My first memories revolved around looking at my grandmother’s hands. They were calloused, wrinkled, arthritic. When she would cook, I’d ask, “Grandma, do your hands hurt?” She always would reply, “No, princess, they are fine.”
Who was my grandmother? Blandina Margarita Govea Tuero was a Mexican-American WWII Veteran, a master cook and baker and a single mother of nine. She lived in poverty and did not complain. Having only a ninth-grade education, she would say to me, “No one can take away your knowledge. Get your education.”
Like many other Mexican-Americans, my grandmother saw education as the great equalizer. In fact, of her nine children, five graduated with a bachelor’s degree. Three of those five attained a master’s degree.
However, her 18 grandchildren have fared differently. Only two have attained a bachelor’s degree. I am one of those two, and the only one to pursue graduate school. Unfortunately, she passed away a year before I graduated. Before she died, I promised her that I would attain a Ph.D. and become a faculty member.
I never knew how hard it would be to fulfill that promise.
People may say to me, a Chicana/Puerto Rican Ph.D., “You did it, so everyone else can.” I am the exception to the rule. Less than 1 percent of Chicana and Puerto Rican women attain a PhD. As of 2015, the National Center for Education Statistics reported that two percent of Hispanic men and women combined are full-time faculty, regardless of rank. By contrast, white men and women are at 77 percent. More startling, Hispanic women make up 1 percent or less of full-time professors in the U.S.
Throughout my academic career, I have experienced imposter syndrome, a phenomenon that occurs when an individuals internalize the belief that they do not belong despite having the qualifications and success. One way I have found to combat imposter syndrome is to tell the stories that have come before me, stories that have not had a platform to be shared.
