In April 2009, while I was preparing to start the ultimate South American-European adventure I checked my e-mail when I got home from my job at a domestic violence & sexual assault center. There was one from said school telling me to check the college's portal to discover what my academic destiny would be. Honestly, I had forgotten I had applied to the school because it was a last-minute whim in the last week of January, before applications were due.
I checked the portal. I was at home, alone, per usual. I read the words again and again. Finally, it registered: I was accepted. I, Michelle, first-generation American daughter of Argentine immigrants, all-around minority student and typical statistic of a single-parent household. I was being told that I was accepted at an Ivy league college. I yelled so loud I lost my voice.
I think I remember that being one of the happiest days of my life. I was so proud of myself. I was accepted into an Ivy league institution. I joked and said it was so they could fill their minority quota. My life changed. No longer could I escape off to romantic global adventure. This meant it was time to finally move to the city of my dreams, at a school who's name on paper would get me anywhere.
I'm 13 weeks away from my potential graduation as an Ed. M student. I have loans up the wazoo because this institution is expensive, and as I found out once I had already sent in my deposit, they do not grant Master's students financial aid. And now, I'm being told I might not receive that little piece of paper that I have spent so much time, money, stress, and wrinkles over.
My advisor e-mailed me nonchalantly at 12:30 this afternoon despite not able to meet until Tuesday. That is five days worth of anxiety-attack inducing stress I need to endure to find out what my future holds. I'm trying to tell myself that everything will work out for a reason- one way or another.
But it's hard. It really is.