Walking onto campus for the first time, I felt completely invisible and painfully exposed, surrounded by people yet utterly alone.
The first-generation Latino experience doesn’t come with an instruction manual. My older sister didn’t go to college, and there was no one to tell me how you register for classes, navigate the ups and downs of dorm life, or advocate for myself academically. I had to figure it out all on my own through trial and error. Often, by putting one foot in front of the other, wondering, “Am I on the right path?”
Some lessons were practical. Like realizing that yes, you actually do need to read emails from the registrar, and showing up to the wrong building counts as its own learning experience. Or navigating around campus with your Rowan ID around your neck like you’re advertising to the world. “Hey, I’m new here, and yes, I am a college freshman.”
Then there’s the social side of college, such as the awkward hellos in the corridors or those dreadful group projects where you secretly hope your contributions are noticed. College is just as much about surviving these small disasters as it is grades.
But the overbearing weight I carry isn’t about a missed email or painfully awkward encounters. It’s more than that. It’s about my parents, immigrants who sacrificed everything, and both worked double shifts at the Lobster House and housekeeping just so I could walk around campus. Every late-night shift, skipped meal, and every extra hour at work was in the hope they could one day afford their only son an elusive ticket to the American dream.
I am not just a student. I am a symbol of their hope, a proof of concept for my many younger cousins. A consistent reminder that if you put your mind to it and you work hard, and you never give up, you can open doors you never imagined could be unlocked. It’s that same kind of responsibility I bear on my shoulders that does not leave room for casual mistakes or panic, but what it does leave room for is quiet gratitude.
It’s that same mountain of pressure that is constant, and the guilt that comes with it is unavoidable. How can I possibly enjoy a late-night trip for 7-Eleven slushies or spontaneous trips to Target with my two friends when I know my parents were once awake before dawn, working so I could be here? How can I celebrate even the smallest of victories when each one carries the weight of repayment and responsibility? And yet, somehow, I manage to cope and laugh it off.
I laugh at the memes that perfectly summarize my sleepless nights writing assignments and articles at my desk, at my own awkward moments, and at the absurdity of trying to figure out adulting. Humor has become a lifeline, a way to survive and still recognize that this journey, however messy, terrifying, and wonderful, is mine at the end of the day.
Being a first-generation student is more than just earning a degree. It’s about balancing worlds, the culture you were raised in, the expectations set before you by your family, and the strangely beautiful challenges presented by higher education. It’s about embracing solitude when it comes, finding the humor in the craziness, and learning that stumbling doesn’t necessarily mean failure. Even if I don’t have all the answers, the mistakes, small wins, and losses are paving the way not just for me, but for my family who comes after.
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