There is no better feeling than the rush of pulling cushions out of your couch, scrounging for enough quarters to ask the ice cream man for an Oreo bar. My sister and I scurried around the house barefoot, searching for change high and low, hoping to find enough before he turned the block. On a good day, we’d find two dollars and have enough for a Coke and a bag of chips. I can go on and on about the adventures of growing up poor in a crowded, rodent-infested home, or I can tell you the truth: being poor is what got me accepted into UC Berkeley.
Growing up in the impoverished community of 98th Avenue in East Oakland had its pitfalls, but it also raised me into the strong, creative woman I am today. After living there for more than a decade, I no longer live there, but most of my childhood memories were shaped by 98th Avenue. I’ve lived with the same neighbors, seen babies grow older and seen addicts lose limbs over time. It was a quiet neighborhood for the five loud girls prancing around the streets, going to the park to shoot dice and walking to the nearest gas station for snacks.
In order to live a semi-normal life, my family and I had to get more and more creative. It wasn’t easy given that the landlord left us to fend for ourselves for years. The oven broke down. The water heater stopped working. The plumbing was faulty. Despite all of this, we still had to make do. We had jobs to work, school to get to, boys to crush on. So we did what any broke person could do and made nothing into something.
There were times we’d have to warm the house with the heat of the oven or boil water over the stove to bathe ourselves. When the toilet stopped working, my father made a makeshift toilet out of a bucket, a pool noodle and cat litter. There was nothing we couldn’t do if we put our minds to it. It was a matter of survival, and we stopped at nothing to stay alive.
Before I came to UC Berkeley, I knew that to have a fair chance, I would have to find ways to invest in myself. I didn’t have a head start like others — there were no fancy tutors or Kumon instructors to help. Public schools were poorly funded, with no curriculum and only substitute teachers to educate us. Even though I kept straight A’s, I felt like I knew nothing in comparison to others at nearby private schools. I would have to build a community and find people who were willing to take a chance on me. I scoured the internet, libraries, newspapers and social media for any opportunity to give myself a better chance. I joined every free college-prep program and enrolled in every free elective. When scholarships opened, my application was always sent in. Being poor instilled in me a determination to succeed.
When I applied to UC Berkeley, my unstable living situation had finally taken a toll on me. My parents weren’t able to work; we were behind on rent and my sisters and I could barely find money for food. UC Berkeley was a way out, a chance to finally live like a normal girl. Even if it would take four years to get my degree and the high-paying job it promised, I would be doing something to get my family off of 98th. I knew UC Berkeley wouldn’t be a walk in the park, but I also knew that I had the skills and community to help me push through college.
As the first in my family to pursue higher education, there was no guide to success. What I’ve learned from my time on 98th is to keep going even when the going gets rough.
In my first semester at UC Berkeley, imposter syndrome struck me hard. To fulfill my requirement for my general education courses, I enrolled in statistics. I always sat alone at my desk in the back, hoping that the GSI wouldn’t call on me. I wasn’t raising my hand or answering questions as normal. It seemed like everyone else started to understand the concepts and equations, while I stared long and hard at papers, waiting for the sequences of numbers to make sense, but the math was not math-ing.
As I was nearing the end of the semester, my grade was calculating down to a D. I’d never gotten a D before, and UC Berkeley wasn’t going to be the first place that I would. Just as I did in high school, I sought out free campus resources, showing up to the Student Learning Center every day after class. It became routine — I sat at the same table with the same tutor every day, and I left feeling like I had a chance.
There is so much I could say about growing up on 98th: the robberies and drugs, the ice cream man and the annual block party. I occasionally think back to my childhood and the pain of feeling left behind by a society that preached an equal and fair chance for success. I always thought maybe I was in a television show or a movie and that some day, someone would yell “Cut!” and I’d go home to my mansion. I can’t say that I’m not still waiting, but I’ve grown fond of what I made of it. I am so much more appreciative of my education and the journey it took to get here.
Sometimes, when I’m in class, I think about 98th Avenue, where I come from and how I used to live with all the dirt, mold and illness, and I feel empowered. I didn’t ask to come from a low-income background, but my painful experiences got me to where I am today. I wish I could tell the little barefoot girl with big eyes and red cheeks hiding underneath the sink tinkering with toys that she made it here. So even though being poor was depressive and hard, I learned the value of community, resilience, creativity and so much more. I am forever indebted to 98th — after all, it made me a Golden Bear.