As I crossed the stage on graduation day, I realized that moment belonged to many others. That diploma carried the fingerprints of my parents, the weight of my community, and the collective strength of every experience that shaped my journey. More than just a certificate of academic achievement, it marked a milestone of purpose, resilience, and legacy.
I am the proud son of Mexican immigrants who crossed the border guided by an unwavering faith in something better. My parents arrived without connections or roadmaps, just a steadfast belief that their children could live a life free from the burdens they had known. My mother, a small business owner, built something out of nothing through sheer determination. My father, quiet and steadfast, taught me that character reveals itself not in grand declarations but in consistent, dignified actions. Neither of my parents attended college, but their sacrifices made my achievement possible.
I was raised in South Central Los Angeles, a neighborhood often defined by its struggles rather than its strengths. It’s a community marked by systemic neglect, yet full of rich culture, resilience, and pride. In that environment, education wasn’t a guarantee; it was a privilege. I remember understanding even as a child that not everyone around me believed college was in the cards. Survival often took precedence. Yet inside our home, education was treated as a sacred trust — something my parents never had but desperately wanted for me.
There were no glossy brochures about elite schools, no family legacy to fall back on, and no college counselors to guide the way. My parents didn’t know how to fill out financial aid forms or navigate parent-teacher conferences. However, they provided something far more significant: belief. They believed that I could forge my own path. They believed that their sacrifices would make a difference. They believed that, somehow, a different life was possible.
In 2010, I was accepted into Loyola High School of Los Angeles. That moment changed the direction of my life and altered the course of my family’s future. It was a turning point that brought a sense of stability we had never known. For the first time, there was structure, access to opportunities, and a glimpse into a world that always felt out of reach.
That acceptance opened doors towards securing legal residency for my parents. Education, in that moment, became something far larger than school. It became a passport — not just for me to enter new spaces, but for my family to begin shedding the shadows of uncertainty and step toward security. The judge overseeing their 10-year immigration case was made aware of my admission to Loyola and recognized the significance of the opportunity. In his words and actions, there was an implicit understanding: he didn’t want to take away the chance for a child of immigrants to become a significant contributor to American society.
At just 14, I realized that, while some people thought of education as textbooks and tests, it signified power, protection, and transformation for me. I carried my family’s aspirations on my shoulders. I was the first to go to college, the first to speak English fluently, and the first to walk into institutional spaces where people didn’t expect someone like me. That period of my life sharpened a trait that continues to define me: adaptability.
Being Mexican-American means living in the in-between — code-switching between cultures, values, and languages daily. One foot is rooted in the traditions of my community, while the other steps into unfamiliar terrain. I learned to read a room and hold my own in environments of privilege, all while never forgetting the street corners and storefronts that raised me. That duality gave me the versatility to navigate seamlessly between settings like kitchen-table conversations in Spanish to seminar debates in classrooms where my voice was often unique.
More than just preparing me academically, Loyola High School of Los Angeles taught me how to lead with humility and navigate fluently in worlds that weren’t designed for me, but that I was determined to claim as my own. I reflect on that time as my introduction to another environment, a world where generational wealth was present in the stories, assumptions, and social codes of my peers. I observed classmates being picked up in luxury cars, casually discussing college interviews, and speaking with a confidence that felt foreign to me. I had to mature quickly, learning how to observe, decode, and adapt. Beyond becoming fluent in English, I became skilled at navigating expectations.
Entering college meant carrying forward the dual consciousness sharpened at prep school — the quiet pride of my heritage balanced against the unspoken pressure to represent more than just myself. I chose Wake Forest University because I received a full-tuition scholarship to pursue a dual major in Economics & Politics and International Affairs. It was the most practical option for my family, and at that time, financial considerations greatly influenced my decisions. I had never visited the campus, nor did I have any friends or family on the East Coast.
Nevertheless, I packed my bags and moved across the country, motivated not just by affordability but by my belief in the possibility of new experiences. This decision was indeed a leap of faith and an act of courage.
At Wake Forest, weekly phone calls to parents were sacred moments that connected the unfamiliar with the familiar. They reminded me that the work wasn’t solely about earning a degree. Instead, I was laying the foundation for something far more enduring: an architecture of belonging, access, and generational uplift.
Five years after earning my undergraduate degree at Wake Forest, I enrolled at Fuqua to pursue my MBA. I entered Fuqua with a clear vision, knowing what kind of impact I wanted to make. Having already navigated elite spaces that weren’t built with me in mind, I didn’t need convincing that I belonged. Still, I understood that I needed to earn the respect of my classmates to have the best experience possible. I wanted to lead, uplift, and open doors for others. My experience was not only personal but also political, cultural, and collective.
I chose Fuqua because of Team Fuqua — a distinctive, values-driven, and people-first culture that stood out from every other business school I considered. It was collaborative, humble, and intentionally inclusive. This philosophy reflected the way I have always aimed to show up in the world. I saw the opportunity to join a community where leadership is defined not just by individual achievement but by how we support and elevate one another.
At Fuqua, I made a deliberate choice to fully embrace my identity in a number of ways.
Whether in casual conversations with classmates from Mexico, Colombia, Argentina, and Peru, or during FaceTime calls with my family, speaking Spanish kept me grounded. It reminded me of my roots and created an emotional connection with peers navigating similar paths. We joked, debated, and celebrated our cultures with pride. I learned about regional slang from my classmates, shared homemade food, and embraced a multicultural Latin American experience that extended far beyond national borders.
Those cross-cultural and deeply personal relationships became some of the most formative aspects of my MBA experience. I remember late nights in the Fox Center and collaborating on group projects via Zoom with people from Chile, Brazil, and Colombia. One moment, we would be deep into a deck review, and the next, discussing our favorite soccer clubs from different parts of the world. Those moments provided me with strength, reminding me that business doesn’t have to be sterile; it can be joyful, human, and vibrant.
As the Vice President of Admissions for the American Latinx Management Association (ALMA), I helped shape the pipeline for future Latinx MBAs. We hosted the most-attended pre-MBA diversity workshop in Fuqua’s history. Beyond the numbers, I’m proud of how intentional we were in making applicants feel seen. I answered dozens of emails, met one-on-one with prospective students, and shared my story to assure these applicants that they belong here, too. I remembered what it felt like to wonder if places like Duke Fuqua were built for people like me, so I did everything I could to make the answer loud and clear: yes, they are.
I served as Co-President of Fuqua United, our soccer club. On the field, identities melted away. We played hard, competed with joy, and built friendships that transcended majors, countries, and native languages. The lessons I learned in those games, specifically about teamwork, humility, and resilience, mirrored what I experienced in the classroom.
One of the most spirited traditions at Fuqua is the Blue Cup, our annual rivalry with UNC Kenan-Flagler. As a member of the executive planning committee, I played a key role in bringing this event to life. We managed logistics, energized our classmates, and organized everything from soccer matches to the Battle of the Bands, which I had the distinct honor of serving as one of the lead singers in our student-led band, Fooqua Fighters. It was an exhausting labor of love and a reminder that joy, culture, and community are just as important as academics in shaping a school’s identity.
Through the LIFE (Low-Income, First-Generation Experience) club, I discovered a space where vulnerability met strength. I stood alongside others who, like me, had navigated systems without clear guidance. We openly discussed financial stress, family expectations, and the challenge of carrying multiple identities. LIFE was more than just a support system and a lifeline — a place where we could be our authentic selves, unfiltered, unapologetic, and understood.
Yet, my favorite moments were often the quiet ones: the early morning coffee chats, the spontaneous reggaetón dance breaks, and the texts from prospective students thanking me for a conversation that renewed their hope. I didn’t just participate in Fuqua; I helped shape it.
With culture. With heart. With intention.
Because this much remains true: Being a U.S.-born Latino carries weight. My commitment to uplifting our community in every setting never wavered, and it never will.
That commitment shaped everything I did. It guided how I led, how I listened, and how I presented myself. I chose the title “Mexican American Requiem” not to mourn anything, but to honor everything: the quiet sacrifices, the unspoken battles, and the joy of overcoming challenges.
I am not merely a product of the American Dream. I am a passionate believer in it. I believe in the power of second chances, in first-generation success stories, and in the bridges built from grit and grace. I believe that the American Dream, though bruised and debated, still exists, and I am living proof of that.
My journey wasn’t smooth, but it was possible. My parents, formerly undocumented and uncertain, planted seeds in soil they could barely trust. I grew up speaking one language at home and another at school, eventually learning to communicate across generations, identities, and systems. I have faced doubt and discomfort and emerged more rooted, proud, and committed.
To ALMA, Fuqua United, LIFE, and LASA: thank you for the spaces you’ve created, for your friendship, and for reminding me that leadership can be rooted in joy, culture, and authenticity.
Gracias por profundizar mi conexión con mis raíces. Con ustedes, me sentí orgulloso, completo y más presente que nunca.
To my parents: this degree is yours. Every step I take carries your strength. You gave me everything, and I will spend the rest of my life honoring that gift.
This experience wasn’t bought — it was earned. Through sweat. Through sacrifice. Through the belief that something better was always worth chasing.
Team Fuqua hasta la muerte.
The post A Mexican-American Requiem: Un Paso Adelante appeared first on Duke Daytime MBA Student Blog.
More...
How does this impact your International MBA decision?
I'd be glad to learn your thoughts on this story : A Mexican-American Requiem: Un Paso Adelante
I am the proud son of Mexican immigrants who crossed the border guided by an unwavering faith in something better. My parents arrived without connections or roadmaps, just a steadfast belief that their children could live a life free from the burdens they had known. My mother, a small business owner, built something out of nothing through sheer determination. My father, quiet and steadfast, taught me that character reveals itself not in grand declarations but in consistent, dignified actions. Neither of my parents attended college, but their sacrifices made my achievement possible.
What Education Means to Me
I was raised in South Central Los Angeles, a neighborhood often defined by its struggles rather than its strengths. It’s a community marked by systemic neglect, yet full of rich culture, resilience, and pride. In that environment, education wasn’t a guarantee; it was a privilege. I remember understanding even as a child that not everyone around me believed college was in the cards. Survival often took precedence. Yet inside our home, education was treated as a sacred trust — something my parents never had but desperately wanted for me.
There were no glossy brochures about elite schools, no family legacy to fall back on, and no college counselors to guide the way. My parents didn’t know how to fill out financial aid forms or navigate parent-teacher conferences. However, they provided something far more significant: belief. They believed that I could forge my own path. They believed that their sacrifices would make a difference. They believed that, somehow, a different life was possible.
In 2010, I was accepted into Loyola High School of Los Angeles. That moment changed the direction of my life and altered the course of my family’s future. It was a turning point that brought a sense of stability we had never known. For the first time, there was structure, access to opportunities, and a glimpse into a world that always felt out of reach.
That acceptance opened doors towards securing legal residency for my parents. Education, in that moment, became something far larger than school. It became a passport — not just for me to enter new spaces, but for my family to begin shedding the shadows of uncertainty and step toward security. The judge overseeing their 10-year immigration case was made aware of my admission to Loyola and recognized the significance of the opportunity. In his words and actions, there was an implicit understanding: he didn’t want to take away the chance for a child of immigrants to become a significant contributor to American society.
At just 14, I realized that, while some people thought of education as textbooks and tests, it signified power, protection, and transformation for me. I carried my family’s aspirations on my shoulders. I was the first to go to college, the first to speak English fluently, and the first to walk into institutional spaces where people didn’t expect someone like me. That period of my life sharpened a trait that continues to define me: adaptability.
Learning To Adapt
Being Mexican-American means living in the in-between — code-switching between cultures, values, and languages daily. One foot is rooted in the traditions of my community, while the other steps into unfamiliar terrain. I learned to read a room and hold my own in environments of privilege, all while never forgetting the street corners and storefronts that raised me. That duality gave me the versatility to navigate seamlessly between settings like kitchen-table conversations in Spanish to seminar debates in classrooms where my voice was often unique.
More than just preparing me academically, Loyola High School of Los Angeles taught me how to lead with humility and navigate fluently in worlds that weren’t designed for me, but that I was determined to claim as my own. I reflect on that time as my introduction to another environment, a world where generational wealth was present in the stories, assumptions, and social codes of my peers. I observed classmates being picked up in luxury cars, casually discussing college interviews, and speaking with a confidence that felt foreign to me. I had to mature quickly, learning how to observe, decode, and adapt. Beyond becoming fluent in English, I became skilled at navigating expectations.
Entering college meant carrying forward the dual consciousness sharpened at prep school — the quiet pride of my heritage balanced against the unspoken pressure to represent more than just myself. I chose Wake Forest University because I received a full-tuition scholarship to pursue a dual major in Economics & Politics and International Affairs. It was the most practical option for my family, and at that time, financial considerations greatly influenced my decisions. I had never visited the campus, nor did I have any friends or family on the East Coast.
Nevertheless, I packed my bags and moved across the country, motivated not just by affordability but by my belief in the possibility of new experiences. This decision was indeed a leap of faith and an act of courage.
At Wake Forest, weekly phone calls to parents were sacred moments that connected the unfamiliar with the familiar. They reminded me that the work wasn’t solely about earning a degree. Instead, I was laying the foundation for something far more enduring: an architecture of belonging, access, and generational uplift.
Embracing My Identity at Fuqua
Five years after earning my undergraduate degree at Wake Forest, I enrolled at Fuqua to pursue my MBA. I entered Fuqua with a clear vision, knowing what kind of impact I wanted to make. Having already navigated elite spaces that weren’t built with me in mind, I didn’t need convincing that I belonged. Still, I understood that I needed to earn the respect of my classmates to have the best experience possible. I wanted to lead, uplift, and open doors for others. My experience was not only personal but also political, cultural, and collective.
I chose Fuqua because of Team Fuqua — a distinctive, values-driven, and people-first culture that stood out from every other business school I considered. It was collaborative, humble, and intentionally inclusive. This philosophy reflected the way I have always aimed to show up in the world. I saw the opportunity to join a community where leadership is defined not just by individual achievement but by how we support and elevate one another.
At Fuqua, I made a deliberate choice to fully embrace my identity in a number of ways.
1. I spoke Spanish almost every day.
Whether in casual conversations with classmates from Mexico, Colombia, Argentina, and Peru, or during FaceTime calls with my family, speaking Spanish kept me grounded. It reminded me of my roots and created an emotional connection with peers navigating similar paths. We joked, debated, and celebrated our cultures with pride. I learned about regional slang from my classmates, shared homemade food, and embraced a multicultural Latin American experience that extended far beyond national borders.
Those cross-cultural and deeply personal relationships became some of the most formative aspects of my MBA experience. I remember late nights in the Fox Center and collaborating on group projects via Zoom with people from Chile, Brazil, and Colombia. One moment, we would be deep into a deck review, and the next, discussing our favorite soccer clubs from different parts of the world. Those moments provided me with strength, reminding me that business doesn’t have to be sterile; it can be joyful, human, and vibrant.
2. I leaned heavily into leadership.
As the Vice President of Admissions for the American Latinx Management Association (ALMA), I helped shape the pipeline for future Latinx MBAs. We hosted the most-attended pre-MBA diversity workshop in Fuqua’s history. Beyond the numbers, I’m proud of how intentional we were in making applicants feel seen. I answered dozens of emails, met one-on-one with prospective students, and shared my story to assure these applicants that they belong here, too. I remembered what it felt like to wonder if places like Duke Fuqua were built for people like me, so I did everything I could to make the answer loud and clear: yes, they are.
3. I fostered community.
I served as Co-President of Fuqua United, our soccer club. On the field, identities melted away. We played hard, competed with joy, and built friendships that transcended majors, countries, and native languages. The lessons I learned in those games, specifically about teamwork, humility, and resilience, mirrored what I experienced in the classroom.
One of the most spirited traditions at Fuqua is the Blue Cup, our annual rivalry with UNC Kenan-Flagler. As a member of the executive planning committee, I played a key role in bringing this event to life. We managed logistics, energized our classmates, and organized everything from soccer matches to the Battle of the Bands, which I had the distinct honor of serving as one of the lead singers in our student-led band, Fooqua Fighters. It was an exhausting labor of love and a reminder that joy, culture, and community are just as important as academics in shaping a school’s identity.
4. I allowed myself to be vulnerable.
Through the LIFE (Low-Income, First-Generation Experience) club, I discovered a space where vulnerability met strength. I stood alongside others who, like me, had navigated systems without clear guidance. We openly discussed financial stress, family expectations, and the challenge of carrying multiple identities. LIFE was more than just a support system and a lifeline — a place where we could be our authentic selves, unfiltered, unapologetic, and understood.
Yet, my favorite moments were often the quiet ones: the early morning coffee chats, the spontaneous reggaetón dance breaks, and the texts from prospective students thanking me for a conversation that renewed their hope. I didn’t just participate in Fuqua; I helped shape it.
With culture. With heart. With intention.
Because this much remains true: Being a U.S.-born Latino carries weight. My commitment to uplifting our community in every setting never wavered, and it never will.
That commitment shaped everything I did. It guided how I led, how I listened, and how I presented myself. I chose the title “Mexican American Requiem” not to mourn anything, but to honor everything: the quiet sacrifices, the unspoken battles, and the joy of overcoming challenges.
I am not merely a product of the American Dream. I am a passionate believer in it. I believe in the power of second chances, in first-generation success stories, and in the bridges built from grit and grace. I believe that the American Dream, though bruised and debated, still exists, and I am living proof of that.
My journey wasn’t smooth, but it was possible. My parents, formerly undocumented and uncertain, planted seeds in soil they could barely trust. I grew up speaking one language at home and another at school, eventually learning to communicate across generations, identities, and systems. I have faced doubt and discomfort and emerged more rooted, proud, and committed.
To ALMA, Fuqua United, LIFE, and LASA: thank you for the spaces you’ve created, for your friendship, and for reminding me that leadership can be rooted in joy, culture, and authenticity.
Gracias por profundizar mi conexión con mis raíces. Con ustedes, me sentí orgulloso, completo y más presente que nunca.
To my parents: this degree is yours. Every step I take carries your strength. You gave me everything, and I will spend the rest of my life honoring that gift.
This experience wasn’t bought — it was earned. Through sweat. Through sacrifice. Through the belief that something better was always worth chasing.
Team Fuqua hasta la muerte.
The post A Mexican-American Requiem: Un Paso Adelante appeared first on Duke Daytime MBA Student Blog.
More...
How does this impact your International MBA decision?
I'd be glad to learn your thoughts on this story : A Mexican-American Requiem: Un Paso Adelante