Practice Your Handwriting

When I was ten, we lived in a suburb of Washington, D.C. It was a small "row house" as we called it then, the walls so thin that we used to joke that when you wanted to hang a picture, you and the attached neighbor would have to agree where to drive the nail. We had a small color television, probably one of the first in existence because its screen was small, octagon shaped, and my dad frequently changed the tubes in the back. The color on the set was lousy by today's standards, but we liked watching the programs in color. As a kid, my TV watching time was quite limited, which leads me to this story.

No one in my family had ever gone to college. My mom had a scholarship, but the family needed her to work and my dad went off right after high school to work with the Civilian Conservation Corps in Maine before joining the army in World War II. In our family, being educated was a high priority and going to college was expected, although we only had a vague idea of what that meant. We never saved much for college even though my mom and dad would only go out to dinner once a year, a movie maybe twice, and always denied luxuries for themselves so we could have the opportunities they never had. There was the sense that we would "find a way." In part, my interest in sports was driven by a desire to help them "find a way," but that's another story.

One evening when my dad got home from work, I was sitting in front of the TV. To my dad, this must have equated to wasting a good opportunity to learn and so the following litany would begin: "Did you do your math?" he'd ask. "Yeah Dad, I did math." "How about your reading?" "Yeah Dad, I did that." "How about history?" "No, I don't have any history." This went on until he exhausted the list. Left flustered and at a loss for words, he replied, "Well, uh, uh . . . practice your handwriting." My sister and I both laughed then, and even now, at the statement. Dad just couldn't tolerate me wasting an opportunity and missing out on what he knew was necessary for success in the world.

When I was in grade school, my dad and mom would help us with our homework, provide learning tools like flashcards and chemistry sets, a microscope, or whatever. As we got older, they couldn't help us much. Our learning exceeded theirs, but their support was unflagging. Even though my grandfather died before I had a memory of him, I suspect it was the same for my dad. Get an education, work with your mind, and advance yourself was the mantra of the family. As I have advanced in the field of education, I think in some small way my parents were participating in the learning. Not only was it a source of pride, but it brought deeper meaning to the sacrifices they made for us. They walked with me every step of the way and no one was prouder than they were for me at each milestone in the process.

I think when it comes to first-generation students like those we have at Avila, many, like me, come from families who place as high a value on education as my parents did, but who aren't sure how to help their kids to attain it. For many first-generation students, they don't know how to "do college." I know for me that was certainly the case. I didn't know what to take, why to take it, or how it fit into what I wanted to do. I wasn't sure how to study, take notes, or handle the readings.

What I'm getting at is that I think first-generation students benefit from making the process of learning more explicit, explaining the various pathways and their importance, and helping students acquire the proper tools for success. It wasn't that I was incapable or unwilling; it was the lack of experience and the uncertainty that accompanied it that mattered. My stumbling to make sense of the collegiate experience was metaphorically akin to my father's frustrated attempt to keep me centered on my learning when he advised "practice your handwriting."