Path to the Stars

by Sylvia Acevedo

  Armando had another talent that I thought was ingenious. When he was very young, he figured out that his favorite toys, Tonka trucks, would be on sale after Christmas at prices our family could afford. He would tell Mami he didn’t want any presents on Christmas Day. Instead, he asked if they could go shopping the next day so he could get one of the expensive trucks. Even though we teased him for not having many gifts under the tree, Armando always held firm, and on the twenty-sixth of December, he and my mother would head out to the toy store. I marveled at his foresight and restraint.

  After my father won his lawsuit and my parents had some extra money, they gave Armando a plastic Big Wheel for Christmas one year in addition to his beloved Tonka truck. The surprise that year was that Laura fell in love with Armando’s Big Wheel. We loved watching her joy as she wheeled it around the house and driveway. We laughed so hard, even my stoic father had tears streaming down his face as Laura steered the Big Wheel, reveling in the attention.

  * * *

  By the time I was a senior in high school, I had been in band for many years. I really enjoyed playing the timbales in marching band, and each year I had tried out for All-State Band and been accepted.

  Then, that fall, I tried out for All-State Band one last time. To my surprise, when they announced the students who’d been selected, my name wasn’t on the list. I hadn’t made the cut. I was devastated. I had been so certain I was going to make the list, just as I had every other year. I was heartbroken.

  I spent the weekend sitting in front of the fireplace, reading a big book of college majors that I had checked out from the library, trying not to think of my friends in All-State Band missing school in the coming week to attend rehearsals. On Friday, knowing those friends would be in Albuquerque, preparing for the big concert, I couldn’t force myself to go to school.

  I sat at home with the college book, thinking hard, trying to distract myself from picturing my friends having fun at All-State. I remembered how much I had enjoyed earning my Science badge in Girl Scouts. I had enjoyed designing and building my basketball backboard too. I liked math, and I was good at it. I knew I wanted to study something in college that used math or science. I was interested in engineering, also.

  I read about several different kinds of engineering majors: civil, mechanical, and electrical. Then I saw a mention of industrial engineering. It was described as a mix of people and processes, systems and how people work with them. It required a special facility in math, which I thought I had. I liked working with people, and I knew a lot about how to do so from watching Mami with Laura’s and my Girl Scout troops. I was organized and knew how to plan, because of the Girl Scouts.

  I could be an industrial engineer!

  I looked up colleges and universities that had programs in industrial engineering. Many universities had engineering schools, but few of them offered industrial engineering. But to my surprise, I found that New Mexico State University, right in Las Cruces, had a program. I hadn’t put aside my dreams of Stanford, but I could at least learn more about engineering much closer to home.

  My book listed the name of the dean and a phone number. I quickly called and made an appointment for that very day. I’d gotten my driver’s license a few months earlier, so I borrowed the family car and drove over to the university. Papá was at work, and Mami didn’t ask any questions about where I was going.

  The dean was surprised that I knew about industrial engineering. One of his first questions was about my grades. Fortunately, I could tell him that I had straight As and was in the top ten in my class.

  “Okay, but you are a girl. Are you sure you want to be an engineer?” he asked. I was surprised by his question. Why wouldn’t I want to be an engineer, just because I was a girl? I told him what I had learned and why I was interested in industrial engineering.

  Once the dean understood that I’d done some real research into his field, he told me a bit more about industrial engineering. Industrial engineering makes people’s lives better, he said. That sounded all right to me. I left his office that day feeling enthusiastic about my plan for a college major.

  But just because I had settled on a field of study didn’t mean I was ready for college. First, I had to figure out how to pay for it. By now I realized that college cost far more than I’d be able to save by the time I graduated high school. The dean had told me that New Mexico State had a four-year scholarship for engineers, and I applied, filling out paperwork that included many questions about my math and science education.

  After I sent in the application, I received a call from my high school principal’s office. Two engineers were being sent to my school to interview me because I was a girl. They wanted to test me to see if it was really me who had filled out the paperwork for the scholarship. They had expected only boys to apply, and they wanted to make sure I was serious about being an engineer—the way they expected a boy would be. They were afraid that I might take this prestigious scholarship and then get married and leave the field.

  Of course both of the engineers were men, and one of them was not at all happy to be interviewing a girl. “How do you know you can do engineering?” he asked me. “Give me one example.”

  “I know how to maintain cars,” I said, thankful that the dean had taken the trouble to tell me about the engineering program and what engineers actually did. “I know how to change our car’s oil.”

  “Go step by step,” the man said, challenging me. “Explain it to me.”

  So I did.

  When I finished, he said, “No, you’ve just seen your dad and your brother do it.”

  I laughed at that! I told them that my father had never changed the oil in our cars—he didn’t even know how to do it! Then I told those engineers how much I enjoyed math and how earning Girl Scout badges had taught me how to be organized and prepare for problems. I even talked about how much trouble I’d had with the Science and Cooking badges and how I’d solved one problem after another.

  In the end, I must have convinced them. As they left that day, one of them said to me, “You represent change.” He told me he thought I might make a good engineer, though he also cautioned me that “change for the sake of change is not progress.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, because I thought that letting girls become engineers was definitely progress! But I never forgot what he said, because even though he’d been skeptical, he was willing to give me a chance.

  I still had my dream of Stanford University, but Stanford was awfully far away, and I knew the money I’d saved wouldn’t be nearly enough. And even though I was near the top of my class, proud of my Mexican heritage, there were no other girls among our family’s friends or at our church who also wanted to be an engineer. At school and at home, everyone thought it would be nice if I attended college, but I wasn’t given much practical help. I had to face the truth: I couldn’t afford Stanford.

  It was time to set my sights on colleges that I could afford to attend. I would need to get as much financial aid as I could. And to pay for what my scholarships wouldn’t cover, I continued to build my nest egg.

  * * *

  And then, the winter of my senior year, the phone rang in the middle of the night. My mother answered it, and a minute later she screamed and burst into tears. When she could talk, she told us the terrible news: her mother, Abuelita Leonor, had passed away.

  My grandmother had been visiting one of my aunts in Los Angeles. She had had a cold that had turned into pneumonia. She called my aunt to her side and said that she felt she was not going to make it, and she needed to call their pastor at church. Then she closed her eyes. My aunt called the paramedics and the pastor, but it was too late. By the time the ambulance got there, Abuelita Leonor was gone.

  My mother was devastated by her mother’s death. I didn’t know this grandmother as well as my Abuelita Juanita, my father’s mother, who lived in Las Cruces. Still, I was surprised at how sad I felt. My grandmother had always been nice to me, making my favorite cookies whenever we visit
ed her in Mexico. It was hard to believe that I’d never see her again.

  Because Abuelita Leonor had been overweight, we were told that it would cost extra money to bring her body back home. She would need a special casket, and that would be very expensive.

  It was without question that our family would do whatever it took for her to be buried properly. At the time, my parents still didn’t have much in the way of savings. They didn’t even have a credit card, and it wasn’t easy to get a loan from the bank. We needed cash.

  In my family, it was expected that if someone had a problem, everyone would contribute resources to find a solution. I had a bank account, and I wanted my grandmother to have what she needed. There was only one thing I could do.

  My parents were going to drive to Los Angeles that day to arrange for the funeral, but first, my father drove me to the bank so that we could be there when it opened. Then I emptied my savings account and gave all the money I’d saved to my family.

  I was disappointed, but I wasn’t angry. My family came first. That was the way it had always been and always would be.

  Okay, I thought. I’m not giving up.

  My parents took off to make the long drive to Los Angeles. Left at home with neighbors to help watch over Laura and Armando, I decided that weekend that I would have to work even harder to keep my grades up in hopes of a scholarship.

  I did the research, and I applied for all kinds of financial aid. I ended up receiving the engineering scholarship for which I’d interviewed first, which covered four years at New Mexico State University and internships every summer at Sandia National Laboratories, an important defense laboratory in Albuquerque. I was pleased—though I still wished I had figured out a way to attend Stanford. But I was proud that those engineers who’d interviewed me had decided that I was right for their program. I had earned their respect, and they had given me my chance to go to college.

  But that wasn’t all. Because I had a good academic record, in the end I was awarded quite a few scholarships, more than I needed.

  I didn’t keep them, though. My mother made me give them all back.

  “You can’t be greedy. You have enough,” she said. “These are opportunities for other kids.” I could have used the money, but once we knew I had a full scholarship, Mami wouldn’t let me keep the rest.

  So I headed off to college with just enough scholarship money—and not a cent more.

  * * *

  I never realized how much I liked having a role in the Christmas food preparation until my first semester of college. After final exams, I was tired, but on that first morning home, Mami woke me up, saying I was needed for the tamales. I could smell the red chile sauce, and a warm feeling of belonging washed over me. Later, I would go with my mom to the senior home where Hermana Díaz lived now to deliver freshly made tamales and other homemade holiday goodies.

  And when that first college vacation was over, I had something else to look forward to. Title IX, the law that mandated schools and colleges must create equal educational opportunities for girls, including sports teams, had passed when I was in high school. While my high school eventually had a girls’ basketball team, it hadn’t happened during my time there. I had continued to play on my own and to practice, though, because I still loved the game.

  Soon after I started college, I saw a notice that a women’s basketball team was holding tryouts. It felt like a dream come true. At the appointed hour, I went to the gym, wearing my athletic clothes and best tennis shoes. I saw other girls dressed in basketball gear with shorts and tank tops emblazoned with team names, and I realized that, unlike me, they must have played on formal teams in high school. For just a minute, I wondered how I could ever compete with them—but I was determined to try.

  A blond woman with a whistle around her neck was passing out clipboards and forms. She was Coach Fey, the head coach. I looked at the form that she’d handed me and easily filled in my name, address, and college major. Then came the hard part.

  What were my average statistics? I saw spaces for points scored, rebounds, steals, and minutes per game. There was a space for awards and recognition. I had nothing to fill in. I handed my mostly blank form back to Coach Fey, and she shook her head.

  Was she really going to keep me from trying out, just because I’d never had the chance to play on a team in high school?

  “Coach Fey, I never miss a lay-up,” I said with confidence.

  She gave me a long look, taking in the fact that besides my lack of competitive experience, I was much shorter than the other girls. Then she tilted her head in the direction of the court. “Okay, you can try out,” she said. I grinned and sprinted across the gym.

  * * *

  In the end, compared to some of the girls with more experience, I wasn’t a star player, but I did manage to make the varsity team. I was mostly a benchwarmer, sitting at the edge of the court and watching the better players, but I didn’t care. Even though the practices were hard and challenging, I loved them. I loved being on a team at last, and I even got to go on road trips.

  As for the games themselves, usually the only time I touched a ball was in the warm-ups. One night, though, the coach looked down the bench and motioned for me to check in. I was so excited. Soon, while on defense, I was able to steal the ball and drive the length of the court for a lay-up. Everyone on the team was so happy that the benchwarmer had scored! In the next timeout huddle, Coach Fey congratulated me.

  “Coach, I told you, I never miss a lay-up,” I replied.

  That game felt like the culmination of all those Sundays in our driveway, shooting until I had made that hundredth lay-up before I went inside to watch The Wonderful World of Disney. In those days, I didn’t know that I’d ever find a way to play on a team, but I’d worked hard anyway because I loved basketball so much.

  By the end of my second semester of college, I discovered that while I loved playing basketball, I loved my engineering classes more. Even though it was just for one season, I was thankful that I had been able to live out my passion for playing basketball. After that season, I knew my path lay in the classroom and not on the court.

  High school graduation with my friend Cynthia Schramm

  Me working on the Tonopah Test Range, Nevada, 1975

  Chapter 18

  Being a Rocket Scientist and Realizing My Dream of Stanford

  The longest ride I ever took alone with Papá was before my freshman year in college, when he drove me to a summer internship at Sandia National Laboratories in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

  Papá and I had clashed many times over the years. Though he was proud of my achievements, I just didn’t fit his idea of a traditional daughter, and I never would. He made no secret of favoring Mario and Armando, and he was gentle and affectionate with Laura. But he didn’t know what to do with me.

  He seemed happier in his work toward the end of my high school days. After he won his lawsuit, he’d been promoted, and he became known for his expertise in handling biohazard material. At home, we weren’t arguing furiously anymore.

  Still, my father and I didn’t often spend time alone together. I was a little nervous before the drive. What would we have to say to each other? It didn’t occur to me then that he might be nervous too.

  The four-hour drive from Las Cruces to Albuquerque was probably the best time I ever had with my father. He talked the entire way, but he gave me great advice about working in a laboratory, because he had worked in one too.

  We both knew I was likely to be the only woman in the lab. There just weren’t many women working in the sciences or engineering in those days. I was determined to succeed, but Papá and I knew I would meet people who wouldn’t approve of what I was doing, and he wanted me to know what could happen.

  He wanted to prepare me for hazing, for being sent off on wild-goose chases or made the victim of silly pranks. He must have known that while all new workers were teased, I’d be set up for more of this because I was a woman. He gave me lots of advice,
in a monologue, because that was how he talked.

  He told me never to complain, no matter what the working conditions were like. He warned me not to get upset, even if my coworkers seemed to be taunting me. The men who worked in the lab weren’t used to being around girls with math and science interests, he said. Not only would I have to perform my job flawlessly, but I would have to show them I wouldn’t be bothered by anything that was said around me. As a woman and as a Mexican American, Papá said, I would be judged by a higher standard.

  I welcomed his advice, but I was shocked. Papá had never, ever spoken to me like this before, never taken the trouble with me that he had with Mario. It was almost as if he were seeing me for the first time, not as some girl who wouldn’t accept a quinceañera, but as me.

  * * *

  In the end, I was glad for my father’s advice. In my very first meeting at the laboratory, I was shown into a room full of engineers who were seated around a table. I was not even given a place to sit down. Papá had told me just to find ways to be helpful and make everyone’s job easier, so I didn’t show that this bothered me.

  My first summer internship involved field-testing rockets. They’d never had a woman engineer, so they didn’t even have a bathroom for women in the test labs. I had to use the restrooms in the building where the secretaries worked, so I had to plan my breaks accordingly. I brought in a bicycle so that I could make it there quickly. I had to stay organized! Finally they gave me my own portable bathroom, complete with a sign that simply said HERS.