I didn’t know what were doing, where we were going or why I had to crawl under this fence, but I did. It was southern California, 1993, and I was eight years old; I was going to meet my father for the first time. Well, at least the first time that I could actually remember — somewhere out there exists a picture of him at one of my birthdays when I was a toddler.

I was born in 1985 to a barely-turned 16 year-old who had been kicked out of her house while she was pregnant, for being a disgrace to the family. After I was born my mother was living in one of the abandoned houses in her little hometown in the state of Guerrero, Mexico. She had no concept of changing diapers (cloth ones at that) or how to breastfeed her child, so, needless to say, I wasn’t in the best health. To make a living, and in order to feed us both, she began selling candies and sweets outside the empty house she inhabited. It was a good plan until another woman saw she was making a decent amount of money and decided to sell candies at a cheaper price. That was the end of my mother’s income. She struggled to find work but everywhere she went she was constantly turned down, harassed or asked for sexual favors in order to get the job. She said no.

It was three days after her 17th birthday, September 19, 1986, when the 8.1 magnutide earthquake — which would claim 10,000 lives — hit Mexico. Soon after, with a baby in her arms, she decided to head for the US. There, she rented out a room and she worked to make life better for herself and her daughter. I can honestly say that my mother could just not catch a break. Long after being in the US, the woman that was babysitting me gave me second-degree burns in the bath. Whether it on purpose or an accident, neither I nor my mother know. It just was. I was in the hospital for weeks due to this, and I don’t know why my mother never filed a report agains this woman. A few months afterward I was out of the hospital and my mother, at my grandmother’s request, decided to return to Mexico. In life, there are always those coulda-woulda-shoulda moments but, lamenting the past does nothing to change it. To this day, seeing the pain that being undocumented causes me, my mother regrets this decision.

Fast forward a few years, let’s say, to when I was four or five years old. I remember four wooden walls, two beds, a black and white fuzzy tv, my “pelón” or bald-headed doll, a hole in the ground in the back for water, a shack-like structure in which I bathed, and dirt. Lots and lots of dirt; grass was an unknown concept to me. This was my home, inside and out. From then on, until the day we would go to meet my father, my mom would go from selling sandwiches, jell-o’s, and hemmed pillowcases to cleaning houses, business and even military baracks, all in the name of making a living. I guess you can say we were “moving up in life” when we had a kitchen attached to our one room house; if you can call sticks, mud and grass an upgrade. Even then, as a child, I excelled in school. To this day, my mother remembers part of the poem I recited, from memory, at my kindergarten “graduation.” Apparently I recited it with such emotion that I made everyone, including my mom and teachers, cry. She was so proud.

My mother ended an abusive relationship with a military man and was fearing for her life. Enter the phone call from my estranged father. I wouldn’t find out til many, many years later what prompted that phone call, but it came at the most opportune time. My father, after abandoning my mother while she was pregnant and being MIA for most of my early years, with the exception of that one birthday I mentioned earlier, decided he wanted us to join him in California. So, we set off for Mexico’s northern border. All I remember was the fence, the hole and darkness. My new life was about to begin.

In that first year in the U.S., both of my parents were migrant farmworkers in southern california. Not long after, my father decided to move us up to the Bay Area- Napa Valley to be exact. No, Napa isn’t all about wine tourism, especially not if you live there. Still, it was better than what we had in Mexico. A nice one bedroom apartment; empty, but nice. My parents put me in school and made sure I wasn’t put into anything resembling an ESL class, they wanted me to learn the language and do it quickly. In retrospect, I realize I’ve always had a knack for languages because English came to me quite easily. Within two weeks, I had made plenty of friends and was off gibbering in a language that my mother couldn’t understand.

I was an avid reader and learner so I quickly excelled in my classes and made the honor roll in second grade. My mom still has the picture she took that day, almost sixteen years ago, framed and on her living room wall. I would continue to make the honor roll every year well into my college years. My life wasn’t all about studying. At the tender age of 9, my family life (which had only existed for about a year) began to fall apart. My parents were in an endless cycle of being together and being apart. It was the epitome of a love-hate relationship and I was stuck in the middle. So, to get away from it as much as possible, I began getting involved in other school activities. I was in choir, band, taekwondo, art club, crossing guard, nature club, computer club, folkloric dance group- I tried it all. I continued on this path of learning and involvement well into high school but that’s when reality began to sink in. The truth is, I wasn’t planning to go to college.

By my 15th birthday, my parents had definitively ended their tumultous relationship. By that time, I had my first boyfriend when I was 14. He was 18, and he wanted to marry me. Crazy, huh? But, when you don’t see a future for yourself anywhere else, well, you really do consider that when it’s offered. Luckily, my mom had enough patience to drill into my head that this wasn’t an option. Then came that time in high school when people begin to focus on the future. What do I want to do after high school? What careers am I interested in? When are deadlines for the ACT and SAT? Which college will I get into? Yeah, those questions went through my mind but, it wasn’t because it was about my future. I constantly asked my friends the questions I couldn’t answer about myself, constantly changing the conversation when people asked me what I was going to do. I didn’t know anyone who was in college or had gone to college. Period. Now, considering that, I had definitely never heard of an undocumented immigrant going to college.

I can honestly say I’ve had some of the most amazing people in my life, because if it wasn’t for Susan Swift – my french teacher, friend, confidant, and someone who I loved as a mother – I wouldn’t have made it through high school. She was there for me after my family disintegrated and managed to make me see some hope in my future. She and I would embark on a journey to legalize me. A journey that would simply be a lesson in our broken immigration system because there was nothing that she, I or anyone could do to change my status. Like I said, ultimately, I didn’t get legal status but I did manage to graduate, and not just that, I was one of the top-of-the-class students who got to sit on stage during the ceremony. Still, as joyous as that moment was, it was equally heartbreaking. It was almost summer 2003, and, amid smiles and plenty of cameras flashing, I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to college. My dream seemed to be over.

Now, I can’t remember who I spoke with or how I found out about a private college in Kansas where I could possibly go to school. Considering that I only had something to gain and nothing to lose, I set off towards Donnelly. Everything happens for a reason, and, as it so happens, Donnelly saw that I was an investment and they accepted me. I cried. Just remembering that, well, I’m tearing up right now. After all of that dedication and hard work, my passion for learning had paid off. I was a college freshman. Life was better than I could have imagined.

Yes, there were plenty of bumps along the way and it took me three years to get my Associate’s Degree but I did it. I beat the odds and was one of a handful of undocumented people I had ever known to go to college. No one was going to stop me from making it til the end. I was determined to get a bachelor’s degree so I set my sights on the only other institution I knew would take me: Rockhurst University. Granted, their tuition was $20,000 a year but, hey, they were offering me $11,000 in scholarships. I thought this was heaven. Not. Reality check: how was I going to get $9,000 for college? I thought I’d figure it out later, so, I enrolled. Again, happiest day of my life. I managed to pay of four of those $9,000 by working every single free moment but that’s all I could do. Again, reality check: no one gives you anything for free. So, after working myself to the bone, physically and mentally, I had to drop out. A year and a half of uncertainty and living paycheck to paycheck was to follow.

Enter the present. I enrolled at Rockhurst again thinking that I could by now afford to return and pay for at least two classes. At a little over $3,000, I figured I could do it. Don’t get me wrong, I love Rockhurst. A lot. But, by the time I graduate, it will have been a bachelor’s degree eight long years in the making. I partially blame the ridiculous cost of higher education. On this journey I’ve fallen, cleaned up the bruises and gotten up. I’ve kept going. I’ve cried for days and have dried those tears over and over. I’ve kept going. I’ve had people question my intelligence because “everyone” with whom I graduated in high school has gotten their post high school education and I’m, well, still working on it. I’ve had people tell me that it’s not a big deal, that I should keep on waiting.

My life has been on pause, rewind or replay for years. Waiting is not an option.