For the first decade or so of my life, I lived in a household where no one had gone to college or a university, yet every single day I was told to do well in school so that I could go to a prestigious school. Neither my mother nor my biological father had attended college. I instantly became a fan of the first school that my oldest cousin went to--the University of Michigan.
Year after year passed, and I continued to work hard in school so that one day I might be able to go to this mystical land of college that I have been hearing about since I was entering preschool. Each distant cousin went their own way, and I was always amazed that they were heading to college. I was so impatient for that to become my reality one day.
During the summer after fifth grade, my mother remarried, and my stepfather became the father figure in my life. He is more of a dad than my biological father could ever fathom being, and he went to college. However, now having a father who had gone to the promised land still had not answered any questions of what it would be like or even why it is so important.
Fast forward to August 2014. My parents gave a final hug goodbye and they were gone. It was time for me to figure out this whole ~college~ thing by myself. With the amount of student groups on campus and many ways to meet people, I was simply overwhelmed. My roommate (God bless her soul) and I went out to parties during the infamous Welcome Week and found ourselves playing volleyball (which is how we met our best friends here on campus). Typical ice breaker questions included "Where are you from?", "What is your major?", and "Why did you come to the University of Michigan?" Everyone had their own individual answers, many revolving around the fact that their parents, siblings, and/or grandparents went here. It seemed to be a family thing.
I seemed to be able to avoid the question of where my parents went to school for a few weeks. I felt relieved every day that it avoided me and listened intently while my friends told me how their parents had gone to UNC Chapel Hill or Indiana University. Then one day in October, it finally came around when a close friend asked, "Stasia, where did your parents go to school?" Oh God. The question I had been dreading since I had stepped foot in Ann Arbor. I had confided with my roommate and a few close friends about how I was the first to venture out here, but was not prepared to share this with many others because I was embarrassed for some silly reason.
I stammered out that my stepfather had gone to our rival school Michigan State, but neither of my biological parents had gone. My friends suddenly go a little quieter and just replied with an "oh." The conversation transitioned to something else very quickly. Phew, I had finally gotten that over with without feeling too uncomfortable.
However, the fact that I am a first generation college student still follows me everywhere I step on campus. I am reminded of it when I see parents bringing their kids to the center of the diag and telling them the myth of how not to step on the giant M before your first blue book exam. I am reminded of it when I have to apply for student loans, and I have to read all the fine print myself because I have no one else to explain it to me. I am reminded of it every time I hear conversations of friends' parents' alma maters.
I can't complain too much. I love my parents for everything that they are. I am thankful that they did not go to college, and I was able to enter with an open mind and be able to understand things and figure them out by myself. I am thankful that I have decided to pursue higher academic knowledge, and I am thankful that one day my kids will be able to say proudly that their mother went to the University of Michigan.
