It’s been a year since I started attending UC Berkeley, and I have never been more emotionally exhausted in my life. If I had a penny for every time I thought about running back home, I could probably pay off a whole year’s worth of tuition. But home isn’t Stockton, California, where I grew up. Home is the warm embrace of my mom and dad, the soft scent of hand-pressed tortillas, a fresh pot of caldo de pollo on the stove on a July afternoon, and the steam on windows after making pupusas. Home is deciding on having red or white rice, going on shopping sprees with my mom, and watching goofy Adam Sandler movies with my dad to ease his worries.Â
I find myself lost in memory and reminiscing on my childhood frequently. I wish I could be back home so I could rewatch the Back to the Future trilogy for the thousandth time, build one more lego set with my older brother, and build blanket fortresses to block out the rest of the world. Home is the echoes of my childhood, a yearning for the moments that were shaped by the people I love.Â
Moving away for college, I carry little fragments of home with me, but never the full picture. I flip my own stale tortillas, build my own lego sets, and stare at my unused rice pot. I never have the time to make my parents’ notorious rice and it could never resemble theirs anyways. College makes me too busy to go back home, but I never neglect or forget the little girl I once was.Â
I encounter Spanish-speaking women on the bus, and I smile at them the way I would smile at my mom as a child. I hand the paletero the rest of my cash, hoping in some way it reaches the paletera from my elementary school. In the depths of Main Stacks, I blast cumbia to help me be as productive as I was listening to it while helping clean the kitchen table.Â
It’s easy to forget my purpose and goal as I pursue my college degree, but a simple glance at the Latine dining hall staff and janitors pulls me back to the present. Their hardworking spirits mirror the ones of my own family, and they ease my homesickness and imposter syndrome, little by little. The question of whether I belong taints my thoughts, but I know I can’t give up the life my parents have spent their lives trying to build for me. I know the little girl in me only wanted to grow up and chase dreams my parents couldn’t. To not take advantage of the potential I have and disappoint my inner child would be the greatest heartbreak of all.
Original photo by Hillary Montero Landaverde – The little girl in question
I know for a fact I’m not alone in this complicated feeling. Many first-generation students wander blindly through the strange world of college. We cling to those small moments of familiarity as we try to navigate an entirely different social and cultural landscape. It’s a struggle like no other, but as I guide the hand and carry the spirit of my inner child everyday, I am constantly reminded of why I am here.Â
There isn’t a blanket fortress to keep out all the anxieties and pressures of the world anymore. My parents aren’t here to fill the quiet anymore. The girl who did nothing but dream grew up a long time ago, and everyday she rises to show just how resilient her people are.