Chapter 6: “Fighting Is All I Know”: Alejandra’s Story
My existence in higher education, and that of many others like me, is shaped by an overwhelming reality. We understand this not only through our own anxieties but also through the brute reality of living in a city like Portland, and, on a wider scale, in the United States, that simply being in higher education is radical. This fact did not leave me as I navigated PSU for my bachelor’s degree; it was in plain sight every day. Institutions like Portland State University were not created with students like those found in this book in mind.
Being in higher education has always been a constant battle, one of both doubting and empowering yourself to move forward and defy the odds. As a first-generation college student, there was an added layer of pressure from my parents. My parents never sat me down and told me that I was going to go to college, but it was a consistent expectation woven into my adolescence. My mother, the loudest of the voices, was determined that her five daughters would go to college because it was all she ever wanted for herself and all she wanted to give to us.
My mother often told me that had she had the opportunity to go to college she would have become a teacher, a devastating failed reality that I live with everyday. For both my parents, living in rural Michoacan Mexico deprived them of many opportunities. Neither was afforded the comfort of a typical childhood. Being the oldest of both their large families meant that their childhoods were spent in adulthood, forced to provide, support, and sacrifice personal interest for the betterment of their family.
The pressure I felt from my family was far beyond their pestering me to apply to universities; it was the weight of their failed dreams, and now the dreams they carried for me and my sisters, to become something more than they did. However I struggle with this perspective. Because to me if at the end of my life I amount to being nothing more than both of my selfless parents, I know I did something right. But I have to remind myself, and importantly others, that even if our parents did not achieve the dreams they once had for themselves, they still achieved greatness in ways that deserve to be honored. But I have to remind myself, and importantly others, that even if our parents did not achieve the dreams they once had for themselves, they still achieved greatness in ways that deserve to be honored.I share my parents’ stories not to paint them as a tragedy, merely victims in their own stories, but to honor the brilliance and strength that exist beyond the limits placed on them
Like most children of immigrants, we live daily with the pressure and sacrifices of our parents. We realize painfully that our parents, in many cases, sacrificed every aspect of their lives to ensure the futures of their children. My parents had no intention of staying in the United States. It was, after all, a foreign land with a different culture and lifestyle, and most importantly, those they loved the most were still in Mexico. However, even without saying it out loud, they both understood that their homeland could not provide what they wanted for their family. They stayed not for selfish reasons but because they knew that for their children to have a prosperous future, they had to. For the children of immigrants, our education is not just for ourselves, but for our parents, our nameless ancestors, and our community.
The difficulty with these pressures, however, is that we enter college environments that are unfamiliar and often unwelcoming. I recall universities visiting my high school, parading glossy brochures with “diverse” faces and promising a place to “find your people.” College was packaged as a beautiful experience, full of engaging professors, inspiring peers, and community. While the faces of Black and brown students might be plastered on billboards and buses, the reality is that when we arrive, we are often left wondering where our community actually is. Especially at an institution like PSU, which prides itself on “diversity,” this contradiction can lead to confusion and self-doubt: Do I even belong here?
To be candid, I fell for the advertisement of PSU’s “diversity.” I grew up in a very small town in which there existed white people and then “the others.” My early life was filled with self-hatred and confusion about my identity, while the latter half was filled with anger and frustrations that I had to coexist with racists, white supremacists, and dangerously ignorant people. So my goal when it came to college was to go as far as I could, but I didn’t get very far. I believed PSU would be an opportunity to connect with people like me , to finally be surrounded by community. But in reality, this was difficult, especially during my first year, which was fully online. The only friend I often joked I had was the professor I collaborated with on this project. Still, I knew I wanted to get involved and help create community. Growing up in a small rural town, I survived because of the power of community, and I knew, instinctively, I would need that same sense of belonging to survive college.Growing up in a small rural town, I survived because of the power of community, and I knew, instinctively, I would need that same sense of belonging to survive college.
My first role at PSU was at La Casa Latina as a programming assistant. Admittingly, I didn’t really understand what it meant to be a programming assistant, and the first year at my job was full of poorly attended online events, and confusion on where the center was even located, since I had never been on campus. However, having this role affirmed to me the importance of continuing to create and build community. Although our events were poorly attended, I could always count on my team to lift me and give me a shoulder to lean on when I felt overwhelmed by the freshman experience.
My one-on-one meetings with my coordinator were more than just updating each other on event logistics, but they began with conversation about my transition to college. Most of the time I would just rant about how alone I felt and my longing to be home in the comfort of my room, surrounded by my sisters and parents. My coordinator never invalidated those feelings. Instead, he reassured me that I was not alone, that so many students felt the same isolation.
From then on, I continued as a programming assistant with La Casa Latina (LCL) and even eventually was more involved with other Latine groups on campus, like MECHA, and helped support other groups when they used LCL for events. At first, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and purpose, I was helping create spaces for people like me. I was filled with joy watching our community come together for our annual Día de Muertos event, offering pan de muerto, live music, and an opportunity to simply be without judgment. We hosted panels with Latine professionals, mixers with Latine-led organizations, and events that celebrated culture and togetherness.
This is the honeymoon phase, and behind the curtain, joy fades, revealing the quiet weight of grief. Behind the curtain were poorly funded programs, budget cuts, under-appreciated staff, undercompensated staff, and emotionally drained advocates constantly having to fight for these programs, programs that for many students made the difference between staying or leaving higher education.
PSU advertises itself to impressionable, anxious high school BIPOC students with a poster of laughing brown kids, yelling the promise, “BIPOC students are welcome here!” And so we flock to the institution, hoping we belong. But the very programs that aid in our retention at PSU are the ones that experience yearly budget cuts to fund poorly performing sports programs. Having to live with this reality as students come to you wanting more support and assistance is heartbreaking. Having to live with this reality while PSU actively seeks Hispanic Serving Institution (HSI) status, while it does nothing for its Latine students, is enraging. We are used as a business strategy to get other students to buy into the school, and in return, like always, we get the very bare minimum and do the best that we can.
However, making due with the bare minimum and persisting against the systems creates a narrative of toxic resilience. I found myself in many leadership positions, and whenever I could, I often spoke about my students that I served and how under supported they felt. And instead of being met with understanding and solutions by higher administrative leadership, they instead fed us the same narrative of how persistent and resilient my community is and how we are able to flourish despite the hardships. I cannot fully express with words how angry these statements would make me, nor am I able to describe the eye roll I would give these people upon their mouths uttering those words.
I do not deny that my community and my people are persistent and resilient; however, being resilient and persistent is not born out of choice or ambition, it’s born out of necessity due to our circumstances and because of the wider systems of oppression around us. My claim to resilience is not a performance for potential employers, but a testament to the fact that my presence in professional and academic spaces has always been a hard-fought battle. Fighting is all I know; nothing in my life has been easy, and to be clear, I am not insinuating that I have done this work alone. This work of persistence of resilience has grown out of my community. So our ability to make due with the very little that we are given is because we are familiar with the feeling of being used and never appreciated. It is exhausting.So our ability to make due with the very little that we are given is because we are familiar with the feeling of being used and never appreciated. It is exhausting. I say this because it gets overwhelming, for many of the students we interviewed, there are some who continue forward and others who fall through the cracks of our system because of the exhaustion of having to fight every day.
And this is where the community should be able to step in because our personal successes are seldom our own but a reflection of the support, privileges, and communities around us. However, this community at PSU is dying with each budget cut and with each turning away from higher administration to these programs and their impact on these students. Our community is our lifeline. How are we to continue if it’s slowly, violently, and purposefully stripped from us?
I apologize if these words feed into doubts about your existence in higher education or deter you from going to college, because that was not my intent. The purpose of this chapter is to empower you to demand to be seen. The road of persisting and reliance unfortunately is longer than ever, and even longer given the political climate in our country. I am currently writing this in Washington, DC, at the foot of the Capitol, as national guards, ICE, and other law enforcement continue to destroy communities and families in the DMV area. We have a long road ahead.
However, I hope this project gives you validation in your experiences and that you see that you are not alone, that many others before you have been in your position. I hope you find yourself in Julissa, Daisy, Brianna, and many more students and take their wisdom and stories as precious gifts. They have felt your doubts, anxieties and frustrations. There is a famous protest chant in Spanish that goes “El pueblo unido jamas sera vencio” which translates to “ the people united will never be defeated.” And this is my final piece of advice to students: create community, be united in community, and continue to fight together, because you belong in higher education. Your existence in higher education is radical, an act of resistance against the white supremacy we navigate every day. You deserve to thrive in higher education, and your voice is needed in higher education.
