Guest post from Holly Watson
My step dad came from an impoverished family. Because he made working and family a priority, he was never able to finish high school or go to college. However, he was a voracious reader. One of my earliest memories is of him reading to me as I took a bath. I remember sitting in the tepid bathwater and listening to him read Little House in the Big Woods. At the end of the first chapter, he laid the book down with a smile. I eagerly asked him to continue, and he responded that, if I wanted to know what happened next, I would have to read the book for myself.
That was all the encouragement I needed. I was in second grade by then and knew how to read pretty well, and I struggled through Laura’s stories of growing up in Wisconsin. After that, I became obsessed with reading. I read the Little House books, most of the Narnia series, and a child’s version of Pilgrim’s Progress. Anytime I would complain that I was bored, he would pack me and my sisters into the car, drive the short distance to the library, and turn us loose. Most of my childhood memories involve reading.
Education was a priority to my father, and he tried to convey that importance to us. Even our family vacations centered around historical tourist attractions , museums and other thought provoking sites. After I graduated high school, I didn’t go to college. I knew my parents were struggling financially, and I didn’t want to stress them with worries about tuition. However, I had an empty feeling as I watched my friends and classmates go off to their chosen schools. My father must have sensed this, because he sat me down and asked what I intended to do with my life. I just shrugged my shoulders.
He didn’t say anything then, but a few days later, he got a second job, doing janitorial work at an office building in the evenings. I started working and tried to forget my disappointment. When spring came, my father asked me again what I wanted to do with my life. I murmured something about working, but this time he cut me off. He asked if I wanted to go to college, and I hesitantly said yes. He then handed me brochures for the local community college and walked away.
With trepidation, I applied and was accepted. When I told my parents, they both beamed and told me they would help me out in any way possible. My father had put his education aside to help his mother and siblings, and he was now going to send his daughter to college; this made him happier than I had ever seen him.
Being a first generation college student was extremely difficult. I had no one to guide me through decisions or share stories of their own struggles, but I had my mother and father loving and supporting me in every way that they could. The day I walked the aisle for my AA in English, my father was there, glowing with pride and bragging about his college graduate daughter. When I graduated with my BA in Literature and Creative Writing, he was nearly giddy with excitement. Throughout the five years it took me to accomplish these achievements, my father worked three jobs so that I could focus on my studies.
Now, I am in graduate school studying Literature, and I know I wouldn’t be here were it not for the groundwor