As I crossed the makeshift stage in the Central California Women’s Facility (C.C.W.F.) Visiting Room, graduation cap on head and black gown draped over my prison blues, I saw through a warped veil of tears. As I continued the slow procession of shaking hands and receiving wishes and congratulations from former Professors and an entourage of Administrative Staff, I first became aware of two things; that I more than likely had streaks coming down through the deep rose blush dusted onto my cheeks during the morning’s preparations, and that I was the only one crying.
I rounded the corner, Associates Degrees (plural) in hand and set eyes on the barely-older-than-me surrogate mother that the crack epidemic and matriarchal black familial structure had bestowed on me; my first cousin, Claudia. Claudia, being the protector and provider, the strong one was rarely brought to tears, even in our youth. Even when death snatched the dirty carpets from under our feet. Even when we watched our mothers handcuffed and arrested, begging the officers to let them give us the contents of their pockets, the key to our rented duplex, and a soggy, folded of food stamps the essential component necessary for our survival.
Thinking I was the only one in tears embarrassed me; why was I crying? But seeing Claudia with the same wet streaks validated my emotion. For me, for us; coming from where we’re from… and more than where, but the how. How we were raised wasn’t to go to college. We were raised to get a job and a hustle, sell dope, forge bad checks, and earn quick money, because we lived life in a quicksand. Staying afloat with all the forces in the world trying to suck you down simply didn’t afford us with the luxury of free time for college. In fulfillment of the statistical predictions; a lot of times those without enough time, end up doing time.
Initially, the only way to chip away at my time was to attend college. I couldn’t have foreseen how at home I felt in those classes at Merced Community College, C.C.W.F. campus. Often I only remember the bad times, the trauma that’s compounded throughout my years and solidified into what I call my life. But, during those classes, with every job well done, every “A”, and each bit of positive feedback I received from my peers and Professors, I began to remember the good things that had often been buried under layers of smoke and sorrow.
I remember who I was, fully the straight “A” student whose grandparents would cheer for at every assembly as she walked to receive her Honor Roll awards. She was not a memory, she was me! I remembered all the positivity that had been overshadowed. I remember being left, but being found and cherished I remembered all the times teachers raved about me, and how impressed they were with my potential. College dug up my hopes and reaffirmed that my dreams were possible still.
Everything changed for my entire outlook on life was rebirthed. Because of the college program, the Staff, and the small successes that I allowed myself to revel in, I found truth in my destiny. Although It a rocky path that led me here, I am thankful that I reclaimed that nerdy schoolgirl with pigtails who cried too often. She cried because of hurt, but on graduation day, I cried tears of joy from the realization that despite the where and how of my childhood, today I am a woman who is capable, ambitious, and worthy. A year from now, Claudia and I will cry at my next graduation, where I receive my Bachelor’s Degree in Social Science from Fresno State University, another positive step in my imperfect but beautiful journey.
