For All The Women Before You and All The Women After You

“Nineteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight, nine hundred and ninety-nine, twenty thousand dollars. That’s it; that’s all of it.” I placed the last of my dollar bills on the counter. Settling into my reserved pride and unfounded shame, I stood there waiting for the financial aid advisor to respond. I watched him as he eyed the stacks of cash and bags of change with almost undetectable disgust. He seemed in conflict; any slip of his controlled demeanor and he might reveal his true nature.

“I’m not sure if we’ll be able to accept this as payment for your Fall and Spring semester; we’ve never had anyone try to pay with cash and change,” he stated shortly. “Not to say that there’s anything wrong with it; we just normally have parents mail in their checks months in advance.”

I could feel my cheeks burning – shame, anger, and fear had a way of eliciting this very visceral response. I gripped the black notebook in my hands as if summoning the last of my self-control. I could rally – make known that his statement shed light on his and my classmates’ privilege. But, I literally could not afford to make an enemy of my financial aid advisor. I could, however, respond meekly in desperation -- appeal to his Savior Complex. Maybe a scholarship or two would conveniently find their way to next year’s financial aid package. Neither option would lead to a priceless outcome.

“I understand, sir. I know it’s incredibly inconvenient to have to count so much cash and change. It took me almost ten minutes; it took my mother almost ten years. Then again, she counted every dollar and cent she saved at the end of every day with hopes of this very moment.”

I paused, intently observing him as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

His privilege had been checked. I don’t think he was entirely sure how to respond. To acknowledge it would lead to a conversation far beyond the parameters of our thirty minute appointment. To ignore it would affirm what we all knew – the university’s unconscious bias training was a futile attempt to change people’s natural instincts.

“You know? That’s what I love about my job. Every day is different. A new challenge is a new opportunity to make a positive change. My team and I will take care of it right away. We’re here to help. What’s a good email for us to send your parents a copy of their receipt,” he asked hurriedly.

“My mom doesn’t have an email. You can just mail her a copy,” I stated.

“Will do! Well, if there’s nothing else, I should probably get started in counting this cash and change. We’ll want to post this to your account as soon as possible so that you can begin your classes next week,” he said as he began to straighten out the crumbled, stained bills in front of him.

I held tight to my black notebook as I walked towards the door and out of the building.

This feeling was all too familiar. I was no stranger to the weight of my otherness. In my classroom, in my town, in my neighborhood, in my family, in my mind; I was perpetually caught in the chasms between tradition and progress, ignorance and education, Spanish and English, American and Mexican. My only safe haven was home with my mother – a place where society’s stereotypes and misconceptions were suspended and where I simply existed as me. Now, I was walking on a campus and heading to a dorm room that all felt so completely alien.

I stopped. Mama had taught me what to do in these moments.

Inhale. Exhale. Let your breath link you to the women before you and the women that will come after you. Your Abuelita did so that one day I could; today, I am doing so that one day you and your future daughter can. Remember, our dreams call us to places unknown so that one day our future generations will dare to call these places home.

These words were my mantra -- my anchor in the moments I felt adrift. I leaned into them as I recalled my reason for being in this very place at this precise time.

For almost ten years, Mama would get home from work every day and count the money she’d earned. She’d straighten out every dollar and stack every coin with pride. She’d separate the money into two piles; one for our bills and the other for what I thought then was for her. Beaming, she’d point to her savings and say, “This right here is going to take me places.” I’d imagine her exploring the big cities across the country, leaving her mark everywhere she went. If anyone deserved those experiences, it was her.

Last week, after she finished counting her day’s earnings, she called me to the kitchen table. Beaming, she pointed to ten years’ worth of savings, and said, “This right here is going to take me places.” She placed her twenty thousand dollars into a bag and gave it to me. Seeing my confusion, she pulled me in close and held me tight. She whispered quietly to me, “This money is for your college tuition. It’s not everything I’ve earned, but it’s everything I’ve saved. I always knew this money would take me places. And next week, it finally will. I know I will never literally walk your university’s campus or sit in your classes or walk across the graduation stage, but through you my story will live on. In the same way, your future daughter may walk a path you may never travel, but nonetheless your story will live on in her. This is how we continue to pave the path for our dreams to one day become realities even if not in our lifetime.”

In that moment, she handed me a little black notebook. I opened it to find my name and a dedication that read: For all the women before you and all the women after you.

She looked at me and said, “This is for you. Write your story down. Within these pages, you can exist simply as yourself. As you go through these new experiences, let it be a testament for your future daughter. Because when it is her time to leave the comfort of the known in pursuit of what can be, your words will make her brave.”

Now, alone in my dorm room, Mama’s words made me brave. I looked at the little black notebook before me, I turned to the first page and began to pave the way.