The shrieking squeals of the pig rang out over Barrio 2.  Two brothers known as “matan chanchos” slowly pulled the blade out of the pig’s jugular as it bled to death in front of the house.  After cutting off the pig’s head and hanging it on a nail like a center piece: the party started.  The pig killing brothers sauntered around the carcass as they skinned it.  Doña Juana barked orders, hurrying Lucy to finish the dishes, for Little Ricardo to get some fresh tortillas, demanding Diana begin grilling the meat and sending nieces, nephews, cousins, brothers, and sisters to their homes to bring back something to carry meat home in. All the while a group of men, just getting home from work, drank beer in the corner, waiting to be served. Various women and older children shelled beans; while younger children poked the pig head with a stick and ran around screaming.  The faces of the men, women, and children changed as the day passed, but thework continued.  Doña Juana is the centrifugal force. This was a beautiful web of inter-dependency woven by people and families who lived in this very small section of a very small village.  

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Chaguitillo, Matagalpa, 1983-1988
Those sounds at night were bombs and guns. I just wanted to put flower petals on my fingernails with Marilet.

Riverside, Jacksonville, 1988-1996
Yo no so gringa. No puedo hablar en Ingles. Bring her to me my grandma said. Sugar sandwiches and learning to iron pillowcases – hearing stories about when my mom was my age.

Douglass Anderson School of the Arts, 1996-1998
ME: I want to shave my legs.
Dad: No.
Me: Everyone shaves their legs
Dad: *Silence*
Me: But they look at my legs and laugh
*dad shows up at school the next day walks up to me and my friends*
Dad: Who is looking at her legs?

ICE, NYC 1998-2000
She’s mad smart – valedictorian.
Gets into relationship with a teacher.

Penn State, 2000
Doesn’t go to class.
Drugs. Abusive Relationship. Failure

Florida Community College at Jacksonville, 2001
Works 3 jobs. Takes care of dad after accident. Failure

Amir, 2006
BEING A MOTHER IS HARD AS FUCK. What is happening to my nipples? I am so tired.

Harlem, 2008
Welfare Office, HRA, Medicaid on repeat.
Too poor for affordable housing
Admin Job, can either afford daycare or rent

Hostos Community College, 2008
YO SOY HOSTOS.

CCNY, 2011
35k in scholarship money – but you can only have 28k because you qualify for financial aid.

Grad Center, 2021
You read an article written about poor mothers and their contribution to academia and it takes your breath away. You send it to your mom.

Happy Valentine’s Day Mom – we made it.

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I graduated from high school as valedictorian in 2000. I failed out of Penn State (blowing my full scholarship) and then failed out of the Florida Community College at Jacksonville, finally in 2008 I got the guts to apply to CUNY – and I got into CITY COLLEGE. It was April and I was SO EXCITED. Then I got a letter in May saying that my son’s daycare voucher, my public assistance and my food stamps were being canceled due to my last re-certification where I listed City College as “major undeclared.” I followed up and they sent me to the financial aid office at City. The person there said there was nothing they could do because as an undeclared major at a 4-year school I was not eligible to receive any public assistance (hello introduction to Clinton’s welfare reform). I WAS CRUSHED. I burst into tears at the financial aid counter (which as my astute 2-year-old pointed out was very similar to the welfare office) and the woman behind the counter told me to go to Hostos because someone there could help me. 

I walked across 145th street tears streaming down my face and right into the admissions office. Pat Mabry took one look at me gave me some water, told me to sit down, and asked simply “what is wrong?” I told her the story and she patted my hand and said – well you came to the right place – we got you, honey. And she sure did. She helped me with admissions, she introduced me to the COPE office who helped me fill out my recertification application every semester, and she was my first “go-to” person on campus to ask my billion questions too. 

2008-2011 – Hostos Community College, A.A. 

In my first few weeks at Hostos my mom and I started calling it “the socialist republic of Hostos.”

I got my teeth cleaned for the first time in a decade. My son got his teeth cleaned for the first time in his life. I met with a caseworker to get my public assistance back. She taught me what to say, what deadlines were coming up, and what deadlines were the same year to year. A different person helped me get health insurance. I met with a paralegal to help with housing applications. Got a free metro card. Got caught up on all my vaccinations. Got free textbooks. They were letting me use free wifi 7 days a week from 7am to 10pm. Access to a computer and printing and I could bring my son. I got to sit on a couch in the library looking at the sky and read….all the books…whenever I wanted. They gave tickets to hot lunches if you asked. I felt like I had won the lottery. My classes were great challenging and interesting. My classmates were a variety of ages and races and ethnicities and didn’t look at me crazy. My professors were smart and kind. I kept waiting for a candid camera to jump out from behind a desk yelling and laughing at me. 

But then didn’t and after a few semester, I didn’t start getting the question. But why are you here? Versus a senior school. Versus a different school. READ: versus a BETTER school. 

City College 2011-2014, B.A.,M.A.

First day at CCNY. Graduated from with Honors and honor. I made the dean’s lists and scholastic achievements and awards. 

First day at CCNY, the first day of a 400-level history class. First day of a history of Latin American course / which I had decided would be my major. 

The professor asks everyone who was a transfer student to raise their hand. Put your hand down if you’re from Laguardia, she says, put your hand down if you’re from BMCC – keep your hand up if you are from Hostos or BCC. There were 3 of us with our hands up. The professor tells us, “you should all drop – you won’t be able to handle this course.” 

I didn’t drop. I got an A. I took every single class she offered. I asked her to be my mentor in a fellowship program. I asked her to be my first reader for my thesis. If I could prove to her I could handle this course, this institution, this material – then I would show everyone I belong here. 

I didn’t prove it to her. She did not support me in applying to PhDs. She did support me in finishing my master’s and I got a great secure job with those degrees. I got to travel and learn and write and experience. 

Graduate Center, WGSP, 2021-

I work at CUNY, they pay for one class a semester. I work full time as an HEO and then I adjuncted to pay for the other 2 classes so I could atleast take 4 classes in a year. I love learning. I love creating. I’m so grateful that I get to read and talk and think – this is a privilege. I want to learn and read and talk and produce and teach on repeat. 

After Hostos I got accepted into a variety of schools, Yale, Columbia, Brown – and a bunch of professors thought I was nuts to turn them down. But every single one of those schools had mandatory dorm housing for the first year and guess who wasn’t invited…my son. 

I want to have a legacy of impact on poor people who are constantly asked why are you here? I want to have an answer for them. A go to, a solid one. 

I don’t. 

But today, I’m here…because I can be. 

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Bathtub Story:  When I was in the 2 grade – James Molapo came and lived with me and my family. He could do all these really cool soccer tricks, he spoke French and was really tall. I remember coming home and my mom was like “he is living with us for a while” and my dad not say anything, but do I remember him maybe rolling his eyes (I think yes). He was a political refugee because he was the bodyguard for Nelson Mandela.  When Nelson Mandela was liberated we danced together in my living room.

Real Story: I was in 6^th grade. He was not the bodyguard of Nelson Mandela, Mandela was incarcerated. He was not tall, he was about 5’7 and he actually spoke 7 languages (at least). He was the Interpreter for Chris Hani (Leader of the ANC).  He did have to escape after Hani was murdered. He was a political refugee. He could do cool soccer tricks. We did dance together in the living room when Mandela got released.