When I thought about what kind of professor I wanted to become, I felt that I had no framework. I had been trained in methodical techniques; I enjoyed my lab procedures and exploring the biological world. But when it came to the professor I wanted to be, I had no idea who that was.

My undergraduate education was in Puerto Rico, a 30-minute drive from my parents’ home. I guess, in college terms, I was a commuter. However, in Puerto Rico, almost everyone is a commuter. 

When I sought a job at a place like Goshen College, I was longing to return to an environment that reminded me of the undergraduate experience I was used to. I quickly realized that my students’ college experiences were very different from mine. It was only in graduate school, when I moved away from everything I knew, that I became aware that I was a minority.

I was forced to think about what kind of professor I wanted to become. Despite having a PhD after my name, I was back to being the 21-year-old who had left her island for other opportunities. Beginning my tenure-track journey in Goshen, Indiana, made me question how to dress, express myself and behave in the classroom. Most of the examples I had seen of professors were male Puerto Ricans, along with a few female researchers at the University of Notre Dame. I was facing a challenge: should I teach the way I had been taught, or was I open to being myself in this new role?

It was after my second semester, while frantically reading my student evaluations and feeling unsure of how my first year had gone, that I came across an interesting comment: “I am very happy to have a professor with a similar culture to mine. In fact, I love hearing Spanish in class and lab.” This was my first indication that something I wasn’t even trying to do was making an impact on my students. It was only then that I began to understand the complexity of my role and the dynamics playing out in my classroom. I was teaching a growing Hispanic student population, both in my classroom and at the college level. Just as I had questioned whether I belonged, my students had their own doubts.

It feels sad to say that I realized this only while teaching, but I celebrate that the realization came early enough in my career. I began to make my classes more open to perspectives, stories, needs and strengths. I didn’t want any of my students to feel that the classroom was not a place to speak, make mistakes or exchange opinions.

I began to notice that, beyond preparing for class, there were deeper barriers to my students sharing their thoughts in the classroom. When I encouraged Hispanic students to speak, I noticed that shyness was often accompanied by insecurity. I remembered being a scared Latina in a room full of English speakers. I also remembered the care a professor had taken in encouraging me to participate more. So I asked students about their experiences and encouraged them to take up space. I wanted them to feel that the classroom was a place where they could participate, even when they felt uncertain.

My Hispanic students’ experiences and feedback made me reflect on the classroom experience I wanted for all my students. I wanted to connect with them, even though the labels and life experiences we carry may be completely different. I understood that, for this to happen, I needed to address the fear and discomfort that can surround difficult conversations. To everyone who has been in my classroom, whether we agree on everything or not, I hope you have felt that I am open to listening and learning from your life experiences.  I continue to learn from those experiences, too. They remind me that being a professor is not just about what I teach, but also about what I learn from the people in my classroom.

I would encourage everyone to keep asking, listening and learning beyond Hispanic Heritage Month. Ask uncomfortable questions, listen to understand rather than to answer back and be willing to learn from perspectives different from your own. As I always tell my students, struggling is part of the process, and it doesn’t mean you don’t belong. How we respond to those feelings can shape our success, even when the barriers we face are not ours alone to overcome. We can value one another without having identical experiences, but doing so requires us to acknowledge the differences that shape those experiences.