Hanford, California. You know you’ve entered the San Joaquin Valley once the scent of cow manure wakes you up from your nap in the car while you’re on your way to the tourist city of Los Angeles. All around the world, Los Angeles attracts tourists for its image of the film industry, its equivocal Hollywood sign and constant weather of 80 degrees Fahrenheit. If not LA, then San Francisco, which is located in northern California, comes next to mind. San Francisco is known for its Golden Gate Bridge and technological savvy.
Curious, you peek out your car window and automatically start to question whether you’re going in the right direction. You find yourself surrounded by green and fields filled with groups of Holstein and Jersey cows, endless rows of white cotton, almonds, lettuce, grapes, strawberries, apricots, and pomegranates growing in large fields. The San Joaquin Valley, also referred to as the Central Valley, is known for being the “food basket of the world” due to its produces and food; rich dairy products, fruits and vegetables.
Suddenly you notice parked cars aligned the side of the fields, people in between perpendicular rows, bending down, reaching toward the ground, with large hats, dirty towels and dusty clothes, restricting the dirty air from covering their skin. Essentially, these hard workers depend on these crops as a way to stay alive. From dawn to night, or night to dawn, these workers depend on these crops for their salary. It’s their way of putting food on the dinner table.
I try to envision my young parents and grandparents process of emigrating from Mexico City to being able to receive a job in the crops of California, working in the 110-degree weather and extreme conditions, in order to fulfill their American dream. Now, I am here to work hard and persevere my dream. My past high school campus surrounded me with its green and yellow walls. I would walk slowly to class, scared to run into someone as the fog surrounded the entirety of my vision. 7:40 AM.
Walking into the first of my seven classes of the day, one by one, I saw pale, bronzed, olive and cocoa faces take up the approximately forty eight desks arranged in groups of five, filling the entire class room space. I chose to sit in the group at the front of the class, while everyone else began to fill up the seats in the groups behind mine. My parents always reminded me the importance of sitting in the front of the class,“Don’t forget to sit at the front of the class! ”. I took my textbook, notebook, pencil and planner out of my heavy-duty backpack and arefully placed them on my desk.
As I waited for my teacher, I turned my head, observed the rest of my classmates: some on the phone, others chewed gum with their mouths opened, and girls gossiped about “the latest news on the Kardashians. ” The teacher walked in at 7:45, I sat patiently and noticed that only a few of my classmates adjusted themselves in their seats and slammed their books on their desks; the rest of the class continued to do what they were doing before, effortlessly, as if nothing had happened. Sit. Wait. Take notes.
Hear the gossip exchange across the room. Paper airplanes would fly across the room, causing the students to giggle thus, creating entertainment due to the classes’ “boringness”. The teacher would then yell to a couple of students, forced them to go to the principal’s office, meanwhile other boys snuck out of class to smoke in the restrooms. “Riiing! ” Repeat. This was my two years at Sierra Pacific High School, and unfortunately, I felt like a zombie in a preschool; everyday I would show up to all of my classes feeling powerless, weak and disturbed.
Throughout the year, the energy of the class would decrease exponentially, almost like the process of death, however, by the end of the year, energy rose, driving faculty insane, causing everyone to care less about school. Instead students and teachers alike looked forward and prepared themselves for the summer. Indeed, I had excellent grades, but I was seeking to succeed at a top-level university. And I knew that in order to do that, I needed to be challenged academically. Sierra Pacific did not challenge me for my educational goals.
During my interview with the Lawrenceville school admission officer, I was amazed to hear all of the opportunities that Lawrenceville had to offer; green campus initiative, learning the Chinese language, and dorms with roommates. I didn’t even know that boarding schools EXISTED! But then Ms. Martinez had nervously confronted me, “but…you will have to repeat your sophomore year…” It took me a few seconds to register what she had told me, then in a matter of a few seconds I replied confidently, “Okay, when is the application due? ” She was surprised by my response.
I wanted to go to this “Lawrenceville”, wherever it was. It didn’t matter to me, I just wanted to learn with other motivated students like myself. Applying to Lawrenceville had its similarities to applying to a university; recommendation forms, essays, interviews and financial aid packets were all a necessity. Being the oldest and the first woman of my family other than my mother, people always questioned me about leaving my siblings, my family, and repeating my sophomore year to go study at a school that resided 2,839. 5 miles away from my home.
It became a routine to hear people I knew or didn’t know, doubt me, “‘She doesn’t even seem smart, she probably got in because of track or something. ’ ‘She’s just going to turn into one of those gringos’” I disregarded these comments but during my first semester on campus, these comments from back home kept luring into my mind. Lawrenceville made me feel like an outsider. Being one of the only Mexican American girls at a school filled with international and American students who are extremely wealthy shows that a Cali girl, like myself, did not feel comfortable in this environment.
However, that didn’t stop me from continuing my studies at this school. Instead of confining myself from the community, I decided to open up as an individual by figuring out how to become friends and live comfortably with these strangers. Eventually, I felt much more at ease and comfortable living in this small neighborhood. I tried even harder to prove those from back home that they were not correct and that even a low income Mexican American girl can persevere such obstacles and attain high achievements.