First Generation College Student

I start everything with a blank slate

from the bottom of the ladder

my feet in cement

bricks on my shoulders

scattered dust blowing cold sweat 

and all the confidence in the world

If the past is the past, why do I feel its presence lingering here?

Alongside me are my ancestors — 

whispering that the genocide has brought me here:

What questions do I need to ask?

How do I fill out college applications on my own?

Why do internships and scholarships scream intimidation?

When will I have access to private SAT tutors?

How come my parents have to rely on one college counselor for thousands of high schoolers?

Will FAFSA for books, tuition, and housing help me succeed?

How do I find my way out?

I need to wear a blue colored bracelet

adorned with a dark blue eye

that my mother gifted me

because if the evil eye touches you

seven years of bad luck would follow.

I trace my father’s footsteps;

after working 9 to 5 making rings, bracelets, and necklaces

he would drive to ESL class

exhausted yet motivated to learn 

“I am from Armenia” and “My name is Robert”

I should copy my grandmother;

never the one to be afraid of 

speaking her mind

manifesting her desires

and running after her dreams.

I’m called to listen to my professor

as she sprinkles pieces of advice

like a fortune teller

describing the future

that she sees for me.

My parents moved from Armenia to the US— 

38 years packed in bags 

and 3 little children in their arms,

starting from the bottom of the ladder

feet in cement

bricks on their shoulders

scattered dust blowing cold sweat 

and all the confidence in the world

My parents started a new life—

government assistance, food stamps, and public housing

showered us with blue colored bracelets 

camouflaged as perseverance and unity

and yellow colored necklaces spelling resourcefulness.

If that past is my past, who would I be without it?