voices-exclude

By the Numbers

Anonymous — Thu, 06 Sep 2018 17:43:44 +0000

By the Numbers Anonymous (not verified) Thu, 09/06/2018 - 11:43

Learn about our latest rankings, growing undergraduate degrees and research report.

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Welcome to the inaugural edition of Voices

Anonymous — Wed, 05 Sep 2018 21:53:48 +0000

Welcome to the inaugural edition of Voices Anonymous (not verified) Wed, 09/05/2018 - 15:53

I am delighted to invite you to read the inaugural issue of Voices, the CU Boulder School of Education’s annual magazine. In our pages and online, we offer perspectives on current events in education as well as several spotlights on some of the many inspirational people in our field. From collective efforts to address teacher recruitment and retention issues to the community leaders like Christine Ahn and Hon. Christine Arguello who are blazing a trail, thanks, in part, to their education here to new opportunities to reconnect at events like Homecoming and Ed Talks, Voices aims to engage and inspire. We hope you can see your work, your interests and your voices reflected in these pages. Also, we want to hear from you. What are your concerns, your successes, your challenges, your goals?

At times, it seems the focus on our field hinges on the many challenges within education, and yet we are also a part of a long-standing movement focused on noticing, exploring and extending the successes in education. Our university has proudly supported educators from virtually day one—with CU teacher preparation beginning just one year after the founding of CU Boulder and the state. Today, we offer cutting-edge teacher preparation that addresses the schools of tomorrow; innovative undergraduate programs in education and community leadership; and Colorado’s topranked graduate education programs. In these uncertain times, we continue to live our commitments to democracy, diversity, equity and justice.

Your School of Education is steadfast in its charge to teach for change, and to partner with schools, educators, researchers, policymakers, community partners and you to truly transform lives. Thank you for being part of our vision for our collective future in education and community leadership and for joining us in this most important work.

Warm wishes,

Kathy Schultz, Dean and Professor

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One Step at a Time

Anonymous — Wed, 05 Sep 2018 18:12:41 +0000

One Step at a Time Anonymous (not verified) Wed, 09/05/2018 - 12:12

Addressing international impasse with education, leadership and understanding

Christine Ahn awoke from a vivid dream in 2009 and exclaimed, “I know who will end the Korean War: It will be women.” Six years later, she and fellow leaders were taking steps toward her dream by organizing a women’s peace walk across the most militarized border in the world, the demilitarized zone (DMZ) between North and South Korea. The peaceful demonstration cast new light on the Korean Peninsula, an international focal point since the unresolved Korean War. Not long after Ahn and advocates made headlines, she returned to CU Boulder as an INVST Community Studies alumna to talk with students about organizing peace and humanitarian delegations. From the Olympics to missile tests to peace deals, Korea has once again been in focus. With our school’s community leadership programs thriving, this is a critical time to revisit Ahn’s important work and words.

By Christine Ahn, INVST Community Studies alumna

Known as “the Forgotten War,” the Korean War was brutal. In just three years, nearly 4 million people were killed—mostly innocent civilians. The U.S. bombing campaign destroyed nearly 80 percent of the North. Just one year into the war, a U.S. general told the Senate “there are no more targets, everything is destroyed.” The fighting came to a halt when North Korea, China and the U.S., representing the U.N. Command, signed the 1953 armistice agreement. They promised to return in 90 days to hammer out a peace deal, but the peace deal went unsigned for more than 60 years.

Participants of the Women Cross DMZ March, including Ahn (fourth from left) and Gloria Steinem (third from left). Photo: Niana Liu

One of the legacies of the ceasefire is the 2-mile-wide DMZ, established as a buttress between the two Koreas. With 1.2 million landmines, thousands of armed soldiers and barbed wire, the DMZ is intended to keep families separated and the Korean people from seeing, knowing and understanding each other.

On the 70th anniversary of Korea’s division, it seemed appropriate to do something bold that shook the status quo and shined a light on the insanity of this division. The women’s peace walk across the DMZ was just that.

The idea emerged from a dream. I was working at the Global Fund for Women at the time and managing a program called Women Dismantling Militarism, which supported hundreds of inspiring grassroots women’s efforts worldwide—from Colombia to Congo—to challenge war and militarism. It was then I had the most incredible dream about the Imjin River, which flows through the heart of the Korean Peninsula, that led to my planning and organizing of the walk.

"It was before the break of dawn, and I was wading in the river, chest high. As the sun rose over the horizon, a glow of light gently flowed down the river. It was people carrying candles in their palms, and that light then morphed into the most beautiful family reunifications, of elderly siblings clutching brothers and sisters they had not seen for a lifetime."

"I remember being moved to tears but wanting to keep going upriver to the source of the light. So I waded up the river, and that’s when I came upon a circle of women."

I began ruminating about how women will do this. I received a fellowship to research the efforts of Korean women to build peace. I learned the first meeting of North and South was convened by a Japanese woman, which drove home the important role of women from outside the peninsula during times of inter-Korean impasse. Then I found inspiration for a peace walk when five New Zealanders crossed the DMZ by motorbike. I thought, ‘If they can do it, we can, too.’ I set off to make this dream come true.

Photo: David Guttenfelder

I brought together 30 women peacemakers from 15 countries. Our delegation included two Nobel peace laureates, Gloria Steinem, a retired U.S. Army colonel, humanitarian aid workers, artists, filmmakers, faith leaders and human rights lawyers.

On our 10-day journey, we met with North Korean women in Pyongyang for an international peace symposium, walked with 7,000 women in Pyongyang and Kaesong, crossed the DMZ on International Women's Day for Disarmament, were greeted by 3,000 South Korean women and held a second peace symposium in Seoul.

Why did we walk? To invite all concerned to imagine a new chapter in Korean history, one marked by dialogue, understanding and, ultimately, forgiveness. We walked to help unite Korean families tragically separated by a man-made division. We walked to reduce military tensions on the Korean Peninsula, which have ramifications for peace and security throughout the world. We walked to urge our leaders to redirect funds devoted to armaments toward improving people's welfare and protecting the environment. We walked to end the Korean War by replacing the armistice agreement with a peace treaty. And we're going to continue walking to ensure that women are involved at all levels of the peace-building process.

Christine Ahn, an INVST Community Studies alumna, is addressing international impasse with education, leadership and understanding. In 2009, she had a vivid dream that women will help end the Korean War. Later, she and fellow leaders were taking steps toward her dream by organizing a women’s peace walk across the demilitarized zone (DMZ) in Korea.

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Memoir: Success Meets the Daddy Kangaroo

Anonymous — Mon, 27 Aug 2018 20:55:25 +0000

Memoir: Success Meets the Daddy Kangaroo Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 08/27/2018 - 14:55

Christine Arguello

It was the Fall of 2008, and I was basking in the radiance of my “success.” Little did I know, in a few hours, the innocent and totally honest words of a three year old would shatter the rose-colored glasses from which I viewed my world.

I had defied those pessimists who said a woman could not have it all. My husband and I had a beautiful, smart, precocious son and a very happy marriage. I had recently been made partner in the largest law firm in Colorado, Holland & Hart. I had been awarded the Women's Trade Fair Recognition Award for Outstanding Performance in the area of Professional Service. A year earlier, at age 32, I had been the youngest person to ever win election to the Colorado Springs District 11 School Board, then the third largest school board in Colorado.

In some ways, that day was an average day for me. My morning began about 6:00 a.m. with a quick run on the treadmill, followed by the beginning of a hectic day dealing with all the issues that arose in my law practice. I left work early at 5:30 p.m. to attend a board meeting for one of three non-profit organizations on whose board I sat. However, it was abnormal in that the board meeting adjourned early and I was able to get home by 7:00 p.m.

How was I able to devote so much time to my career when I had a three year old son and a husband? I am one of those fortunate wives whose husband readily took on more than his fair share of the domestic responsibilities of being a parent. Ron and I got married in 1974, four months after we met. I was only 18 and had no intention of ever getting married because my experience up to that point was that marriage was a dead-end for a woman’s career. My observations of my mother and all my aunts, as well as the lessons my family and culture tried to instill in me as a child, taught me that a woman’s sole job after marriage was to take care of her husband, children, and household. She might also have to work a job on top of all her household responsibilities to help support the family, but not one that would allow her to make more money than her husband. As my father once advised me, “No man wants to be married to a woman who is better educated than him and who makes more money than him.”

That was not a life I envisioned for myself. So, I had fully accepted that I might end up an “old maid” because no man was going to tell me what I could and could not do with my life. But my first week as a freshman at CU Boulder, I met Ron. He was so unlike the macho Hispanic males I had grown up with. He cooked and cleaned for himself. His clothes were always immaculately ironed, with the creases on his jeans and shirt backs precisely where they needed to be. He had a healthy self-image and was not intimidated by the fact that I was an outspoken and intelligent young lady who intended to have a career. He was intrigued, rather than intimidated, by my intellect. He teased me by counting the syllables in the words I used in every day conversation saying, “Wow, five syllables. I’ve never dated a girl who spoke in words with as many syllables as you.” When I confided to him that I dreamed of becoming a lawyer and attending Harvard Law School, he was entirely supportive. In short, even though I was only 18 and he was my first boyfriend, I was in love with a man that I truly believed was my soul mate and life partner. Ron would help me succeed. He would not hold me back because his ego couldn’t handle my being better educated or making more money than he.

In 1974, the “free love” lifestyle of the hippies was quite prevalent at CU and it was not uncommon for girls to sleep with guys they had just met. But both of my parents were strict Catholics and they raised me accordingly. In my young, indoctrinated mind, a man and a woman having sex or living together without the blessings of a church-sanctified marriage was a mortal sin. So, when Ron realized I would not move in with him unless we were married, he proposed marriage. Even though I wasn’t really ready to get married, I knew I could not let him get away. So, I accepted his proposal with one important condition: “I need to get through college, three years of law school, and three years of my career as a lawyer before we start our family. So if you marry me, we won’t have children for ten years.” I promised him he would be a dad by age 30. We were married two months later during winter break.

As I’ve aged, I have become a bit wiser. I now understand that there is so much more to success than I originally thought. It took the innocent words of my three year old son to open my eyes.

Eleven years later, our son was born. We never consciously decided that Ron would sacrifice his career so that I could reach “success” in my career, but that is the direction in which we proceeded. Ron became the dominant caregiver for our son and, eventually, all of our children.

But I digress. Back to Thursday, September 15, 1988, I arrived home earlier than usual. Ron wanted to go to Lynmar Tennis Club to play a match with one of his friends. Our son Ronnie Bryan was only three years old, but he went everywhere and did everything with his dad. He began crying because he wanted to play tennis with his dad and Uncle Wendall. The one activity that my son loved to do with me was to have me read to him. To calm him down and distract him, I said, “Why don’t we read some books?”

While his dad sneaked out of the house, Ronnie Bryan and I went into his bedroom where he selected some of his favorite books. We first read Brown Bear Brown Bear, which he had memorized, and loved to “read” to me every night before bedtime. We read a few others, whose titles I don’t recall.

Finally, I pulled out his Richard Scarry Best Word Book Ever, from which we were building his vocabulary. I loved listening to his sweet, sing song voice as he explained to me what each picture represented. When we got to the letter K, I pointed to a picture with a baby peeping out of its mother’s pouch. He didn’t skip a beat.

“That’s a kangaroo. That’s the daddy kangaroo with the baby kangaroo.”

I was totally caught off guard by that response. It had never occurred to me that that was anything other than a mommy kangaroo. I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I had to get a further explanation from my baby.

So I asked him, “Are you sure that is not mommy kangaroo?”

He slowly shook his head from side to side and solemnly answered, “No, mommy kangaroo is working.”

The last thing I wanted my baby to know was how devastating that answer was to me. It took all the emotional control I had, but I held my tears in until after I had him safely tucked into bed. Later, as I lay in bed, all kinds of thoughts swirled in my head. I realized how blind I had been. I had thought that everything was fine. I wasn’t neglecting my son because my husband was there to take care of him while I was busy “being successful.” Then I began envisioning my son graduating from high school and heading off to college. As I cried myself to sleep, I realized that, if I didn’t change my life, one day I would wake up and my son would be heading off to college. I wouldn’t know him and, likewise, he wouldn’t know me.

The next day at work, I confided my devastation to two of my closest friends, neither of whom was married or had children. They tried to comfort me by telling me that Ronnie Bryan was simply manipulating me and yanking my chain, but I knew that he was too young for this type of manipulation. His statement had been a totally honest and candid response to my question. That was his reality – mommy kangaroo was always working.

The innocent words of my three year old son, made me realize that, although it was possible to have a career and a family, there was a price to pay. To achieve both personal and professional success certain sacrifices had to be made in both realms. The choice was up to me. I chose to make a career change because I would not sacrifice my relationship with my son.

As a Type A personality, I knew I needed a job that would challenge me while allowing me more flexibility in my work hours. Becoming a law professor provided me with the intellectual challenge I needed because I had to become an expert in the subject matter areas that I taught and wrote about. But it was not a career in which success was based on high billable hours and client development activities. As long as I was fulfilling my teaching and writing responsibilities, my time was my own. If I wanted to leave in the middle of the afternoon to read to my son’s class or go on a field trip with him, I had the flexibility to do so. I could leave every day at 5:00 p.m. and be home to have dinner with the family and no one batted an eyelash. I could tuck my children in to bed at night and then turn to my class preparation or my scholarly writing and research.

As I’ve aged, I have become a bit wiser. I now understand that there is so much more to success than I originally thought. It took the innocent words of my three year old son to open my eyes. Although gaining admission to a school like Harvard, or making partner at a big law firm and making a lot of money are laudable achievements, they are not true measures of success. Since that day, about 30 years ago, I have tried to live up to the closing stanza of my favorite poem, entitled Success: “To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived, this is to have succeeded.”

Today, I am happy to report that my son and I have a very close relationship. Ronnie Bryan, who now goes by Ron, followed in our footsteps. He is a CU Boulder alum with and B.S. degree in Finance from the Leeds School of Business and a Juris Doctorate from the CU College of Law. When he was a second year law student, he and I were discussing his career plans over lunch. He told me that he was going to forego the high salary the private sector would offer him because he wanted a work/life balance, like the one our family had after I became a law professor. Today, he is a top notch attorney in the Westminster City Attorney’s office. I realized then that I had been a positive role model for him in several different ways. I also realized that my son is as wise today, as he was at age three.

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Memoir: Harvard Ambitions

Anonymous — Mon, 27 Aug 2018 20:36:34 +0000

Memoir: Harvard Ambitions Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 08/27/2018 - 14:36

Christine Arguello

I was in 7th grade and 13 years old when the most pivotal moment in my life took place. Looking back, one could say that this was luck, happenstance, serendipity, or perhaps destiny. But I think it was God, opening a door and allowing me to see and memorialize this moment as a turning point.

I was waiting for my best friend, Vicki, who was querying the librarian about a book she was looking for. After a while, I became bored and, as I looked around the room, I saw a magazine that had been left carelessly on the table next to me. I don’t remember if it was Time or Newsweek, but it was a news magazine of that sort. It wasn’t the kind of magazine I normally read, but I reached over and picked it up. I leafed through it, my hands turning the pages the way young hands wander through books, giving the words and images a chance. I found an article on lawyers and law schools and immediately became fascinated, mesmerized. The text conveyed the sheer power that lawyers exercised in accomplishing societal change and the protection of individual rights. I had never met a lawyer so, until I read that article, it had never occurred to me that I could become a lawyer and change the world. Hope welled up in me. I thought, “Lawyers like to argue with people. I like to argue with people. And I usually win my arguments. So, I would be a good lawyer.” The article also included a picture of Harvard Yard with its stately red brick buildings with pillars and black iron gates and, of course, its ivy. It concluded by saying, Harvard was the “best” law school in the country. That is what I wanted for myself – the best.

I put the magazine back on the table, but from that day forward, my sense of life had deepened and the look of my world was transformed by these new possibilities that arose from the pages of that magazine. I had a new mission. I was going to become a lawyer, and I was going to obtain my law degree from Harvard Law School!

Big dreams for a small town girl whose parents hadn’t graduated high school. All I knew was that in order to accomplish my dream, I would have to be willing to pay the price. To get into the “best” school, I would have to be the “best” student.

I knew nothing about Harvard; not even where it was located. The world in which I lived began and ended in Buena Vista, Colorado. Yet that did not deter me. At 13-years-old, how could I have predicted that my imagination would take hold as it did, sweeping me into a dream of lawyers and law school. Big dreams for a small town girl whose parents hadn’t graduated high school. All I knew was that in order to accomplish my dream, I would have to be willing to pay the price. To get into the “best” school, I would have to be the “best” student. From that day forward, it wasn’t good enough for me to get merely A’s in my classes. I had to have the top grade in all my classes no matter how hard I had to work to set the curve. I maintained this hunger for a better life—a hunger that both strengthened me by providing me with focus and a path to a brighter future, but which also identified me as different from my peers, separating me from them.

From seventh grade through my junior year in high school, I did not waiver in my Harvard ambitions. However, neither did I share my dream publicly with anyone. Deep down I instinctively knew that others would not really understand or accept the idea that this little “Mexican” girl, daughter of Phil the barber, could gain admission to Harvard Law School.

All of that changed one sunny afternoon in late April of my junior year when the trees were beginning to bud and most students were daydreaming about being anywhere but in school. That day, my high school English teacher, Mrs. Cecilia Poplin asked us all, “What do you intend to do with your lives after you graduate high school?” She started at the back of the first row closest to the windows and proceeded to have each student answer her question.

I remember Mark’s reply, “I want to be an engineer and attend the Colorado School of Mines.”

“I want to be a hair dresser,” Debbie said.

I watched my classmates become enthralled with each other’s dreams. The classroom seemed alive with hope and possibility. As I listened with one ear, an intense debate raged in my head. Should I tell them? Should I share my dream? Will they support me?

Finally, the question was directed at me, “What about you, Chris?”

It was my turn. After hearing all the acclaim of my classmates for one another’s big plans, I let my guard down. I assumed they would greet my grand ambitions with the same applause and encouragement they had given to one another. After all, I had the highest GPA in my class, and I was a leader on student government, president of the drama club, and first chair clarinet in band. I forthrightly declared my intentions. “I am going to be a lawyer, and I am going to Harvard Law School.”

I waited to receive some words of encouragement or support. But my revelation was met with stunned looks and silence; deafening silence, for what seemed to me like hours. Then my worst nightmare—a few nervous giggles and then someone broke the silence: “Ha! Chris Martinez thinks she can go to Harvard!” And the entire class erupted into laughter.

The rest of that day was a blur in my memory. Yet, to this day, more than forty years later, when I think about that day, I relive the turmoil of emotions and the sharp stab of pain that struck me to the bone. I remember hiding in the bathroom trying to control my emotions because there was no way I was going to let anyone see me cry.

As I sat in that bathroom stall, doubt cornered me with its dark veil. They are right. Who did I think I was? What made me think I was so special that I could get into a school like Harvard? As the echo of their laughter rang in my ears, the flame of my ambition began to sputter and fade.

But once again, that was not part of God’s greater plan for my life. Instead, Mrs. Poplin intercepted me just as I was ready to walk out of the school. Years later, I realized she had been waiting for me. She stopped me, looked me straight in the eye and unwavering, said, “Chris, I know you can do it.” Those seven words from a person that I deeply respected were all I needed to re-ignite the flame of my ambition. Soon my anger at my classmates rivaled my hunger and desire. I vowed that I would return to my ten-year high school reunion, and my classmates would have to eat their laughter because I would have my Harvard Law Degree.

Over the years, I often thought about Mrs. Poplin. When I graduated from Harvard with my law degree, I sent her a graduation announcement with a letter thanking her for being my inspiration when I most needed it. Over the years, I also wondered whether I would have continued to work as hard as I did to gain admission to Harvard if I didn’t hear that laughter ringing in my ears. As for my classmates, I eventually forgave them because I came to understand that their laughter was not of spite, but rather, of their incredulity and an inability to comprehend such grand dreams. No one from Buena Vista had ever attended Harvard Law School. I later came to find out that I was a bit ahead of my time. The year I decided that I was going to go to Harvard was 1968. The year I confided my dream to my classmates was 1972. Harvard Law School did not admit its first Chicana until 1974. I was admitted in 1977.

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Memoir: The Wisdom of Our Parents

Anonymous — Mon, 27 Aug 2018 19:43:06 +0000

Memoir: The Wisdom of Our Parents Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 08/27/2018 - 13:43

Christine Arguello

It is only after we are parents ourselves that we come to recognize and appreciate the sacrifices our parents made when we were young and the wisdom they imparted upon us. My parents were the product of their times and of their upbringing, having been raised during the Great Depression in households governed by macho, Latino patriarchs. Felipe Ramon Martinez and Emilia Manuela Pinohad their good qualities and their bad, as we all do.

Dad was raised on a ranch on the plains of northern New Mexico near Watrous. Dad’s mother gave him to her parents when he was almost two years old because she was unable to care for him due to child birth complications when his little sister was born. Dad’s grandparents were fairly well off, and they doted on him. For three years he lived the charmed life of the spoiled grandchild. One day, about three years later, a strange man showed up on the door step of his grandparents home and dragged Dad back to the ranch, kicking and screaming.

As Dad told the story, he was put into slave labor helping his father work the ranch. My grandparents were self-sufficient, raising crops and cattle, goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens. They had no running water in the three room adobe house, so water had to be hauled by hand in pails from the creek which was a good walking distance away. They had no electricity so when darkness fell, they went to bed early or sat at the kitchen table around the shadowy light of their only kerosene lantern telling stories or playing poker with match sticks. Eking out a farm living was like trying to cultivate an orchid plantation in recalcitrant concrete. Needless to say, Dad ran away from home and headed to California when he was only fifteen years old. I often wondered whether Dad’s rough edges would have been blunted or smoothed had he been left with his grandparents.

Dad was raised in an era when “real men” didn’t cry, and they settled disputes by cracking bones and ripping flesh. He was impatient, bluntly outspoken, and set in his ways. In his younger years, he was also an alcoholic. He was a strict father and husband. His home was his courtroom, and whatever he said was the law. Rarely did anyone question his decisions. But, he also was personable, unafraid to take risks, and one of the hardest working men I have ever known.

Despite being so gruff, he taught me the importance of being fair to and considerate of others.

Despite being so gruff, he taught me the importance of being fair to and considerate of others. I remember, in particular, one year when we were visiting my grandparents. They had just sold the ranch and moved to a small home in Albuquerque after my grandfather had a series of strokes. It was late afternoon, and I was outside playing with my cousins. It was a hot, cloudless day in early July, and we were so hot and sticky from our game of hide-and-seek. Suddenly, we heard the tinkle of notes from the Snow Cone Man as he drove his little van up and down the neighborhood streets. Ahh, a glistening cherry snow cone was the perfect antidote for my over-heated body. I ran inside to ask Dad if he would buy us a snow cone.

He pulled out his wallet to hand me some money and asked, “How much do they cost?

I told him.

“How many of you are there?”

“Dad, you know there are only 4 of us,” I said.

“I know how many kids I have, but how many of your cousins are out there?”

I counted them up and when I told him how many there were, he put his wallet back in his pocket.

“I’m sorry, jita. I don’t have enough money to buy a snow cone for all of you. How would you like it if one of your other cousins bought a snow cone and you had to watch him eat it?”

That was not the response I wanted, and it did not seem fair to me at the time because that was exactly what happened the previous day. One of my aunts gave her son Danny only enough money to buy one snow cone for himself. So, the rest of us cousins watched hungrily as he ate it.

Mom was the stereotypical Latina housewife. She worked without complaint, taking care of home and hearth. She was subservient to her husband Felipe. Mom was also set in her ways and one of the most stubborn people I ever met. She needed to have the structure of rules and routines to help her navigate her life. Sunday was church day. Monday was wash day. Friday was ironing day. Saturday was grocery shopping day. She had a very difficult time adjusting to change and almost never varied from her routines. Mom also suffered from low self-esteem that was, in part, the result of her upbringing in the racially prejudiced town of La Veta, Colorado in the 1930s and ‘40s. It was also, in part, the result of being married to my Dad who was such a domineering personality. She recalled the signs, “No Dogs or Mexicans” on water fountains in the park and on store fronts in La Veta. She was very self-conscious of being so dark skinned, although her skin tone was no darker than mine. When she was about 9 years old, her home was sold to pay the tax liens, and she and her family were homeless. She loved school, but when she was 15, her parents told her that they couldn’t afford to pay the school fees, and she needed to drop out of school to help earn money to support her younger brothers and sisters.

She cried, but she did as they asked.

Growing up, I recall her taking out her books every evening and studying for the GED. Getting her GED was her biggest dream. She could have passed the GED exam with flying colors. I remember one conversation we had when she was still in her 50’s. I was on the Colorado Springs District 11 School Board and had just attended the graduation ceremonies for an alternative high school where we conferred a high school diploma on a woman who was 85 years old.

I rushed to my parent’s home and said, “Mom! Guess what? You don’t need to settle for a GED. You can actually take classes and get a high school diploma!”
Mom’s eyes lit up. “How is that possible?”

I set up an appointment for her to take an assessment test so they would know what classes she needed to complete.

The morning I came by to pick her up to take her, she said, “I am sick. I can’t go.”

Mom was so afraid of failure that no matter how much I nudged and cajoled her, I was never able to talk her into taking the classes to get her diploma. Nor did she ever take the GED exam. Eventually, the topic just faded from our conversations.

Mom was very kind, fair, and generous to others. During our most needy year, the year my Dad was in barber school, we lived in a shack by the railroad tracks, and we got commodities from the government. Hobos jumped the box cars near our house and often came to our door to ask for food. Never once did she turn them away empty-handed.

Mom was also very kind, fair, and generous to others. During our most needy year, the year my Dad was in barber school, we lived in a shack by the railroad tracks, and we got commodities from the government. Hobos jumped the box cars near our house and often came to our door to ask for food. Never once did she turn them away empty-handed, even if all she could offer was a jam sandwich and a glass of water.

When I was younger, I unfairly judged Mom as being a “totally” subservient housewife. Looking back, I realize that such a view of her was less than fully accurate. There were a number of times when Mom furtively circumvented Dad’s rules or valiantly stood up to him. But she did it only when it was necessary to protect her children. One day when I was in high school talking to Mom about life as a young mother, she confided in me that, for years, she was afraid she might be arrested.

“Mom, you are such a rule follower. There is no way you could have ever broken the law,” I said.

“When you were about two years old, I woke up at my usual time, about 5:30 to light the wood stove to cook your dad’s breakfast and pack his lunch. I was worried because you kids had outgrown all your clothes. The money your dad gave me was barely enough to buy food and pay the bills. I was embarrased to take you to church dressed like orphans.”

“Why didn’t you just ask Dad for more money or ask him to take you shopping?”

“I did, but he got mad. He said, ‘What do you think? I’m made of money?’”

“So, I worried and couldn’t sleep trying to figure out how to get clothes for you kids. That afternoon, I walked to train depot to check the mail., and there was a Montgomery Ward catologue. When I saw all the children’s clothing, I realized that this was a way I could buy your clothes. But to order from the catalogue, I had to get a credit card. So I forged your dad’s signature on the credit card application and ordered the clothes I needed. Then I then scrimped and scraped on our groceries to pay back the bill in installments.”

Mom had been sick and lethargic for most of her life. For years doctors had poked and prodded her, run all kinds of tests, and pumped Mom full of different drugs. But no one could figure out what was making her so sick. By the time I was a junior in high school, my mom’s health had deteriorated to the point of near death. The doctor said she needed a lower altitude, so right before my senior year of high school, we left Buena Vista and moved back to Colorado Springs. That year, taking care of the family fell on my shoulders. It would not be until years later, when I was in law school, that a young doctor fresh out of his residency would finally reach the correct diagnosis—Mom had a hole in her heart. Literally, she had been born with this hole in her heart and her heart had finally reached its limit and had swelled to the size of a boxing glove.

About a month before I was supposed to leave for CU Boulder to start college, I came home after working my day shift as fountain girl at the Dairy Queen just up the street from our home and began making dinner. I just finished kneading the dough for the tortillas and was peeling and slicing the potatoes when Dad got home from his job as a cadet barber at the Air Force Academy. The door from the back yard opened into the kitchen, and Dad walked in the door in his blue barber’s smock, carrying his grey metal lunch pail which he set down on the kitchen table.

He turned to me and in a low voice said, “Hita, I’m sorry, but I don’t think you are going to be able to go to college. Your Mom is too sick, and you need to stay and take care of the family.”

Stunned, I stood speechless. My throat tightened and tears began pooling in my eyes. Visions of my future without a college education flashed through my mind. Fortunately, I never had to find out if I could be as selfless as Mom had been when her dad told her she had to drop out of school, because she was the one who brought out of my trance.

Her bedroom was next to the kitchen and, although Dad had spoken very softly, she overheard him. She dragged herself up out of her sick bed and stood in the doorway. Her arms and legs were visibly trembling from weakness. Her face was pale. She had big black bags under her eyes. Yet, in a weak but determined voice, she countermanded Dad.

“No! Christy is going to college. The rest of the kids have to start helping out around the house.”

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