{"id":4081,"date":"2020-04-25T15:22:29","date_gmt":"2020-04-25T19:22:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/imprint\/?p=4081"},"modified":"2020-05-08T08:57:55","modified_gmt":"2020-05-08T12:57:55","slug":"i-dont-belong-here-but-i-belong-here","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/imprint\/i-dont-belong-here-but-i-belong-here\/","title":{"rendered":"I Don’t Belong Here, but I Belong Here"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By J.B. Jemison<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My first semester at UCF, I cried on my way to campus. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was 7:30 a.m., the road was clear – as it always is at dawn – and so the drive from West Orlando was quick. I was so excited, the night before, that I couldn\u2019t sleep. I barely ate, barely hydrated, and spent most of the day with the jitters. I\u2019d always loved school, loved learning, loved brainstorming with my fellow students, and this was my time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I was also terrified. It had been 10 years, then a brief stint at Valencia College – via the Direct Connect program – since I had been at University. Before, I didn\u2019t think I\u2019d ever be able to go back to school, to do what I loved. It was finally here. There was so much fear surrounding the idea of being an older college student. At nearly 28, it might not seem like I am so removed from the fresh-out-of-high school teens that are enrolling now but I am. We are in two completely different generations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m a millennial. For some reason, older people forget just how old millennials actually are. They forget that we played outside as children, most of us didn\u2019t have the internet when we were kids, and we got dirty. They forget that we, too, had catalogs where we picked out our favorite toys hoping our parents would order them for us. They forget that we had CD players and Walkmans. They forget that most of us didn\u2019t have these fancy smartphones or had our necks breaking to watch TV on iPads all day. We didn\u2019t get those cheapie pay-as-you-go Nokias until we were sophomores in high school (barely). Even then you had to get a job because your mom wasn\u2019t going to pay for the by-text fees, and waiting until after 9 pm, when everything was free was too long to make plans with your friends. We weren\u2019t using Instagram, or Facebook or spending all day on Twitter. I had Myspace and only when I snuck to get on when my mother wasn\u2019t looking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, it\u2019s different. I\u2019m late. I\u2019m behind the curve. I have aspirations but am quickly realizing that there are 20-year olds going for these internships I would be applying for at 30. I\u2019m a part of a writing group with a recent UCF MFA alum, who is in her early 20s, who is currently living my life – had I gone straight through like I was \u201csupposed\u201d to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to be strong. I want to feel like I\u2019m not too late but I\u2019m a millennial. I\u2019m a part of the \u201cgraduate high school, straight to college, graduate in 4 years and into a good job by 21, then a family, and a house,\u201d group. We are pressured to do everything so quickly. No traveling, no taking years off, no breathers, no doing \u201cwhat you love.\u201d If our lives don\u2019t fit into that timeline, we\u2019re stuck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s how I ended up here. I was pressured, by my family, into going for a degree I didn\u2019t want because \u201cwriters don\u2019t make any money\u201d and \u201cdon\u2019t you want to get a real job\u201d or even \u201cis that even a career\u201d? That didn\u2019t work out – does it ever? So here I am. 10 years later. On the cusp of 30 and crying in my car in my first week at UCF. Wiping my tears with Chick-Fil-A napkins from yesterday\u2019s excited-to-be-on-track run. Picking myself back up. Building my confidence as a writer. Gleaning as much as I can before this opportunity is over, in case it doesn\u2019t work out. Again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m also crying because I\u2019m a full-time student and at the same time I\u2019m a new mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

These first days at UCF will be the first time I am away from my four-month-old daughter, Naomi, for more than four hours. I\u2019m terrified to be so far from her. If anything happens, I\u2019m on the East side of town and must rush through highways, construction, and rush hour to get to her. Can I get there in time? Am I a good mother?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve been told that I\u2019m supposed to forget about myself. Lose myself. I am a Mother now. That\u2019s how they say it. A Mother with a capital M and in bold. Mother<\/strong>. Does me being on campus – finally shedding the pressures of a toxic adoptive family, putting aside stereotypes about strong black women who endure it all and multitasking relationship, baby, writing, and keeping my house in order – mean that I\u2019m not giving my daughter the attention that she deserves? Should I even be doing this? I grip the steering wheel tight and hesitate before I turn off the car. Maybe I should just go home right now. She probably needs me. Even though her father is absolutely amazing, supportive, loving, kind, and spent the last four months learning about parenting just as I have – I\u2019m sure he\u2019ll need help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turn off the car. No. I\u2019m here for a reason. I have to do this. I made a commitment to myself and to my guy. He supports me while I am in school; supports my dreams and my end goal. I made a commitment to the Universe. It deserves my writing. It deserves my voice. I made a commitment to the young, black foster kids who are abused and unloved. They deserve to know it\u2019s possible to survive through it all and come out loving your life. I also made a commitment to my daughter. I want to show her that it\u2019s never too late to do what you love because it\u2019s not. Right?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No seriously, I\u2019m asking.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I check my face in my rear-view mirror and dissolve into more tears. I look a mess. My makeup is all over the place. I never wear makeup but today I must. I\u2019m a college student. University student with pious eyes. Everyone is young, pretty, with tight bodies – that didn\u2019t just have babies – and long luscious hair – that isn\u2019t falling out because of postpartum shedding. They move across campus on trim legs in droves, scattering like roaches the moment the clock marks the hour. I watch them from my swinging hammock strung up on Memory Mall, because I get to campus early, and stay very late, to avoid rush hour. Their laughter is a joyous noise unbroken by the ups and downs of life and the monotony of an unsatisfying day job. They cut through the foot traffic on their tiny skateboards (one of which I have but haven\u2019t used because my unfit body can\u2019t figure out how to turn corners). I sit and watch them as they shove their mouths with campus food because they\u2019re not watching their weight as tight as they are watching their budget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, I don\u2019t belong here but I do. I pay my fees in late nights of homework. I hand-make journals for handwritten notes in classes where I sit in the front row. After the baby is down for the night, I stay up late to write, like I am now at 2:30 a.m., to make sure my priorities are in check. To make sure that I said I wanted to be a writer and therefore I am.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While pumping breast milk, I scratch out feedback for in-class workshops and shake my wrists to deal with the lasting effects of carpal tunnel from my pregnancy. While the food is cooking on the stove, I get in a few pages of the many required reading texts and yell \u201cHey! Don\u2019t eat that\u201d to Naomi who\u2019s found a way to knock a rented textbook off the table and is using the spine to soothe her teething. I pick it up and put it on the counter and then later have to pay the difference because I accidentally burn a page or two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hold my daughter across my lap, the bottle of milk I just pumped clutched in her tiny hands, while I type out the answers to busy-work weekly discussion posts. I definitely paid after I was double-fisting open bottles of breast milk, had a squirming baby on my lap, and she kicked them and the spilled milk destroyed my MAC. I paid in the way my shins hurt going from bedrest while pregnant to walking miles every day either on campus or on the treadmill to get my stamina back. I pay in the way I clean up my apartment every night, picking up toys and textbooks, sticky yogurt melts stuck to the carpet and highlighters, baby socks and post-it notes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While on campus I utilize the \u201cNursing Room\u201d in the Student Union in between classes so I can make sure my milk supply doesn\u2019t dwindle. I spend the first month of school pouring the milk down the drain before the fog of mommy-brain lifts and I remember that I can bring a cooler bag with ice packs to keep the milk fresh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I do a lap of the fitness center with my backpack, my pump bag, and my cooler before realizing that I don\u2019t belong in this place of young energy and sickening innocence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, I don\u2019t belong here but I do and I\u2019m here to stay. Well, at least, until graduation. Then I\u2019m done. My dreams are being achieved; I\u2019m hitting my goals with every turned-in homework assignment that\u2019s accompanied by baby puff snack stains. I\u2019m not letting anyone tell me no, or make me go home,ven myself. I have made a commitment and although there have been many days weeping, arguing, and baby bouncing, I am happy to call myself a Knight. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Photo titled “UCF Knight” by Steven Gresser found on Creative Commons. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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