go to college. My master plan was unfolding.

Martine lived in a three-bedroom house located in walking distance from my high school. She gave me the key to the house and told me to make myself at home. I had my own bedroom, bed, and dresser. She worked a nine-to-five job during the week as an accountant, went to brunch with her family on Sundays, and occasionally cooked a meal when she had time to go grocery shopping. Although she did not assign me any chores or make me pay rent, I cleaned the bathroom spotless on Saturday to show my appreciation. I was grateful for Martine, the way that she mothered me without knowing, the way that she said good night darling, and the way she gave me life advice on relationships, college, and family matters.

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College was around the corner, and I still had not made a decision on where I was going. I wanted to attend Menlo College in California, where I could pursue my career as a wrestler. But I didn’t have the money to get there.

“Why don’t you apply to the University of Missouri in Columbia to study journalism?” Mrs. Baker suggested when I told her about my dilemma.

 “Journalism?” Mrs. Baker mistook me for some die-hard year book editor.  Yeah, I was 

the yearbook editor in high school, but I couldn’t imagine myself pursuing a career in journalism if my life depended on it.

“The University of Missouri is the top school of journalism school in the country.”

She sat down next to me, took a deep breath, and softened her voice. “Zayda, graduation is around the corner. You have to make a choice. What school are you going to sweety?”

The University of Missouri, or Mizzou, was only two hours away. When I told Martine about Mrs. Baker’s suggestion, she said that it was a practical choice. I could come home on the weekend and holidays, and it was close to home. 

“I can drive you up there,” Martine said. “That’ll be nice. A little road trip. Your sisters can even come if they want.”

Ms. Parella was disappointed that I even considered applying to Mizzou.

“You need to be in a progressive city,” she said flat out. “And Columbia isn’t that.”

But as Martine said, it was practical. And I didn’t have the resources to pursue any other option.

I told my mother that I planned on going to the school in Columbia, and she said in a falling voice, “Colombia…Isn’t that in a different country?”

“No,” I clarified. “Columbia, Missouri. Mizzou. It’s two hours away Yetta! I’ll be studying journalism!”

“Journalism!” she screamed over the phone.

“Yes. Journalism.”

“You mean to tell me that you are going to school to be a news reporter in Iraq?”

“Huh?”

My mother, who was educated by the perilous streets of St. Louis city, knew nothing 

about college. Her bad hearing, compounded by her cheap AT&T house phone, made matters worse. And so I had to explain to her that I would be fine. I wasn’t going to Iraq. I was going to Mizzou.

“Whatever you decide to do, just please don’t go to Iraq. Can you make me that promise darling?”

“I promise,” I said.

        Deep inside I didn’t want to go to Mizzou. I felt overqualified to attend a state school, but for some reason it seemed that my options were limited. Mizzou’s application was shamelessly simple, and within a week or two I received a letter from the School of Journalism in the mail stating my acceptance. To my utter surprise, I was offered zero scholarships, despite my high  GPA, high school ranking, over 300 hours of volunteer service, my distinguished leadership positions as the president of the diversity club, the editor of yearbook, and the several honors that I received including the National Horatio Alger Scholarship and the Princeton Reward on Race Relations. Despite being registered as a homeless student with my school district, Mizzou did not offer me any scholarship assistance. I was like every Billy, Bob, José and Sarah who applied, despite my credentials, strenuous circumstances, and high degree of need. I recoiled at the bad news, and I balled up my acceptance letter and threw it to the ground. I had to succumb to a future that I did not design, but that was thrown at me. My dream of going to college came true, but to a lower extent.I was accepted to over ten schools across the country, but I couldn’t go because I didn’t have the funds to get there. Oh well, I thought to myself. At least I was going to college.

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It was graduation day, and the auditorium was filled. I couldn’t believe it. My master plan that I set forth four years ago was about to come true. Soon I would graduate, and that summer I was going to college. I had gone through what seemed like a mountain of adversities. But somehow, I made it across the mountain and was off to a better journey. I was one step closer to my real master plan of reuniting my family and finding my long-lost sister Melanie. But that day seemed so far ahead, and I knew that all I could do was take it one day at a time. 

As each student walked across the stage, the families in the audience roared and whistled. When it was my turn to walk across the stage, I could hear Austin whistle loudly. I averted my eyes to the left, and I immediately spotted him sitting with Yetta, Emmanuel, and Ricardo. My mother was standing up, jumping up and down, and yelling my name. I couldn’t believe it. I graduated high school and was going to college.  

After the ceremony, I reunited with Yetta, Austin, Ricardo, Emmanuel, Martine, Esmeralda, Malena, Jorge, Sol, her mother, and two sisters. There was a moment of social awkwardness having all of my family and loved ones together. The social awkwardness was quickly remedied with a soliloquy of photos that kept everyone engaged, however. Right when I was walking to the car, my mother ran up to me and grabbed my wrist and said, “I am so proud of you Zayda.”

[outro song]

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Thank you all so much for listening to my podcast the Voice. In this episode, I shared with you all a piece of my story as a first generation college student. It was tremendously difficult for me to achieve my goal of going to college because I was homeless for a grand portion of my high school career. I was able to overcome this adversity because I had caring adults in my life who supported me. I am tremendously grateful for all of the support I received. Without the support I received from caring adults, I would not be where I am today. 

And that brings me to this episode’s take away. If you work in a profession interacting with high school or college students or youth who aspire to go to college, you can make a difference. Research shows that mentors both formal and natural and caring adults cumulatively have an impact on the lives of young people. So please know that you can make a difference. Even your smile can make a difference.

This message is for individuals who aspire to go to college. You can do it! Why? Because it’s already in you. As a first generation college student, I can tell you that it’s going to take strength, optimism, creativity, self-preservation, boundaries, personal policies, connections to people, resources, gratitude, desire, and above all, keeping your eye on the target. You can do it!

Thank you all so much. Listeners, please stay tuned for additional episodes. You can do that by following me on social media under zaydasorrellmedina or visiting my web page at zaydasorrellmedina.com. Until next time.