Words and artwork by Arantza Garcia
The moment I sat down in my therapist’s office, I started talking. His lack of surprise told me I should start working on my small talk again.
“You won’t BELIEVE the bullshit I had to go through this week.”
“It’s my job to believe it, I think.”
“No, Tom, you don’t understand – it’s fucking INSANE.”
“What is, Arantza?”
“The amount of garbage I had to parse through to enrol at the Uni. It’s ridiculous.”
“Isn’t it just an email they send you with some information? I thought it was meant to be easy?”
“So. Did. I.”
All I could hear as I read through the enrolment email were the annoying voices of my past teachers, mocking me, like persistent mosquitoes.
‘It’s actually quite simple, almost like ticking off a checklist’
‘it’ll all be pretty self-explanatory, and there’s always a phone you can ring’
‘if you don’t understand something – just ask your parents, they’ve been through this as well!’
Except they haven’t, have they?
Mum and dad emigrated from Peru when I was very young. And when your parents sacrifice their entire lives to give you a better chance at yours, those expectations start to weigh heavy. It’s a sentiment most know intimately.
A self-fulfilling prophecy was set, and I knew I would go to university. My brother somehow escaped this fate – and my parents didn’t really care, because they’re lovely. But I cared, a lot, because that weight felt even heavier on my shoulders. What a dick move on his part, right?
And now, reading this enrollment email felt like trying to read morse code. Every word brought up three more questions I needed to ask someone; someone I didn’t have. Never had I felt so stupid.
“Arantza, we’ve spoken about this. Negative words re-establish-”
“Re-establish negative emotions, I know, I know. It was just what I was feeling at the time.”
“That’s okay. Please, continue.”
Tom is right, it’s not stupidity. It’s just my brain trying to blame itself rather than the environment it’s in.
It’s just having to be a first-generation University student.
A first-generation University student is a student whose parents did not attend University. For some, this is a result of poor economic or social status, for others it’s due to also being a first-generation immigrant. Essentially, it results in a lack of readily accessible resources or knowledge on how to navigate education after high school – a complicated roadmap of HECS debt schemes and unnecessarily complex course finders.
It’s representative of the lack of resources and consideration given to already disempowered communities, making the climb up the social and economic ladder within our society even more difficult (because that’s something we reaaallly needed).
Someone once told me that a person should die more successful than their parents were – that it was just the natural progression of things – but that is a daunting task in a society that holds firmly onto its rigorous class structure and segregated communities. Institutional discrimination seeps itself into every infrastructure in our society. Unfortunately, university is no exception.
As an immigrant (a fact which, unlike some, is very physically obvious when one looks at me), this isn’t the first time I didn’t “get” something. There’s this fear that your immigrant status somehow excludes you from one big joke everyone else is in on. You don’t understand certain traditions or cultural references, or God forbid slang – and you are suddenly reminded that you are very-much-not-from-here. And when that “thing” you just don’t “get” is your enrollment into university, suddenly it’s not that funny anymore.
“How’d you do it, then? Did you ask for help, like we’ve been working on?”
“Yeah, I tried. Well, you know dad’s in Brisbane, brother never went to Uni, and no matter how much mum tried, she understood less than me. Had to go to the Uni – which was terrifying. Went to about three different service desks before I found one that was willing to sit down with me and go through everything.”
Those were the most enlightening 45 minutes of my life.
When I first sat down, I couldn’t see the person behind the comically large monitors hiding their face. But by now, they were my last resort, and desperation had slowly started to sink in.
Then she peeks out from behind her computer, and she has brown skin like me, and a soft voice adorned with a subtle Indian accent. All that anxiety and desperation leaks out of my bones, and I’m left comforted by the commiserating smile she wears when I begin ranting.
She explains how HECS works, what units mean, what is the difference between open and closed electives, and what my degree planner is actually trying to tell me. She tells me that I am doing okay, that this is normal, that I am not the first person to ask these questions and I won’t be the last. That I’m not stupid, the system is.
And that makes my rage grow, because it really shouldn’t be. She understands this too; fight in her eyes as she nods her head dimly.
Being an immigrant is difficult in so many ways, but at least it guarantees you a community of people who know exactly what you’re going through.
By the end of it all, I’m enrolled and exhausted, and that excitement is finally starting to creep in a little – because I’m a scholar at heart. But I’m still left with that lingering feeling of anger at having had that experience tainted by expectations of knowledge I did not have, by people who would not understand.
To all the first-generation university students just beginning their journey – remember that you are not alone (or, stupid). It’s okay to not understand everything, and even more okay to be angry at the world for making you feel that way. I encourage that anger, even. Let it simmer and manifest itself into action.
By the end of that therapy session, Tom reminded me that I shouldn’t just focus on the anger like I often do. So on his behalf, I also encourage you to seek help. To find a community of people who understand what you are going through and the pressures you are under, and to keep fighting for a system actually suited to helping the disempowered.
“Just wanted to say that time’s almost up, is there anything else you wanted to talk about? Maybe some more University questions I could help you with?”
“Actually… yeah. Even though she explained it, like, seven times, I still don’t really understand the whole HECS debt thing.”
“…I’m not going to lie to you, Arantza, I don’t really know either. I don’t think anyone really does.”
“Thank fuck.”
On Dit 