Abuela's doughy hands place snapshots of my ancestors before me. I thoughtfully examine each weathered photo, before she adds a new scene of my family's history to the pile. We don't talk to each other. We can't. Her words spill out like water, and I cannot grasp her Spanish phrases like, "Juanita, mi nieta linda." Likewise, my English causes cryptic pitches in her old ears. My pale eyes focus on the mound of pictures before me. I wait for the...

I know many students are conditioned to believe that they should go to whatever college feels right to them. On the surface, this sounds great and is even true to some extent, however, there is an...