Power Autobiography: Dr. Claudia Canizales aguilar
Dr. Claudia Canizales Aguilar, Founding Partner
It is impossible to write my power autobiography without sharing the source of my power. This “autobiography” highlights my family’s immigration story and the legacy of struggle and perseverance I am committed to upholding as a mom, partner, educator, anti-racist, and member of a larger justice-minded community. In sharing our story, I use power as my family’s ability to act upon and intervene in crucial moments during my schooling experience, which created lasting positive impacts on my educational and life trajectory.
Even at six, I understood that we had done something brave. As the first grandchild of a hardworking family in the mountain range of northern Nicaragua, I was used to the hustle and bustle of the family recycling business, my grandmother’s store, and the general fun of having my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles under one roof. It was the mid-80s, and Nicaragua had been at war for some time. A few months after my birth, the Sandinistas had managed to overthrow the Somoza dictatorship but were now fighting the U.S.-backed Contras to maintain power. Those first few years, regardless of which side you were on, to survive, families had to provide meals and resources to whichever troop showed up at your door. Although thousands of men and women lost their lives in the war, we weren’t directly impacted until the early 80s when my oldest uncle miraculously survived after being struck during combat. Around this time, the word was spreading about the military recruitment of teenage boys and girls. With teenage sons at home, my grandparents planned their permanent exit from Nicaragua. As a small child, no one explained what was happening; all I knew was that my aunts and uncles were slowly disappearing from my life.
My dad, the eldest son, was the only one to graduate from college in Nicaragua and the only one with a family. Often, people ask me why we were the last to flee Nicaragua. The answer lies in understanding a young family man from humble beginnings, disobeying his father’s wishes to join the family business and pursuing his passion for seeking knowledge as an economist. During my dad’s self-discovery, a revolution promised to expand rights and access to all people by overthrowing a dictatorship; this new reality created the possibility of building a life as a professional in his country. Leaving all of this behind and renouncing the power he was slowly building to join the Nicaraguan exodus - was a hard pill to swallow. But that’s just what my parents did. In 1985, we immigrated to the United States and began a new life in the San Francisco Bay Area.
My dad, an intellectual and determined man, let go of his power and instead began to dream for his daughters. In the U.S., regardless of one’s knowledge or talent, undocumented immigrants have limited work opportunities. Name any job in the labor industry, and my dad likely did it: plumber, electrician, janitor, waiter, he did it all. Over and over, I witnessed the humiliation and humbleness that came with being undocumented. I remember the stern and derogatory looks and interrogation at the immigration offices. I remember the “poor you” sentiments when we picked up free food and Christmas gifts. My parents held their heads high with every interaction and proceeded to work and dream.
Eventually, I realized two important things about my parent’s power. First, my mom’s power, although soft-spoken, would be vital for my academic trajectory. Second, my parents' power was never really gone; it was always there, waiting to be activated when needed, and it always made a presence when it came to my sisters and me. I first saw it when, after finishing our first year of “newcomer” school for recent immigrants, we were assigned to a school across the city in Chinatown. My mom met with a San Francisco school board member who facilitated our ability to enroll in our local Spanish Dual Immersion School in the Mission District - Buena Vista. The power popped up again when my parents convinced my principal to allow me to skip the 4th grade due to my high achievement. Their collective power resulted in purchasing a home where, for the first time, we had more than one bedroom to ourselves. With their emerging English and lack of familiarity with the system, my parents' power always appeared at parent-teacher conferences, performances, back-to-school nights, parent workshops, promotions, and many graduations. Despite their physical exhaustion, constant financial concerns, and fear of deportation, their power was relentless.
Eventually, my two sisters and I graduated from the University of California at Berkeley and collectively hold 7 degrees and five credentials. We have all chosen professions in education, not by accident, but because we are a testament to the power that families have and the opportunity that education provides to activate such power.
Often, power is only credited to examples of grand and public achievements. Power is often seen as something that one has or doesn’t have. My family’s story challenges these notions of power. Whenever my parents intervened in our schooling, they helped us build and store power. Despite external perceptions, my parents never yielded their power but held on tight to it and used it strategically and with love.
It would be naïve of me to believe that everyone’s sense of power or opportunity to activate it is the same. My parents had a community network and soft skills (communication, problem-solving, leadership skills, etc.) necessary to plan and achieve the objectives that led them closer to their family vision. As educators, we need to see the power in students who thrive, students who struggle, engaged families, and families we struggle to connect with. As our chosen path, we are responsible for seeing the power and facilitating opportunities for students and families to activate their power as they work towards achieving their goals and vision for their families.
