I was always a jealous, ungrateful, and annoying little boy. My father and mother used to live what I would describe as “cushy” lives. Both of them attended college, had spacious homes, and got jobs that allowed them to give their then only child, me, the same cushy life—with a few extra threads on the cushion. 

As the child of an attorney and a banker/salesman, I grew up, well, spoiled. I had all the books that I ever wanted—and I discovered my love for reading at a young age—and the newest toys that the Christmas catalog had to offer. But don’t get me wrong, I was not to always be fed with a silver spoon my entire life.

Upon moving to Los Angeles at age 11, we began living a very different life. My parents’  degrees, which they received in Mexico, were not readily accepted in America. When the financial struggle finally struck, my father began working as a carpenter. While this was happening, my internal struggle to adjust to my new American lifestyle was more than visible. I was no longer in an academy or required to wear vests and white dress shirts to class. Plus, I had to learn English, proper English, not just how to say ‘Excuse me’ or “I love the weather today!’ And so my mother, although not completely fluent in the language herself, spent her nights having me read out of an Oxford Dictionary. By the end of the second grade, I was pessimistic that I would succeed academically and wondered if education was designed for me at all.

Yet, it was almost as if the universe would just not have it. In third grade, I had a more-or-less lousy teacher. He would have 20-minute lectures and a 7-hour worksheet/free time. With this abundance of time, I made myself useful and offered to organize his library—which was two five-foot-tall bookcases standing against the upper-left corner walls. That’s when I discovered J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter saga. I read, no, devoured, the books. And that led to me reading more and more, in English now, instead of Spanish. 

This far-away, magical world presented me with vivid characters and wondrous settings that I absolutely fell in love with. Their uniforms and away-from-home settings allowed me to escape, at least momentarily, from my life. So I fell in love with that form of an elitist, boarding school-style education. The dark dress pants and the colored ties, the dorms, and the enormous libraries. ‘Someday, that will be me,’ I told myself. ‘Someday, I will be good enough to deserve all the things that I had before.’

When middle school began and my ticket to Hogwarts–or the real equivalent of such school–failed to arrive, I was bitter. I envied them, the kids who did go. They didn’t know it, or me for that matter, but I wanted to be them desperately. So I tried my best to replicate them at home. I wore polos and cable-knitted sweaters whenever I had the chance, even in 85 F° weather. And I romanticized and dove into the subjects that seemed to preoccupy these kids: philosophy, history, music, and literature. I told myself that I would be one of them, one that deserved a formal and elite education with all its aesthetic and cultural accouterments.

I began my high school career as a merit scholar at a private Catholic institution. At first, it was a dream come true. Big binders, textbooks, uniforms, and all! Yet, here, ensconced in their wealthy Los Angeles lifestyle, my classmates showed me how out-of-touch from reality they really were, with their fancy watches and expensive taste. And I didn’t have that. Did I deserve to be in a room with them? To study with them? Talk to them? To my knowledge, I was one of the two kids that came from the public education system, and we were quickly taught three things: discipline, structure, and what it feels to be alone. So, we too, begged for fancy watches and imported cashmere. Yet, no matter how hard we tried, we always ended up being ignored and excluded—or at least in the beginning. He became a football star and I, well, blew into an instrument from afar. At the same time, the emphasis on structure and discipline made me dread school. Do this but not that. Read this but not that. Solve it like this, not like that. If this was what a proper education was like, did I want it? Did I really want it?

I only stayed there a semester. I knew that if I stayed any longer, both my mental health and personality would suffer from it. I eventually ended up in the public school system, and I quickly realized how flawed my definition of education really was. Books do not come with three-figure prices. Literature is not interpreted in a universal way. And discipline and order are not the most important aspects of an education. 

My immersion into the public school system reminded me of what education should truly be about. Empowerment, because through all of the courses and extracurriculars that students take, these little pieces of experience and knowledge are calcium to our bones–they help us find our voice and take a stand. Inclusion because all of the collaboration and different points of view (from people who lived different stages) add to a richer and much fuller conversation and interaction. And determination, because the system itself is flawed and imperfect, forcing us to break through it–or find ways around it.

And now, I look back at my silly attempts to be like those private school kids, who, sadly, may never see the true point of education. Now, in times of thanks and grace, I direct all of mine to the fact that I do have an education. Now, I can confidently say that an education is not reserved for the privileged few. Now, I rest assured that proper education is not confined to a single class. It is not designed for kids in boarding schools or reserved for the highest bidder.