Notebook in hand I compose this as I sit in the shade of a
cottonwood tree on the banks of the Umpqua River, my eyes slowly taking in the sandbars
and berry thickets that I ran through endlessly as a boy. Every summer of my
childhood was spent in this small bastion of paradise, whiling away my days as
only a lazy child unencumbered with responsibility can. Now, many years and
many experiences later, as I sit in the fluttering shade provided by the tree’s
canopy, my gaze moves up to take in the familiar expanse of sky I know so well.
Clouds of mauve and magenta slowly move eastward as the sun sinks behind the
hills of the Callahans. The recent deliciously clear weather exhibits uncommon
perfection for July and I cannot help but wonder if this burst of exuberance is
for me specifically, as I struggle with issues both abstract and particular.
These beautiful evenings of lavender and soft breezes filled with birdsong are,
I hope, a harbinger of better things to come.
It was like this many years ago, a lifetime it seems like
today. Sitting on a bench in a public park watching my two children run and
laugh and yell and argue, I slowly traced the edges of the letter I had received
in that day’s post. My only source of income had, with the delivery of this
letter, ceased. I was too numb to be angry, too hurt to question those who made
a decision that has the immediate effect of preventing me from buying groceries
for my kids.
As we walked home, my children oblivious to my discomfort, I
asked myself how I had gotten myself into this situation. Like so many others,
my job had vanished in 2008, when the Age of Grace was replaced by the Era of Efficiency.
That night I walked to my neighbor’s
house and begged a loaf of bread and some peanut butter—sustenance. Returning
home, I got down to the task of figuring out my future. Income was paramount. I
took temp jobs and jobs that that I never would have thought myself in need of.
At one point I took a job digging ditches by hand. Cold, standing in the rain
with a shovel and a wheelbarrow, covered in mud and leaves, I dug ditches for a
man who had waited years to grace his property with proper drainage and fencing
and thus it was an overgrown nightmare of weeds and blackberries.
For such work I earned minimum wage.
It was this experience that prompted me to return to school.
Armed with nothing more than a 9th grade education and the desire
not to be a laborer the rest of my existence, I walked into the admissions
office here at UCC and walked out with the means to procure an education. I had
no idea what to expect, but I knew I had no choice but to succeed.
My first class that fall was Spanish. My father is a native
of L.A. and I grew up friends with migrant farm workers, so with the irrational
enthusiasm of a freshly converted believer I assumed that Spanish would be a
cakewalk for me; that it would be nothing more than filling the gaps of what I already
knew. Having little formal education and my career having been inadequately
restricted to a narrow stratum of the workforce, I had limited experience in
the workings of the real world. I considered myself honest and often mistook insensitive
callousness for frankness, even when justifying my own actions to myself. Thus
my decision to study Spanish.
I walked out of that first class deeply wounded by my
collision with reality. As I shuffled across campus I became aware that I lacked
the very foundational pieces of academic experience, solicitude, wisdom, perception,
and inspiration. Without these foundations success would be something unshared
by me or to me in my short academic career.
I realized that I would not be able to do this alone. With
limited enthusiasm and much trepidation I made way to the tutoring center to
inquire of their services. To my delight I discovered that they were free and
available to all students who needed assistance.
I utilized the help of three different Spanish tutors that
first shaky year. On an almost daily basis I would arrive in the cramped
tutoring area, shed my coat and rucksack, and try to work on whatever bit of
Spanish minutiae was assigned that week. The wonderful tutors were always ready
to assist me with whatever I was struggling with. Without their guidance,
assistance, encouragement, and support I would not have been able to complete
my courses and indeed likely would not have graduated.
Later, when I became a tutor myself, I realized just how
difficult such a task really was—and how rewarding.
Our experiences in school are unique; they are largely what
we make them. So many students have faced these trials and have succeeded in
conquering their fears and doubts and gone on to successful university careers
or entered the workforce. Others face these trials and suffer agonizing defeat.
This is one reason that the CSM program is so important: it gives students the
tools needed to build their confidence and overcome their hurdles. People who
are returning to school after a long hiatus are at a particular disadvantage,
as years of being in the workforce have eroded some of the skills needed to
succeed in college.
We must do everything in our collective power not to let defeat
win, no manner what form it chooses to take.
—N.
