As I cringed and opened my email, my first reaction is the all too familiar “I must not be Mexican enough for their program.”

Followed up with incidences of colleagues using of my racial status in quotations, I am left feeling both arguments of not enough. Not enough Mexican. Not enough White.

If you ever wondered what it is like to only be half…I reopen the calloused wounds of rejection from minority programs. It was the perfect program; exactly the kind of work I want to do as a clinical researcher, making the kind of changes I want to contribute to the world. I thought for sure as a dietetics major, I would present a unique opportunity for this northern hospital to diversify its research mentor program.

But despite my laundry list of accolades and good marks in clinical and pre-med classes, I am searching for another minimum wage summer job with salsa playing painfully in the background. This is not to say that there are other factors at play, but society has successfully trained me to shy away from applications that have a minority requirement despite not only being a first-generation Mexican-American, but also college student.

Clearly, the bootstraps mentality is not enough.   You can’t talk about being a minority without exploring the unique experiences that transverse the stereotypes society expects. Never have I been deemed a fiery Latina ready to serve a silver bullet of tempered Spanish with flirty hips swaying and tantalizing tendrils of voluptuous hair.

Instead, my quiet demeanor only adds to the perception that I am a white lady; to be feared. I am called ma’am like a southern belle, born and reared. And yet, this is not the narrative I ever expected. It is so important that we stop expecting people to fit racially driven stereotypes. The field of dietetics is somewhere around 95% white female. While my aim is not to dismiss individual stories, we must build up the people who are going into this field whether they are white or not, female or not.

With racial groups, come cultural food norms.

And yet, when we talk about healthier options, our discussions are riddled with white norms. We are replacing unhealthy “white foods” first. Not only does that spells dismissal for thousands of people needing guidance from registered dietitians, but in an instant a child is taught you don’t eat like me, so you don’t deserve the same health as me.

Doctors, firefighters, and even dentists persuade children to grow up and make waves in their field. They persuade them to grow up to be big and strong, brave, and have a healthy smile. When will minority children reach the collegiate classroom with their own stories of dietitians who helped them, who told them they too could grow up to be movers and shakers in the field? But wait. Maybe that’s  not it at all. Maybe they didn’t see the STEM in dietetics. Maybe they missed all the pre-med classes, the clinical training, and understanding of medical diagnosis.

It doesn’t seem as far-fetched as I consider a recent blog that cried out for doctors to have nutrition training when we have an ENTIRE field of professions armed with their evidence-based practice to change perceptions about food.

For now, I will brush off my recent rejection letter. I might indulge in a pint of ice cream-moderation of course. But, I will hold onto my Mexican Bootstraps. I will continue to seek out opportunities to be a mover and a shaker in my field, in my research, and in my future practice. But tonight I will wonder, maybe if I had been named Guadalupe then things would be different.

There’s  a story that has greatly inspired me over time. A boy, whose teacher asked the class to write down what they wanted to be when they grew up for homework. The boy then went home and wrote down that he wanted to be on TV.

He turned in his assignment the next day to his teacher, she looked down at him, and then proceeded to call his mother. She told his mom that he wasn’t taking his assignment seriously and that he needed to write down what he actually wanted to be when he grew up, something realistic. Knowing that he was probably going to get a ‘whoopin’ as he arrived home from school, he tried to sneak in, yet he was caught and his mom told his dad to deal with him.

So his dad takes him outside and reads the paper and instructs his son to write down whatever his teacher needs to hear, turn it in, and then keep this piece of paper within reach and never forget it.

So the boy turns the paper in to his teacher and continued to work towards his goal every day and hasn’t stopped yet. That same boy is now the host of Family Feud, the Steve Harvey Show, Little Big Shots, his own radio show, has hosted numerous events, and made a living off his childhood dream.

That same boy is Steve Harvey. It is that same drive, perseverance, and passion that I truly believe burn deep within me and push me to challenge myself each and every day. To risk it all for others, and to continue to fight the good fight. I come from a family of 9 children. A family of more than enough kicking and screaming, bunk beds, and forced sharing.

I am 3rd to youngest, only to my two little twin brothers. A family where each one of us is in our own zone, and had chosen our own paths early in life. But with this I learned what it is like to have your voice drowned out among the noise. When often no matter how hard you try sometimes your voice isn’t heard even though it may be unintentional. It’s no secret that I am a black male, but it’s lesser known that black males only make up 2.7 percent of UGA’s student population.

Out of Georgia’s 30% black population, UGA does not accurately represent the demographics of the state as the flagship institution.

In a school with 35,000 other students it’s very easy to get lost in the wind, and get pushed into the crevices of this great institution. Too often left behind in the march ahead, or silenced among the masses. Coming to UGA and having to adjust to the demographics implored me to find ways to make this campus more diverse in terms of race, truly because I thought many were missing out on what a great college it really is based on stigmas.

I joined organizations like the Black Male Leadership Society, where I later went on to become President, and the Student Government Association, where I’ve been Chief Justice the past two terms. I used the connections I then made to be able to advocate on behalf of minority students and find unique ways to change the campus culture. It is what I have spent a lot of my time doing at UGA and have truly enjoyed every moment of it.

But I wasn’t always the one on the front lines of this battle. I was once deemed as shy or quiet.

Blending in among the crowd like a grain of sand on a beach. It was in the 8th grade when I learned a valuable life lesson as I failed to make the cut for the basketball team. I only wanted to be talented in basketball because it was what seemed cool, and what others seemed to care about.

It had never occurred to me at the time that my eloquent voice could be used for advocacy and impacting the lives of many in a positive way simply because it wasn’t flashy. That is when the switch clicked.

I knew I needed to use my voice for others. But by the way, I did go on to play basketball in high school, in case you thought I sucked. The decision to run for Student Body President came from a place of purpose, a place of passion, a place of hope, and a place of calling. It is that fundamental belief that we are all created equal and no matter how small, or how different we may be, we all belong and not only deserve, but are guaranteed a voice.

If you have ever played in a band you know that although some instruments may be louder and seem to drown out others, each instrument is critical to creating the ultimate sound. I run so that I may speak for the forgotten. To give a voice to the voiceless, and to bring together each and every student on this campus, from all walks of life, to unite as one and speak as one.

From a young age in school and with friends I knew and still feel to this day what it is like to be left out.

And even if one student felt that way, it would break my heart. I will never make promises that I can’t keep in ensuring that each student will have each individual issue taken care of. But I can say that I will spend every ounce of drive in me to strive toward that goal. It isn’t always about jumping to a storybook ending; sometimes you just have to write the first word.

Saying that we are ALL IN  is a very intentional statement. In choosing to run, I have given up internships and organizational opportunities, taken off work, and sacrificed time with family and others. I say that not because I want you to feel sorry for me, because this has been an active choice everyday. I want everyone to understand that sometimes things are bigger than yourself.

It isn’t always about you.

We are all just pieces of a whole picture, stories and snapshots of memories that tell a greater story, and I am here to lift all voices up. I have been told over and over in my life that things couldn’t be done. That I wasn’t going to succeed in areas of my life, and that my dreams and aspirations were too lofty or unattainable. But over and over again, I have proved each and every one of them wrong. I hope to do so again. I want to be an inspiration to each and every other student just like me.

I want to light a fire in every person I come into contact with and to help ignite their passions for what they believe in. Because then and only then, can they be satisfied with the outcome knowing that they gave it their all. I implore anyone who reads this to never give up, write your own destiny, be yourself, find your talent and use it to positively impact someone else’s life, and always, go ALL IN.

There aren’t any blacks in Buenos Aires. I heard this many times before arriving. I heard it even more after arriving. Even so, I was prepared for it. My mother felt assured that I would be alright once I arrived in Buenos Aires, because she gave me personal hygiene supplies as if I were Noah and the plane was the Ark. She packed me two deodorants, two containers of shower gel, two contact solution containers, two tubes of toothpaste, the list continues. So I stepped on the plane with confidence and left the United States for the first time.

I lost that confidence after the first day. Normally, a person takes a shower, washes his hair with shampoo, and uses conditioner. In my case instead of bottled conditioner, I use a hair grease that is a little bit stronger. When I finished my first shower, after a long day and an even longer flight, I realized that I had forgotten one thing: the hair grease I needed at that exact moment. I didn’t have anything to hydrate my hair.

I saw the reality of my situation the first time I tried to buy this type of hair product. After the shower, I immediately went to a mini-mart around the corner of my house. I walked through the aisles searching for something sufficient. I saw different kinds of foods, a lot of one kind of beer—Quilmes, products for babies, lotions, shampoos, conditioners, but nothing of any use to me. I went to talk to the store clerk, but at the time my Spanish was poor. I didn’t know how to describe a product blacks use in the United States. I used the process of elimination in my responses.

She repeatedly asked me “yes or no” questions, such as if I needed lotion, or shampoo.

Eventually she told me that they didn’t carry any products such as the one that I was describing. All of the personal care items were in the shampoo aisle. I wasn’t worried. Actually, I was sticking my chest out, because I had my first authentic Spanish conversation with someone who worked in the city. Besides, I could always go to a supermarket and find one there.

There was only one problem. If I didn’t hydrate my hair, then it would convert itself into a desert. My scalp would be like cracked earth, and my hair would harden into shrubbery. Everything would be lifeless. I looked in all of my luggage in order to see if there was something that I could use. My mother prepared me well. In a suitcase I found Vaseline.

So, in order to temporarily resolve this problem, I put Vaseline in my hair. I do not recommend it. As it turns out Vaseline is very greasy and very uncomfortable in human hair. The result was that the hair looked less natural, and faintly resembled the hair of a mannequin—plastic. However, I was out of options.

My priority the following days was to find a product that would agree with me, because while the Vaseline sat in my hair, I became increasingly paranoid that someone would notice that my hair looked a bit weird. Next stop was a supermarket on a street called Honduras. My program director told me that this supermarket had everything that I could possibly need. It was like the Walmart of Argentina.

I was charged with excitement, because the Vaseline was also beginning to itch.

At my first opportunity, I walked to the supermarket. I was astounded when I walked in. It actually did look like a Walmart. This was very unusual. Although Buenos Aires is a modern metropolis, it still has fruit vendors on every other street corner, and stores that specialize butchery. Large anything, in general is the exception.

Yet, there was the super-sized parking lot with a small army of cars in it. Inside there were scores of families only looking to buy enough to last them the day. It was even more chaotic than Walmart! The organization confused me, because it had an escalator in the middle of the store that was adapted to be large enough to easily lift shopping carts.

I spent 30 minutes lost in the lanes before I found the hair products. This time I was sure that I would find the product that I needed, because there was a small mountain of products. I searched the large aisles. I saw some of the same products that I had seen in the mini-mart such as shampoo, hair conditioner, lotion, but I also saw some new and promising products such as “tratamiento capilar,” and “fijador”.

These gave me hope.

First was the fijador because there were far more images of guys on the labels. The men seemed confident and stylish, feelings I yearned for. I snuck a peek to have a better understanding. It was styling gel, which doesn’t just fail to solve my immediate problem, but is also completely useless on my type of hair. All of a sudden the second seemed promising. I snuck another peek. The texture was much more smooth and soft than Vaseline. I examined the word “tratamiento.”

I had no idea what the instructions were trying to tell me. Something felt off. I had a feeling that my current problem could transform into an even worse predicament, so I concentrated really, really hard on the instructions. “Dejálo actuar entre tres y cinco minutos…” I searched for the definition of “dejar” in my cellphone. My God! This product wasn’t something that I could put in my hair for two or three days at a time; it wasn’t even something I should put on my head for two to three minutes! It was hair treatment! I knew that something like this existed in the United States, but here it was just as popular as shampoo!

I walked through the supermarket. I didn’t see any more hair products, but there was a light in the middle of the chaos. There were families that were trying to obtain food for dinner that night. Families that went to the supermarket together, in order to buy that which the children needed. Teenagers that were gazing with slacked jaws at bottles of Fernet. It was a social island. There was no one that could help me find what I was searching for or who could understand what I was trying to describe. Even more, there were no products for blacks, because I was the only black person in Buenos Aires, I thought. It was true; the supermarket had everything necessary for the people of Buenos Aires.

Still I had one more option. My eyes fell to the pharmacy. The complication was that there was not enough time in order to go and search more, because at this point I had begun the study portion of the study abroad. I had a lot to learn. By second week in Buenos Aires, I went to the pharmacy with confidence that I would going to find something for myself. Unfortunately, it was the same story as the supermarket. Nothing.

Absolutely nothing looked even close to a product that I could use.

There was only the dangerous capillary treatment and styling gel. Moreover, I was desperate for a change. The Vaseline had submerged into my capillaries, leaving my hair an unmovable mass. Without more options, I looked at the styling gel for what felt like an eternity, trying to decide if gel would be superior to Vaseline. Almost anything is better than Vaseline. I resigned. There was no hair grease, and so I bought the men’s styling gel.

The next day I went to a ranch with my program group. In a terrible mood, I told my friends who were black about my misery in the city. They laughed. However, they gave their sympathies. One girl told me that she had enough hair grease to share, and for the first time in a week my confidence came surging back into my body. Later, we went to my friend’s apartment. The apartment was located far from my house, but it was worth it. We exchanged hair grease for a drink. That night I washed the Vaseline from my hair. Rain had finally come to the desert.

In light of this experience, I can imagine the feelings of immigrants arriving to a new country being somewhat similar. A thousand thank-yous to my friend who was prepared. She helped me when the stores of Buenos Aires simply couldn’t. It is challenging trying to live in a place with people being completely different from yourself. Humans are social beings.

We need a community in order to support, and understand each other’s difficulties. For this reason, I understand why there are entire neighborhoods of specific ethnic groups. By luck, I had my friends. A small group of four people was sufficient to resolve my problem.

I am a 22-year-old college senior who is about to graduate. I am a funny, smart, beautiful, kind and caring woman with a bright future. I am a Christian. I have very strong values and morals. I am a virgin.

Every single one of these traits has been tested in the past 4 years I’ve been at college. Gossip and drama has tested my ability to be kind and caring. Hard classes and long clinical days have tested my intelligence and perseverance. Nothing, however, has been tested more than my morals, my values… my virginity.

Ever since I learned about sex I knew I wanted to wait until marriage.

It wasn’t the church or my parents pushing that ideal in my head, in fact, I never even had ‘the sex talk’ with my parents. It has been 100% my decision to wait. Now, the bases of my decision is religious. I believe that my body is a temple created by God [1 Corinthians 6:19] and I believe I need to treat it that way. I want to bring Glory to the Lord in every way that I can, and this is just one of those ways.

Just because I don’t have sex doesn’t mean I don’t want sex. I am not perfect. I have messed up, I’ve given into temptation, and I’ve gone further than I should have sometimes. But every one of those times I stopped, I didn’t give into my needs and wants because in the back of my head, in my heart were those strong convictions

College is a very difficult place to practice abstinence. I have never been made fun of or picked on because of my beliefs, but it definitely sets me apart from others. I cannot begin to count the number of boys who as soon as they found out I don’t have sex, couldn’t get away fast enough. Boys don’t even give you a chance and it hurts.

Having this strong conviction in my life has not been easy. I’ve gotten depressed and felt exiled. I have felt insecure and embarrassed. There have even been times I have almost said ‘screw it’ and just given in to stop the hardship.

Most recently I was talking to a boy. It was a very new thing, but I quickly found that he was someone that I knew I really was going to like and truly care about. He was over one night and when I stopped and told him I was a virgin, that I wasn’t going to do anything with him, he stood up, shook my hand and walked out.

Shook my hand, and walked out. I have never felt more worthless in my life.

I felt like all I was good for was my body, that because I wouldn’t put out that I was completely worthless. It was in that moment that I felt the worse I have ever felt.

I felt hurt and sad and mad about it for about a day and then it hit me. I should be damn proud. I stood up for myself. I didn’t back down. I help firm in my beliefs, in the Lord, and didn’t let anything change me. I realized at that moment, how important it is to stay true to yourself. I know how easy it would have been to just give in, to forget my conviction and have sex. But where would that have led me?

Every belief, conviction, and value that you have make you, you. It is so important to stay true to those. Be you. Don’t let what is supposed to be the ‘normal’ change those, change you. I promise it’s so much better this way. Living for your own beliefs leads to such a fulfilling life. Regardless of what your beliefs may be, make them, keep them, and be proud of yourself.

(Written by Will Brown)

Growing up in Tucson, Arizona, and ultimately deciding to study abroad in Russia was one of the most shocking, terrifying, beautiful, and rewarding experiences of my life.

No matter how much I practiced Russian and how much I prepared myself, there was no way to truly experience a complete and total cultural immersion in a new country until I arrived bags and translating dictionary in hand.

As I walked through the lively streets of Moscow, surrounded by people, I could not help but feel more isolated. In the beginning every street sign seemed so complex, every business advertisement made no sense, and colloquial phrases were so foreign to me. I quickly realized that not many people were too fond of Americans. Russian nationalism is so intense it sharply competes with the United States, if not surpasses us.

At first I was concerned I would stand out like a sad Jewish American thumb for the remainder of my time in Russia, but I fell into a routine, and with that routine, I immersed myself within the Russian culture. You don’t become one of them, but you’re no longer who you were.

You’re in this weird cultural limbo, and it’s the epitome of strange.

In order to compensate for my cultural misidentification, I threw myself into my studies and tried to learn as much about Chekhov as humanly possible. Or you procrastinate and watch Suits on some sort of Netflix rip-off because that blasted country hasn’t been blessed with the glory that is House of Cards or Bojack Horseman. You get Tinder just to talk with random Russians. Hiding behind the vastness that is the Internet is way easier than face to face communication.

Either way, you find methods of coping and providing yourself with this much needed cultural in between, and you try to culturally define yourself, because let’s be real; it’s so much more comfortable when you feel like you belong in some way, rather than feeling like the distinctive American rocking LL Bean because your duck boots are fly as hell. Even if you’re not 100% one of them, you’re at least, like, 50% part of them, and that feels pretty good.

Of course after a few months, these once isolating factors eventually catalyze your connection to the city in the first place. You become much more familiar with your surroundings, and have dramatically improved your linguistic proficiency. Your foreign experience becomes more familiar and inviting as time goes on.

In the few months spent in Russia, you’re not setting yourself up for a new life. You’re simply participating in life as a citizen of another culture as a way of learning and growing, occasionally making mistakes and smashing your face on a toilet and losing a tooth or getting scammed by a local.

However, what people do not often express is the impact of returning from such a dramatic cultural experience. Suddenly, after 27 hours of travel, your flight descends into the USA, and you are greeted with that same familiarity and culture that you left behind.

You think that you will fall back into your normal routine and every street sign, advertisement, and colloquial phrase will seem the same, but that cannot be further from the truth.

I had these expectations of what life was going to be like when I returned. Granted, I did not predict those freakin hoverboard things…but other than that I predicted that things would be the same.

I assumed my roommate would snore too loudly, my dogs would make sleeping in my bed impossible and my mom would cry when she saw me at the airport. However, it wasn’t until I pushed my car key into the ignition that I realized how much I had changed.

I was so grateful I could drive somewhere, and had the freedom to be and go wherever I wanted. I was able to cook an omelet in a kitchen that isn’t infested with a new breed of ant. These things should make you feel good.

However, instead of being grateful for your clean kitchen and car, you feel as though the part of yourself that you have been building while abroad got left in the airport. That part of you is no longer needed to excel back in your hometown. I felt so ostracized when I came home, since I was constantly searching for that improved Russian version of myself.

You initially think that it will be so great seeing your friends who you have missed dearly.

However, as you sit on the floor playing with their dog you find yourself being so self-conscious of what you’re saying.

You have lost all connection to what a cultural norm in the United States is compared to how you have been communicating in Russia. So you sit there on this dirty floor questioning your cultural identity. You realize you are this American born kid who has some Russian cultural insight and you just don’t think you belong anywhere.

At first I could not shake this feeling of my cultural limbo. However, with time I began to realize that my changing and growth never stopped in Russia. Russia helped push me to become the person I am meant to be and for that I will always be grateful. I realized I may have been overreacting when I felt awkward talking to my friends.

At the end of the day, being abroad teaches you about going outside your cultural and social comfort zones, while ultimately pushing you to be a better person yourself. I am constantly readjusting, but I wouldn’t change my abroad experience for anything. Ok, maybe I would not have lost my front tooth, but other than that I would have kept it the same.

So as the year progresses I will continue to readjust and continue my quest of becoming as culturally astute as possible.

(Written by Madison Snelling)

More college students are traveling and volunteering abroad than ever before.

I have volunteered with multiple organizations in multiple countries, seeking a combination of work and travel experience. My desire to see the world and work abroad is by no way unique; my generation, more than any previously, is interested in supporting initiatives that “better the world.”

We are concerned with increasing the welfare of people globally, invested in philanthropic societies and ideals. However, while we are avid supporters of good causes, we hardly ever criticize the programs and organizations that serve them. In an era when we are so focused on development and volunteerism, it is important that we look at the ideologies that are driving certain programs, and the program’s unintended results.

A big push is being made in the development world to implement programs that target women’s financial status.

The generally held belief is that money invested in impoverished women is more likely to be invested back into the family, as women are “instinctively maternal” and will want to improve their family’s well-being.

Sounds good right? These programs seem to be empowering women, and directly focus on families in need of additional income. However, if we investigate the ideologies and theories driving these programs, there are serious weaknesses in the way in which development has been conceptualized and implemented. Maternal altruism is one of the persisting limitations with development ideology and practice particularly in Sub-Saharan Africa.

Maternal altruism, as defined by Richard Schroeder, is the “ideology that stipulates that women are, by virtue of their identities as mothers and wives, ‘naturally’ predisposed toward nurturing and self-sacrifice,” (Schroeder, 9).

Maternal altruism is the driving force behind many women-centered development programs.

The inherent assumption of maternal altruism is that women’s own aspirations are heroically neglected in order to prioritize the needs of their family members.

Further, by characterizing women as a homogeneous group defined by selflessness, “maternal altruism” also erases class, race, or any kind of individuality that may influence women’s motivations to take care of family members or perform traditional work. It is an ideology that encourages the ascription of sameness. The elimination of diversity of body and belief amongst women in developing nations makes all hundreds of millions of them a single uniform group.

Picture an “African woman” in your head. What do you see?

Does she have something balancing on her head? A baby strapped to her back? Is she standing in a field? Holding a bucket of water? All of these images portray a woman defined by maternal altruism. These are the only pictures we see of “African women” in development campaigns. I do not believe these pictures are staged; women do fetch water, they do take care of children, and they do preform agricultural work.

My problem with these images is that development organizations and the public are taking them at face value. No one is asking why. Why are you preforming the agricultural work? Is it really because you only have interest in ensuring that your family has something to eat or is it because it is your ethnic custom? Is it because it is your only source of income?

If it is, would you rather be doing something else? What would that be and what do you need to do it? Many development non-profits invest in women’s agricultural work to better ensure family food stability. While full stomachs are a noble cause, these programs need to be asking if women aspire to do something else.

Women’s development initiatives need to move away from the mindset of maternal altruism and truly empower women by giving them the tools to make their own diverse choices.

When I volunteered at Give a Heart To Africa (GHTA) in Moshi, Tanzania last summer, I worked for an organization that focused on women. GHTA’s school aimed to give local women the tools and skills they need to open their own small business. My students had widely different interests; Mariamu wanted to expand her current business, Esther wanted to open a fabric shop, Tausi wanted to be an English translator, and Faraha wanted to be able to read English books to her kids at night.

Each woman had an invested interest in their family, but also had interests of their own. The diversity of aspiration in one small school shatters the notion of maternal altruism. We would never expect women in the US to universally forgo personal interests for those of the family. We would never categorize US mothers as a homogeneous group.

There are bad mothers, ambitious mothers, childless women who do not fit the idyllic category put forth by the ideology. The fact is, there are bad mothers, ambitious mothers, and childless women in developing nations, so why do we hold them to a different standard?

No group of women is the same.

Why do some development organizations throw the blanket of maternal altruism over all of these women? Because we, as non-profit supporters, volunteers, and fundraisers, allow them to. As consumers on the development market, we can use our “purchasing power” by investing in organizations that have well-constructed programs; programs that do not ascribe homogeneity to their recipients, programs that give people the power to make their own choices.

We, as college students, are the largest group ever to be invested in development initiatives. Whether by volunteering, fundraising, or raising awareness we often support the operations of organizations without truly understanding the ramifications behind their actions.

We receive the benefit of feeling good about contributing to “bettering the world,” and walk away before we witness the aftermath, or look too closely at the labels we place on those receiving a program’s benefits. By turning a critical eye to non-profit organizations and their work, we can influence the way in which future programs are constructed.