I am the only girl and middle child in a family of five siblings. As is common in Hispanic culture, my status was automatically placed below that of my brothers by virtue of my gender alone. Even as a teenager, I was not allowed to go out to movies alone with my friends; my younger brother was sent to keep an eye on me and report back to my mother. Needless to say, I was also not permitted to date in high school. At that time, without the social life afforded to other girls my age, I turned to academics.
Captivated by muckrakers, yellow journalism, and the sheer power of the printed word, I discovered through journalism my love for writing. The idea of writing something that would get the attention of my teenage peers, or anyone for that matter, appealed to me. In one column I wrote about gang activity at my high school. I argued for tougher disciplinary measures for gang members and against ineffective administrative procedures in dealing with gangs. However, one did not disrespect gangs in the school paper and expect it to go unnoticed. While my adviser feared for my safety, he agreed to run the column anyway. The day it ran, I walked into school with my head held high and prepared for the worst, but it never came. Instead I got people talking; talking about changes. I had succeeded in what I had intended for my writing. My senior year I became a correspondent for the El Paso Herald Post and earned an internship for the summer after graduation. Although I served as more of a gopher than a writer, no task was too small. I loved the opportunity to hang around the newsroom and witness seasoned veterans at work.
When summer ended I was terrified at the prospect of starting college. My mother had greatly encouraged higher education for the boys, but not for me, despite my accomplishments. At the slightest hint of struggle that initial semester, my mother would tell me to quit-- to just give up. Perhaps in her own odd way she was trying to anger me into sticking to my guns and getting the job done. Regardless of her intent, the lack of support was discouraging. My mother was uneducated as was her mother, and from a cultural standpoint I would have better served my family by getting married and leaving home than by burdening them with the expense of my college education.
My second semester I joined a sorority to be in the company of women whose mothers and grandmothers had been educated, thinking I would find the encouragement I was lacking at home. The biggest attraction for me of sorority life was the dedication to service work. I believed in our founders' commitment to campus and community service, and I was soon made the service chairperson. Suddenly, I was hit with the realization that few do the work that many take credit for doing. Disappointed with my sisters' lack of commitment, I sought other outlets for service work. By becoming a volunteer at the UTEP Women's Resource Center, I began channeling my energy into such events as Take Back the Night, The Clothesline Project, and World AIDS Day.
In 1994, as I approached the end of my second year of college, I was fully dedicated to my service work and my writing as a media liaison for projects at the Center. As finals approached, my body was giving out. I had been ill throughout the semester and was mentally and physically exhausted; my body collapsed soon after from fatigue. I was relieved to learn I was not seriously ill, though it turned out that I was pregnant. A child was the last thing I wanted or needed in my life, and I had to make a decision. Despite objections by many of my peers, I made an informed decision to keep my pregnancy and try to forge ahead with my education.
Although earlier in the semester I had helped start a campus pro-choice organization, those same peers were reluctant to support my decision. So I turned to my sorority sisters. My pregnancy was an embarrassment to my sisters and alumna. I was told the situation would be better for everyone if I quietly left the sorority. While I was deeply hurt, I realized more important matters were at hand.
Beginning that fall, I was working full time and continuing both classes and service work. Twelve-hour work days were the norm, so something had to give. I left school that fall believing that I would never return. In trying through education to fight a culture that limited women to being mothers and wives, I had failed by becoming the statistical unwed mother. I spent the next two years in the work force. Although I excelled in management, those challenges could not equate to those I had loved in academics. I needed to do more for my daughter and myself. In the summer of 1996, 1 walked off the job and back into the classroom.
Unlike the scared, sheltered girl fresh out of high school, I was now a single mother, a little older but far wiser. While I had longed for my mother's approval when I began college, I now had the admiration of my daughter. As her role model, I'm obligated not merely to teach her about responsibility but also to show her what is right through my actions. I have balanced academics, a child, a household, and a job (sometimes two jobs) every semester while continuing to have my writings published and making the best grades of my academic career. The decisions to keep my daughter and to raise her alone could have devastated my academic career, but instead they made me into a strong, dedicated, and balanced person.
