What The Hell America!

Fewer than one in three first-generation students graduate in four years. Without DEI programs and support, too many are left to navigate impossible odds alone—without the guidance, resources or safety nets they deserve.

I didn’t know I was a first-generation college graduate until after I shouldered my way across the stage with my degree. Six years, three schools, multiple majors and one abortion later, I’d done what only 27.4 percent of students like me manage to do: finish. I didn’t get there because the system worked. I got there in spite of it.

Several weeks after graduating from Southern Connecticut State University with a bachelor’s degree in journalism, my mom said to me candidly that she wouldn’t have been surprised—or judged me—if I had made the decision to drop out before I graduated. “You went through a lot,” she said.

I am a proud first-generation college graduate, but didn’t know that I was until after getting my bachelor’s degree. I struggled my way through each semester without much guidance from my parents. My mom is a nurse with a vocational certificate. My dad lied about having a college degree. I did not receive the guidance that today’s diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives provide to students and families who are unfamiliar with college systems.

It took me six years to earn my undergraduate degree. Today, less than a third of first-generation students graduate within four years, according to the Ballard Center. I transferred from Florida A&M University to Fordham University, and then to Southern Connecticut State University. I changed my major multiple times—from a five-year MBA program to business administration, then to journalism. I had to retake financial accounting at least twice. I fell in love, had an abortion, and the next school year that same guy had a baby with one of our classmates.

Each semester, I was often short $1,500 and scrambled to find the money in time to register for the next term. I gained the freshman 15, then dropped to about 105 pounds by sophomore year when I had to move off campus and couldn’t afford food. I knew what it was like to go to class hungry. The meal plan would have added additional tuition costs. When I applied for food stamps, I was told I didn’t work enough hours. When I did get a job, I didn’t have a car and hitched rides daily.

Having a university-promoted food pantry on or near campus would have made the difference between stability and survival.

Fordham offered public transportation and a university shuttle, but the financial aid package didn’t cover the $30,000 annual tuition. I had a $40 per week stipend from my internship. When I was advised to meet with the diversity officer all the Black students turned to, she had no solutions and simply served as a reminder that I was a poor college student. With no cosigners or credit, I dropped out. “I have to get out of here,” I told my mom. She picked me up from the Bronx during spring break, and we packed my room like two thieves in the night.

I took a semester off and interned again—this time with MTV and General Motors. My dad bought me a $500 car, as promised if I ever returned home. I enrolled at Southern Connecticut State University, a public university with a 60 percent first-generation and 18 percent Black student population. I changed my major to journalism, repeated junior year for the third time, and finally graduated the following year.

The hardships I faced during my college matriculation were the very challenges DEI programs are designed to mitigate.

DEI programs were created to reduce the kind of unnecessary suffering I endured.

I achieved success despite limited support. Although I was able to “pull myself up by bootstraps,” no students should have to endure trauma to get an education. Keeping DEI programs ensures that future students, especially first generation students, have access to the resources and assistance necessary for their academic and personal growth.
Learning the truth about my father’s so-called college journey made it harder to process my own.

Growing up, my father claimed he had an associate’s degree earned during his Air Force service. But I never saw documentation. I didn’t even understand what an associate’s degree was until college. He also claimed fraternity membership, which inspired my own Greek life involvement. Months ago, he admitted he was never actually initiated.
Years after I completed graduate school, my father and I discussed a job he was applying for. Reviewing his resumé, I noticed it said he held a bachelor’s degree.

“I thought you didn’t have a bachelor’s degree,” I said.

“I don’t,” he smirked.

“But your resumé says you do.”

He shrugged and said most positions required it and no one had ever verified it. It stung. I had poured so much into earning my degrees, and here was my father, skating by unchecked. I realized he had no intention of removing it. He had no sense of guilt.

It made me question if I had struggled in vain to earn a college degree. His bravado felt like mockery. But more than that, I realized I was protecting his lie. I didn’t want to jeopardize his employment, but it meant I couldn’t fully celebrate my truth.

My father’s actions may have stemmed from a desire to earn more and elevate his image, but they also revealed a deeper irony: He was angry that people living on Section 8 shared the same apartment building as him, a man who worked 40 hours a week. Yet, his own resumé was a facade, built on lies that allowed him to secure six-figure roles while I clawed my way up, loan by loan, class by class.

I didn’t succeed because the system worked—I succeeded in spite of it. DEI programs were created to reduce the kind of unnecessary suffering I endured. The rollback of DEI resources punishes students who may not have my stubbornness or emotional endurance.

Proposals to dismantle the Department of Education would further erode oversight and protections for vulnerable students. My story is a warning: Removing these resources sends a dangerous message that struggling students should simply tough it out alone.

If I hadn’t had enough perseverance or been lucky enough to have a mother who could pick me up from the Bronx, my story could have ended very differently.

We don’t need fewer systems of support. We need more. And we need to celebrate louder for those of us who have changed the trajectory of our bloodlines, even if it was an agonizing journey across the stage.