My maternal grandmother only finished 4th grade. My paternal grandmother wasn’t allowed to go to school because her father said all she would do in school is learn how to write letters to her boyfriend.
I took the same basic algebra class three times. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of it. It just is. Third time’s the charm and today I finally passed it with the help and encouragement of an incredible old school math teacher and my crew cheering me on.
Special shout out to my friend Richie in Mexico who would help me via What’s App with my homework. Technology is amazing!
I struggled miserably with this class all three times mostly because it didn’t come organically to me. I would open the book, have to really work hard to make sense of the soup of letter, numbers, signs and lines and want to go to sleep.
This is lame, but true. If it’s not fun or I’m not good at it, I just get sleepy and want to pursue other things, for example a nap. Is that normal?
I’m one class away from finishing my associates degree. This, in the grand scheme of things is minute, but in this moment is monumental. I am the work of generations of women who were denied vote, voice, power and presence. I am the dream of every woman who bled for me, that came before me, beloved, repressed or otherwise. I am the prayer of my immigrant father, the darling granddaughter to my everloving grandmother Hortencia, the prized Hope Diamond of my mother Esther.
I’m not perfect, my roads far from linear timelines. I’m constantly late, but am still never convinced I’m not perfectly in sync with another clock.
Tiny crumbs have lead me to the first course of success. I’m starving for it. I shall have everything I want now, and nothing will stop me.