In my first semester as a teaching assistant, a student came to me with a sensitive request. The professor required students to use electronic clickers to answer multiple-choice questions during the lecture; participation would count toward their grade. But this student confided that she could not afford the $50 for a clicker and $30 to register it. She offered to write her answers on paper and give them to me after every lecture, or just accept a 0% for attendance, knowing that she would need to excel in other aspects of the class to make up for it. She was proud of her work ethic and sure she belonged in academia. She reminded me of myself—and of our responsibility as educators to support poor students without singling them out.
For my bachelor’s, I had chosen to attend the school where I received the most financial aid, which was a private university. I felt privileged to study there. But I was surrounded by people who could easily afford it, and I struggled with feelings of isolation and insecurity. I felt I needed to hide my lower socioeconomic status to fit in. I lied about the many hours I worked at part-time jobs, why I couldn’t go to the movies, and why I couldn’t ask my family for money.
Most professors didn’t help much, often requiring expensive textbooks and class materials with seemingly little thought to the burden this placed on some students. Sometimes I could find the books at the library or buy less expensive used versions. And sometimes I sought accommodations from professors, even though it felt uncomfortable to share that I needed them. But it didn’t always go well. When I asked my organic chemistry professor, for example, whether I could buy an older version of the textbook, he tersely said no; only the new textbook had the access code for the homework software. As he talked, I did the mental math of how many extra hours I would need to work to pay for the $350 textbook.
There were rare exceptions, such as my calculus professor. On the same day as my conversation with the organic chemistry professor, he gave me a much-appreciated boost when he loaned the entire class his own textbooks for the semester. Other students may have turned up their noses at the books’ tattered condition, but I was incredibly grateful—both to be saved the expense and to not be set apart from the rest of the students. His gesture, and similar efforts by a handful of faculty and staff, helped me make it through my undergraduate and master’s studies.
When I learned Ph.D. students are typically paid a stipend, I was delighted. And once I started graduate work, my financial struggles dissipated. Many students found the stipend meager, but I was an expert at making ends meet, and I felt my classmates and I were now in the same boat. I finally felt I belonged in higher education.
When that student told me she couldn’t afford a clicker, though, I realized sharing my earlier struggles could help low-income students feel less alone. I told her I had once been in her shoes. And, of course, I let her submit her answers on paper and manually entered her attendance into the gradebook.
In the years since then, I’ve continued to talk about my experiences when they seem relevant. I still feel vulnerable opening up in classes where the majority of students comfortably afford college, but it has been incredibly rewarding. Many students have now shared their financial struggles with me. This past semester, for example, one of my most diligent students confided that he worked long hours in the university’s cafeteria and needed to do the bulk of his coursework late into the night. So, when he occasionally fell asleep in class, I knew it reflected anything but lack of interest, commitment, or ability.
All low-income students should have mentors who can help them cope with the many expenses associated with college and make them feel welcome. And I hope that more academics can be like my calculus professor, who with his simple gesture made such a big difference for me.
