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Personal Reflection/Anecdote

my core because I had never heard an accurate
articulation of the idiosyncrasies of my Latino
life. One of these lectures was on unspoken
truths about the use of nicknames—or, more
appropriately, derogatory nicknames. I was
stunned by this information being so causally
discussed in the class. The professor was, no
doubt, merely sharing a portion of his plethora
of knowledge, but it struck me as a blazing
shaft of light targeting deeply guarded
facts about my childhood. I still remember
the pounding of my heart drowning out
the noises around me as I spiraled downward
toward dark memories of my own early
educational experiences. Somehow, I managed to escape the tumultuous mental spiral and return to the
lecture at hand. Hearing the blinding shaft of information dispensed during this ordinary class lecture
was like being on the outside of a house when it explodes. The force of the information picked me up
and unmercifully threw me to the ground as the flying shrapnel targeted my every vulnerability. I was not
psychologically equipped to process such basic sociological truths about my life.
I dropped the class shortly after that lecture, telling myself I had to drop it because of a class schedule
conflict … but that was not the only reason. For years after graduating from college, I contemplated
retaking the class to face myself finally through sociological eyes. It is, most assuredly, still one of my
pipe dreams.
During my college years, the struggle to prove myself worthy continued. Reading was still an
unmastered skill for me, and the places to look for encouragement were lacking. My Greek mythology
professor wrote callously on my paper, “Drop out of college, get a skill, get a job.” The anger and the
hatred I held for him did not outweigh the embarrassment and shame of feeling so stupid. The arrogance
and lack of compassion of the professor fueled a raging passion in me to prove him wrong somehow,
someday. I kept that wretched paper for more than 20 years, carrying it with me through college, career
highs and lows, marriage, children, divorce, poverty, and re-marriage. After all that time, it was still
painful for me to hold that paper in my hands. Those words cut me deeply, but my determination to prove
him wrong was a force that propelled me onward.

Healing and Moving On
In retrospect, time does not always allow for healing, and hindsight is not necessarily 20-20, especially
when you are trying to see through years of emotional mutilation. The frequency of those voices etched
a deep tattoo onto my inner self that could not be easily erased. As my 20-year high school reunion
approached, my brother enthusiastically anticipated this momentous event for me—although I was neither
thrilled nor excited. Ideally, one wants to show up at such an event beaming with accomplishments or
showing off one’s spouse armed with loads of pictures of perfect kids. I was so far removed from that
model of perfection, and the thought of attending this blast into the horror-filled past was not my definition
of fun. But my very persuasive brother convinced me to attend and made all the arrangements for me to
be at this glorious milestone. While in the ladies’ room, with a few other classmates (whom I could not
remember without referencing their name tags), unexpectedly, I was thrust into an episode of the Twilight
Zone. The slightly inebriated Phoebe (the most popular girl in our class) started ranting about that dummy
class to which we were all assigned during our last 2 years of high school.
Dummy class? What dummy class? My brain was scanning at supercomputer speed, pulling up files

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