Knowledge is Power
by
Anna-Maria Petricelli

"Knowledge is real power," proclaimed the bold letters on an American Library Association bookmark. I had not seen many bookmarks before, so I looked carefully at the drawing of Superman soaring upward from between two stacks of books. I studied the bookmark trying to comprehend its exact meaning. A wave of energy swept over me. Some secret of life seemed to have been starring at me from that small piece of red and blue paper. Although, to a teenager in high school, the juxtaposition of knowledge and power seemed vague, exhilaration stirred within me. I wanted the power that knowledge brought, and I knew that I should seek it in college.

Through the hallways of my high school in Sisak, a small town in Croatia, I overheard stories about college. "You sweat for months preparing for the entrance exams. You think you are lucky that you passed the tests and got accepted, so you rush to your first class to meet your teachers. Unfortunately, they have no words of welcome. In their introductory lecture, they promise to do everything they can to crush your confidence, break your spirit, and make you quit." Such tales were commonly whispered by aspiring college students.

I just couldn’t believe that. College was supposed to build my confidence in the process of attaining knowledge. Teachers were supposed to encourage me with their wisdom and compassion. They should prepare me for all challenges, not turn me against learning. The more I heard the whispers, the more convinced I became that attending college in my homeland would not fulfill the promise that knowledge offered. Only a college in America would do that.

I embarked on a research about American colleges only to find myself dismayed. The costs were staggering. Finally, I stumbled upon a private university in Iowa that was offering work-study scholarships to international students. The school would cover tuition, room, and board in exchange for a twenty-hour-per-week work commitment. The students only needed sufficient funds for health insurance and personal expenses. Including airfare from Croatia to Chicago, I calculated that I would need $2,000 per year.

I could hardly contain myself. I dashed into the kitchen that cold winter evening. "I am going to school in America," I proclaimed. My mother looked up at me while working in the foamy sink full of dirty dishes. "Yes? And who is going to pay for that?" Her voice was coolly objective. In my excitement, I overlooked the fact that, even with two jobs, my mother barely managed to make ends meet. I brushed that thought aside not willing to let it spoil my enthusiasm. I wanted my mother’s support. Everything else would work out somehow.

I wrote the letter of inquiry to the American college. Within a couple of weeks, I received a thick envelope. My mother stood beside me while I ripped it open and spread the contents on the table. I picked up the letter on top. It was from the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. I was blinded with tears as I read the words of encouragement and warm invitation to attend the college. I had no doubt that at this school, my desire for education would be cherished and respected, but to get there, I had to be prepared to wage a long and hard battle, and I had to start immediately.

My mom examined the materials amazed at the care that an American college extended to her daughter knowing only that she was a young girl on the other side of the world eager to learn. Meanwhile, at home, despite straight A’s and honors, no one showed the slightest interest in her daughter’s future. My mother then took a strong stand of support. She vowed to do all she could to help make my dream become reality. She pointed to our collection of English dictionaries.

Although my English was quite good, the materials and instructions sent by the college included many words I didn’t understand. After a few hours of translating, my head was spinning with all I had to do. I needed to take a Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL) and the SAT. I also needed to send a certified translation of my high school transcripts. The application deadline was in April. I was not even going to get my high school diploma until June. Suddenly, everything was moving too fast. I couldn’t keep up. "Maybe, I should postpone this till next year," I thought. We had no money, and I wasn’t even sure I could get accepted. I could attend the University of Zagreb for a year and then transfer the credits. I sent a letter to the admissions officer explaining the situation.

After sending the letter, I went to a branch of the University of Zagreb to get information about the entrance exams. I waited for an hour in a small, crowded room thick with cigarette smoke. Two ladies behind the admissions desk provided meager answers to students’ questions. The women were apparently upset that all these students were wasting their gossip time. Their sharp, terse responses offered no help. Instead, they managed to make us all feel guilty for even asking. Breathing soon became painful. I was forced to give up, having accomplished nothing.

On my way towards the exit, I observed the college students in the hallway. They wore torn jeans and rattled out pretentious phrases. Their eyes were dull. Lifeless smiles were imprinted on their pale faces. Burning cigarette butts between their fingers were their only well-defined feature. I did not know whether to feel pity for them or for myself. Once outside the building, I felt disappointed and humiliated. I had only been there for an hour, and I wondered how I could endure four years. My American college had spoiled me. I wanted the luxury of respect for my desire to learn.

A new letter from the admissions officer in Iowa encouraged me. He asked me to continue my application process and wrote that my high school transcripts could be mailed as soon as I graduated. What was needed at that time were my test results.

I took the TOEFL and SAT at the American School in Zagreb. The results of both tests were sent directly to the university in America. When the admissions officer received them, he called me to offer congratulations. I had done well. I didn’t know whether to be more excited about the news or the fact that I was having a phone conversation in English with a man in America. His voice was the sweetest sound I had ever heard. I no longer doubted that going to school in Iowa was my only hope of becoming a person I wanted to be. With my application almost complete, I needed only one last thing: the money.

My mother joined forces with me in this last, formidable obstacle. She borrowed money from a friend and deposited it in my account so that I could obtain the bank’s confirmation that I had the funds required by the college. However, at the last minute, my mother’s friend decided that he needed his money back. I was sent to withdraw it.

When I returned home from the bank, I found my mother unwrapping our old paintings by Vladimir Kirin, a famous Croatian artist who was deceased. Art appreciation was the last thing on my mind, so I started across the room. "You have to write an ad for the weekend paper." My mother’s words stopped me in my tracks. She had collected Kirin’s work for as long as I could remember and had planned to open an art gallery in the artist’s memory. These paintings meant more than anything to my mother, yet she was prepared to sell them all so that I could live my dream.

We placed the ad and waited for the phone calls. None came. Two weeks later, we ran the ad again. Still, nothing happened.

I suddenly felt afraid. Even though I could see myself walking around the campus of my new college, even though I could visualize my new classrooms and teachers, it was all still just a dream. I felt like I was looking at dissolving fog. The dream world was fading away, revealing the old, gray reality. I was trapped in a "truth" that I could not accept. I became paralyzed as I imagined myself slowly sinking into ignorance and despair. I would become one of those lifeless faces that walked daily to the bus station through the smog-shrouded streets. I would work with people who see no values beyond the few bills in their wallets. The ignorant world threatened to swallow me. Though terrified, I resolved not to yield. I was not just fighting for money; I was fighting for my life. I refused to expect from life only as much as others thought I should expect. I alone was responsible to make the best of my life. I had to continue my fight.

For the first time in my life, I earnestly prayed for myself. I went to church in the early afternoon when I knew nobody would be there. My wooden clogs echoed on the stone floor that led to the main altar. I knelt down and prayed. I prayed for money. I have always thought it was selfish to pray for myself. My prayers had been devoted to my friends, family, and to those who suffered. If God took care of the world, I would be taken care of. Now, I prayed for money, the most selfish thing of all. Full of shame, I kept my eyes steadfastly on the ground. Finally, I gained enough strength to look up at the crucifix. I surrendered completely. I forgot all of my thoughts, and my mind began to flow toward some new space. The pressure dissolved. I felt as if I’d been let out of prison. I was free. My guilt and shame were gone, and my heart was beating with a new force.

In the meantime, my mother continued the search for funds. She called an old friend who owned a jewelry store. He had known me since I was a little girl and bragged that he would do anything for me. He fell silent when he heard my mother’s request. He was sorry that he couldn’t help. He had just invested all of his money in a new project. He tried to comfort my mother. "I would teach her if she were my daughter," he boasted. "School in America. Who does she think she is? She doesn’t need college. A woman shouldn’t be too smart. She can marry either of my two sons. I promise she will have the freedom to go to church whenever she wants. What more could she need?" Struggling to remain civil, my mother thanked him sarcastically and walked away.

Time was slipping by. I had already obtained an U.S. visa, and I had made my airfare reservation. The travel agent found a cheap student rate. Despite strict regulations, she was willing to sell me a one-way ticket. My hopes were raised, but even the low-cost ticket had to be paid for, and there was precious little time.

The same evening, my mother, brother, grandmother, and I gathered in the living room of our small apartment. My brother leaned in the doorway cursing fate. My grandmother tightly held her prayer book, her lips moving slowly. Gloomy silence threatened to break down the walls. My eyes were wide open in a blank stare, yet my mind was buzzing in search of an idea. I remembered walking out of the travel agency. When I pulled open the heavy glass door, my eyes fixed for a moment on the American Express-Visa-Master Card logos. "Mother, what about a credit card?" I asked suddenly. Unlike in America, in Croatia, a credit card is a privilege reserved for the rich. My mother knew an influential officer of a local bank. Could he help us?

Later that summer, I was on flight to America. As the plane ascended into the clouds, my thoughts turned from the quickly disappearing city I was leaving behind towards a different reality.