Being the first person in my family in generations to go to college, I had big dreams to escape poverty and create a healthy family dynamic free of violence and trauma. I had been employed since the age of 14 and between that, scholarships, and a huge sense of motivation I was able to go to community college and eventually transfer to a University. I graduated Summa Cum Laude with a Bachelor's in Education in December 1998. In August of 1998, I gave birth to my firstborn: a daughter with a head full of curls and cheeks bigger than the sun. Although she arrived sooner than my allotted plans allowed, once she was here I knew my purpose in life was forever changed. When she was about six months old, I dropped out of my Master's program with the intent of going back as soon as she was a little more independent. The best-laid plans of Mice and Men interceded and that small lapse turned decades long. In 2001, a beautiful boy joined us and all the way in 2013 my second daughter completed our family, the most adorable ball of explosive energy you've ever met. In 2004, I became a single mom, and that dream of escaping poverty hovered constantly just out of reach. Every inch forward seemed to be accompanied by the thrashing teeth of destitution grazing my heels. I worked as a classroom teacher during the day and took on several part time and odd jobs to make sure that my children did not feel the burden of lack that I grew up with. They did not have as much as others, but they never knew empty bellies or birthday parties without cake and presents. I can look back and say I'm proud of what I provided for them. While I am content with what I was able to accomplish for my children, it did require the sacrifice of furthering my own academic and career goals that I originally had planned for myself and for my family. I'm nearing fifty and have two adult children currently attending universities, as well as one daughter preparing for her transition to middle school. Time and money seem to be an even more precious commodity than before, if that is even possible. Perhaps experiencing the perspective of life from the second half made me realize time is not an infinite resource. If I am to ever reach the goals I set for myself 31 years ago, I need to set those wheels in motion once again. Three weeks ago my school district announced that they would be putting librarians back into the libraries of each of our schools. That was the final impetus I needed to hear. That evening I began the application process to go back for my Master's in Library Science with the final goal of becoming a Teacher Librarian. I may still not have yet completely escaped the cold hand that wraps itself around financial resources, but the idea of fulfilling my dreams while doing so alongside my children who are also fulfilling their dreams, is more than I could have ever asked for.

From my earliest memories, books meant safety, freedom, and acceptance. We had very little when I was young. My mom was barely 16 when she had me and she brought me home to a small, dilapidated trailer. She frequently described how she felt while peering over my crib and seeing my six pound body shivering and blue because she couldn't afford to turn the heat up. Somehow though, she always made sure I had books. A good bedtime story could make you forget about the chill, if at least for awhile. In elementary school, books provided protection. Always a bit of an outsider, having my nose in a delicious book helped make it not so noticeable that I wasn't playing with anyone--both to other kids and to myself. The library was my solace. My refuge. My best friends lived there. In high school, books provided a pathway to safety. At this point my mom had remarried and home was a place of violence and unpredictability. I wanted out, to run away and start a life that was calm and gentle. I wanted a place where I could decide for myself what was acceptable to allow and draw boundaries for myself that could not be crossed. I knew that the route through college was the path that could get me there. I was the first in my family for generations to consider going to college and as such, there was no money saved up in a fund somewhere. If I wanted to go, it was up to me. So I studied hard. Between a combination of pell grants and scholarships, I waded my way through community college. Honors Forum, Phi Theta Kappa, and a 4.0 later I was transferring to a university to obtain my Bachelor's in Education. After all, education is a way to protect yourself. To fight for yourself. And I wanted to help children in situations like mine be able to stand up and say, "No More!" My last semester of college my first daughter was born. I was married, my husband holding our 3 month old daughter as I walked across the stage and accepted the passport to my new, perfect life. Or so I thought. I found out my husband was leaving me for my neighbor two months before our son's third birthday. My now ex-husband had signed away his rights. Child support in any means, emotional or financial was no longer an option. I had foregone a full time job and instead had been tutoring in the evenings so I could stay home with our two children while doing everything I could to learn how to be a good mom. I wanted so desperately to give them the home, loving family, and childhood I had been denied and now, once again, I had no control over my own fate. This had been decided for us. I had to accept that although the picture I had in my mind of our loving family was going to look different, there was no way it would be any less loving. Our family dynamics had to change so that I could teach full time, but a teacher's salary does not stretch very far. No matter what, though. I always made sure we had books. Now, my daughter is studying Zoology. My son is studying Astrophysics. And I am ready to go back to my roots and the safety of being surrounded by my best friends. This summer I'll be making the journey to becoming a Librarian, so that I too, can be the harbor of safety in the darkness.

My grandmother was raised in a Catholic orphanage by very strict nuns. She often told of being beaten and receiving no love. You can imagine this impacted her emotional development, which was then passed on to my mother through modeling. Despite the traumatic experience, my grandmother and mother dutifully attended Catholic church throughout my childhood. I went through Catechism classes, had my first Communion, all the big events. These were just motions though. No one at home seemed to actually believe them. No one at home really told me WHY we did these things. We just did. When I was about 17 I decided to take an adult class at my corner church so I could get answers myself. Luckily, the Deacon who was teaching was a beautiful, open minded, brilliant being. He allowed me to stay after class to get "real answers." He explained that purgatory simply meant "margins" and was a way to record people who passed away during the plague before they were able to be baptized or married. There were no nefarious meanings initially, but over years the "Great Telephone Game" was an effective technique to invoke fear and membership into the church. Ironically, it was Deacon Terry who led me to question everything I had known my whole life. He started my quest for Truth. For many years after that I read as much as I could about every religion, spiritual edict, or new wave thought that I could get my hands on. There seemed to be pieces here and there that glimpsed the Truth. There were tiny sparkling pieces that stood out from the rest. But, just like the Elephant Parable, those were just pieces. I could not see the whole elephant. However, despite my quest, Buddhism never made it to my checklist of studies. It was always there, a whisper in the back of my brain. Yet, I couldn't think about Buddhism without feeling misplaced guilt. I avoided it, if only subconsciously. When I was in high school, I sat next to a shy, angry boy in my math class. At first I tried to make a friendly connection, but it was soon apparent it was in vain. So I stopped trying. I even, at times, tried to make light of it and pretend to have a conversation with him, with myself doing both the asking and answering. "Hi Jonathan, how are you today? Oh, I'm fine, Jasmine. How are you?" I would do this within earshot and giggle, but he never responded. Later that year Jonathan was arrested for committing the heinous murders of monks and nuns at Wat Promkunaram near my school. The guilt was deafening. What if I had tried harder? I went to every memorial, every prayer session I could. I went to the 10th and 25th year anniversary memorials. My firstborn was quite karmically born on the 7th anniversary of their deaths to the day. Once I was able to realize the block that was preventing me from being able to hear the Dharma, my Universe expanded. This was the Truth I had always been searching for. I began studying with ZaChoeje Rinpoche at Emaho Center and with Sokai Barratt at Haku-un-ji Zen Center until his passing shortly after the birth of my youngest. I started the first children's Dharma program at Emaho. Sokai interceded to Joshu Roshi so my youngest could receive her Dharma name. I recently had a Buddhist children's book accepted for publication. All my Dharma activities seem to be surrounded by a theme of protecting childhood. As a teacher, I retake my vow continuously.

My earliest memory of my maternal grandfather was visiting him in his hospital bed. He was so skinny and could scarcely breathe. He was exposed to Agent Orange in Vietnam. Many years later, he developed lung cancer. Shortly after, he passed away at the age of 54. The next year, my dad and I flew back to Missouri for my paternal grandfather's funeral. I don't have any memories of him alive. My only memory of him was at his open casket memorial. He had been diagnosed with colorectal cancer. He passed away at the age of 58. Five years later, my mom frantically rushed to my maternal grandmother's side as she unexpectedly had complications from a bilateral mastectomy. She had been diagnosed with estrogen induced metastatic breast cancer. She passed away at the age of 59. When I was 27, I was in the middle of teaching a math lesson in my second grade classroom when I got the call that my paternal grandmother finally passed away after a decades long battle with bone cancer. She made it quite a bit longer than the rest of my grandparents. She was 68. Almost six years ago, my mother went to the ER one Friday afternoon after experiencing what she thought was a bout of bronchitis that wouldn't go away. She didn't come back home for another 4 months. Her primary cancer site was in her left lung, but it had metastasized into her spine, pancreas, liver, and finally into her brain. I watched my ferocious mother slowly wither away into a body weighing merely 49 pounds. The cancer in her brain often took from me the last chances I had to make peace-to heal wounds-to say goodbye. My mom was a teenage mom. She had me when she was just 17 years old. It was a tough decision for her to raise me, a decision that continued to make life hard for her til her last moments. The last time I got to see her in person, she looked at me and said, "Oh no! I'm going to get in so much trouble!" She was able to know somewhere inside that I was her daughter, but that memory was tied much more intimately the feeling of hardship she endured by keeping me. I lived about 2 hours away and had to go back to work that evening. A few days later I got a call saying that they believed this was my mom's last moments and if I wanted to say goodbye they would put the phone to her ear. I poured all the things I wanted to say into what felt like an empty void. A little while later a voice came back on and said they think she heard and understood, because while I was talking she had one single tear go down her cheek. My mom was 58. I will be 49 this summer. I look back at my family history and feel like I have odds stacked against me. I look forward at my children and decide I have to create my own fate. I make as many healthy choices as I possibly can. I avoid any potential cancer causing agents. I get routine check ups faithfully. And I have to make plans that include a future me. At the age of 49 I have decided to go back and pursue a graduate degree in Library Science. I've been a teacher for almost 26 years now, but it has always been my dream to be in the library. I'm going to make it so.