A Degree is a Hard Thing to Come By

I can still remember the first C I ever received in college. It was my first semester, back when I was fresh out of high school and still a “traditional student.” I remember the sudden and intense shame and failure that I felt, and the overwhelming desire to disappear from Nicholls, from civilization, from life.

Before that semester, I’d been a mostly straight A student whose identity was far too wrapped up in my achievements and intelligence. I was my high school Valedictorian, and even though my high school was very small and did not reflect the best standards of education, I knew that I’d earned the hell out of that accomplishment.

Throughout my four years of high school, I worked a minimum of three jobs at any given time, at one point working simultaneously as a deck hand, dishwasher, full-time nanny, waitress, tutor, community volunteer, bus girl, and hostess, while also writing the study guide for the Graduation Exit Exam (GEE) in History for the other students in my school.

I still remember being called to the principal’s office and being terrified, only to find that he was recognizing me for placing higher than any of the school’s previous students in a particular subject and way above average for the district in the other subjects. I remember the teachers and community members telling me that I would make out like a bandit come scholarship time.

I had known how much money the other Valedictorian’s and Salutatorians had amassed when they’d graduated, and I knew that most of them were quite wealthy to begin with and used their scholarships to buy things like stereo systems for their cars and etc.

I was so excited that I might actually be able to attend college that I began working myself and my mother into a frenzy of excitement and plans to return to that small town as an English teacher to help the future generations of students in a similar but surpassing manner than I had as their tutor and friend.

For the first time in my life, I thought that my hard work would actually pay off. Then, a series of events swept my hope and my future out from beneath me like the tablecloth in a magician’s trick.

The first hit came when I attended the interviews for the scholarships to which I’d applied. Before I’d even entered the room, I was met with a community leader who laughed and hugged the student before me.

They were cousins, and he informed me that she (the other student who graduated with a 2.5 GPA) had told them all about me, and that I needn’t worry about money as they were sure that some of the other scholarship programs would be honoring me. That was the beginning of a string of financial disappointments.

I was infuriated with the community from which I had attended high school. Infuriated and sorely disappointed with their short-sightedness as they chose to give all of the scholarships to students who I had spent the last four years tutoring and who had no intention of attending college.

Still, I managed to enroll in school thanks to the Pell Grant and a scholarship from Nicholls State University that was issued to Valedictorians. I was excited to begin the new chapter and escape a community that had never felt like home.

Then, during the summer before I was meant to start at Nicholls, the second hit came when I became crippled with social anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder. When I discovered that I would be required to attend orientation with the other incoming freshmen, I became paralyzed with fear and convinced myself that I would never be able to succeed. I thought that my college career was over before it had even started.

Thankfully, my mother, in her usual manner, pushed me over that great hump, and I managed to both attend orientation and to start attending classes. Yet, each day was excruciating.

The walk from the parking lot to my first class alone was enough each morning to send me to the bathroom to empty my stomach. After I managed to pull myself off of the floor and my head out of the toilet, I would brush my teeth and then run to the door of my first class.

Of course, it was just my luck that it was an intro History course, and the only door to the class was in the front. I would stand at that door with my hand on the doorknob and my face peeking into the small glass window every morning, praying for the courage to turn the knob and push inside.

Far too often, I failed and walked away with my head hanging low and my heart full of disdain for myself. I had no problem passing the tests, but my participation grade was plummeting. Then, the next hit came.

The next hit was one that pummeled so many more than just me. It came by the name Ivan – Hurricane Ivan, that is. I remember that my family and I had to evacuate all the way to Austin, TX. We were also forced to stay out of state longer for financial reasons and because of the massive damage to our home.

When I finally made it back to campus, I went to that first class with the intention of asking for a remake for the two tests that my professor issued during the week after the school reopened. I had missed it, but I thought surely… surely, he would understand. I was mistaken.

It’s been almost twenty years since, and I still remember his words:

“All of the other students made it back after the storm. I don’t see why I should give you an exception.” I was stunned.

Truth be told, I still take great issue with this professor over this incident, and I must admit that I curse every time I see his name on the list of classes for registration.

Still, I took the hit. I received a zero for one of the four tests for that course, resulting in my first C in college. As the other professors were more understanding, I earned A’s in those three courses, but the trend had been established. I was devastated and full of shame.

I felt useless and utterly disappointed with myself and with my school. Of course, I know now that I should have taken this over his head. I do not believe that had the Dean and department head known of the circumstances, I would still have been denied the opportunity at a make-up exam. Yet, the mold had been cast. I was a failure. I was terrified of my own shadow, and I certainly lacked the strength to stand up for myself.

However, I had scholarships and a GPA to maintain in order to hold onto them. I enrolled for the next term, but I could not bring myself to give it my all. At least, that’s what I thought when I judged myself back then. I was employed (like I’ve always been), and I was exhausted all the time – just like half the student body.

But I was fighting an uphill battle against myself. I continued to struggle to make it to my early classes, and I missed several sessions, and I struggled with motivation.

I was sorely depressed and would spend far too long attempting to fade out of life and into the sheets of my bed. There were also some good things that semester, though.

That was the year that I started writing, and even though it wasn’t the best as far as skill or creativity (a writer’s bread and butter), it was expression. Understand that I never expressed myself. I squelched myself deep down inside and buried everything I was and wanted to be beneath a mountain of shame, regret, and fear.

But I was writing.

It was a beginning of something that would serve as a motivator for the rest of my life. Still, I skated through that semester, barely squeaking by, and by the end, I had embraced my C’s and B’s with the mindset of someone who suddenly realizes that they are not actually smart or special, but weak, meek, and ordinary.

Somehow, I held onto those scholarships, but the Pell Grant was on shaky ground, and I knew that I would have to work hard to hold onto it with my GPA. The scholarship from Nicholls was also running out as it was only for four semesters, and I was half-way through that term.

I applied for loans (something I had sworn I wouldn’t do), and I used that money to support my sister (who was also in school with me) and myself so that I didn’t have to work as much since my job was the same one I’d had in high school and was an hour from where I was staying, making me extra tired for school days.

I was determined to buckle down and make something of myself and my schooling once again. That’s when the next hit came. After all, this wasn’t a baseball game. It was life, and we get more than just three strikes. Usually.

The next hit also bore the name of a hurricane.

Katrina.

That name still sends chills down spines and brings tears to grown men’s’ eyes. It certainly brings tears to mine. Our home was destroyed. My mother fought that battle for years. Against the state. The government. Against the small, insular community that proved to be against us outsiders once more as they denied her ability to rebuild even after she’d acquired FEMA funding.

Though this is another story entirely, it certainly impacted me and my schooling once more. We were homeless. Again. I believe this was my fifth or sixth time (though not the last) being homeless, and it wore me down. It wore my mother and my sister down. And that wore me down even more.

We found a way to survive, though. We always do. We moved to Baton Rouge, and my sister and I commuted to Nicholls. I was lonely, and I was working and living even farther away from my classes. I missed a lot of them. I lost participation points even more. I was barely hanging on. But it was still better than being in that other town, and I felt like things might actually look up.

I should have known better.

That winter, just months after Katrina, my mother was diagnosed with Cancer. I remember the phone call like it was this morning. I remember the fear. I remember the paralysis all over again. I remember the smell of the hospital room I stood in when the doctor dropped the bomb:

“… Advanced … Lumps the size of grapefruits…”

A wave of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed me. I swayed to the side, suddenly noticing the intensely unpleasant smell of the room in which we all stood. I reached out and grasped my sister’s arm.

“Take me outside. I’m gonna pass out.”

That's pretty much the last thing I remember from that year. Apparently, I continued school through that, but we traveled to Houston, TX so much to take my mother to MD Anderson... I missed even more school than ever. After a point, the professors gave up on excusing my absences. The Fs soon ensued. I'd never gotten F's before.

It didn't feel so good. And it didn't look so good either. That was officially the end of financial aid for me. And for more than two decades... it was the end of college.