The Graduation

Rosa left school when she was sixteen. Her family in Honduras needed money, so she started working in a clothes factory, and she never went back to the classroom. Twenty years later, she was living in Houston with her husband and her daughter, Daniela, and she was cleaning offices at night. She often said she was too old to study. Nobody believed her less than Daniela.

"You've been telling me to do my homework since I was six," Daniela said one evening. "Now it's your turn." She filled in the forms herself, and in September Rosa started English and math classes at a community college near their apartment. She was the oldest student in the room. On the first day, she almost walked out.

That was seven years ago. Since then, Rosa has been studying at night and working during the day. She has written essays at the kitchen table at two in the morning, she has failed one math exam and passed it the second time, and she has learned more English than she ever thought possible. This spring she finally finished her degree in accounting.

Daniela, meanwhile, has been studying nursing at a big university across the city. She has worked hard too, but she has always had her mother's help: lunches in the fridge, rides to the hospital, coffee before exams. So when the two graduation dates arrived in the mail, they both stared at the letters. Same day. Same Saturday in May.

"It's fine," Rosa said immediately. "I won't go to mine. Nobody cares if an old woman wears a funny hat." Daniela looked at her mother as if she had said something terrible. "I care," she said. "Papa cares. Look at the times." Daniela's ceremony started at ten in the morning. Rosa's started at five in the afternoon. There was a chance, if everything went well.

On the big day, Rosa sat in the crowd at the university and cried when her daughter's name was called. She took about two hundred photos. After the ceremony, there was no time for lunch. Daniela didn't even change. She jumped into the car in her black gown and hat, and her father drove across Houston while Rosa did her makeup in the mirror.

They arrived at the college with eight minutes to spare. Rosa ran to join the other graduates, and Daniela and her father found two seats near the front. When the speaker called "Rosa Elena Martinez," a young woman in a graduation gown stood up in the audience and shouted louder than anyone. People turned to look. Some of them started clapping for her too.

Rosa walked across the stage slowly. She shook hands, took her diploma and looked out at the crowd. She had imagined this moment many times, but she had never imagined her daughter in a gown, cheering for her.

That night, the whole family ate tacos in the kitchen. Two diplomas stood on the table, side by side, and two black hats hung on the same chair. "So," Daniela said with a smile, "when are you starting your master's degree?"