Alone…Afraid…Anxious…Nervous…Confused…Lost…
By CELESTE MOLINA
Those are all the feelings one might experience when navigating the unfamiliar journey of higher education. For first-generation and migrant students, college can feel like stepping into a world designed for someone else, a world of unspoken rules, invisible barriers, and few people who understand your background or your struggles. As a first-generation college graduate, I know that feeling well.
I remember walking onto the Colorado State University – Pueblo campus for the first time, unsure of whom to ask for help or where even to begin. I carried my family’s hopes on my shoulders but had no roadmap. Then I found the College Assistance Migrant Program (CAMP) and everything changed.
Dra. Victoria Obregon, the program director, held my hand through the process and helped me find my footing. She reminded me that I wasn’t alone, that my experience mattered, and that many others shared my story. CAMP became more than just a program; it was a family. It gave me the sense of belonging and support I didn’t know I needed. Years later, when I returned to work as the recruiter and now the assistant director of CAMP. I found myself on the other side guiding students who were just as lost and hopeful as I once was.
When I first heard that there might be issues with federal funding for CAMP, my heart sank. For months, we lived in uncertainty, waiting for news that could determine the future of our students and our own jobs. We were told we’d have an answer by the end of May. Then May passed. No one had any information on what was going on. When June arrived, I learned that the university provost had secured temporary funding to keep us afloat until August. But if we didn’t hear back by then, that would be the end of our program.
The fear wasn’t just about losing a job. It was about losing a mission. CAMP exists to support students from migrant and seasonal farmworker backgrounds. They are often first-generation, low-income, and navigating systems unfamiliar to them. Without this program, many of them would lose the one space on campus where they are fully seen and supported.
Our impact reaches beyond students as well. Our office operates the High School Equivalency Program (HEP), which helps parents earn GEDs and strengthen their family’s economic stability. These parents, many of whom sacrificed their own education to support their families, come to us with a simple dream — to build a better life for their children.
When the National CAMP/HEP Association sued the U.S. Department of Education over the funding delays, I felt a small spark of hope. During a national Zoom meeting, I saw directors from across the country facing the same uncertainty. They were frustrated, scared, and tired, but they were still fighting. We weren’t alone. This wasn’t just a lawsuit; it was an act of survival for an entire community of educators and students.
Colorado quickly became one of the top states submitting student testimonies to support the case. That made me proud to see our students standing up for themselves and for future generations.
As the weeks passed, I saw the heartbreaking ripple effects of the funding crisis. Programs that had existed for decades began closing their doors leaving friends and colleagues from other institutions suddenly unemployed. I felt grateful that our institution was able to fund us.
Our students were devastated. Many came into my office in tears, asking what would happen if CAMP were to close. They worried not just about losing financial or academic support, but about losing a space where they belonged. CAMP was more than an office; it was home.
This crisis didn’t just impact college students. It affected migrant education programs across the state — programs that support elementary, middle, and high school students. These children were losing mentors, tutors, and advocates. For the first time, I understood what it meant when people say programs like CAMP are expendable. Despite years of proven success, we were being treated as though our students and our work didn’t matter.
As the August 31 deadline approached, my boss and I were informed that if funding didn’t come through, one of us could stay temporarily to advise the remaining students. My supervisor fought hard and at first, it seemed like it had been approved. However, that decision was later reversed. Suddenly, both of us were out. It felt like a betrayal. I believed that the institution supported us, that they understood the vital importance of our work. Instead, it felt like they were telling me that I wasn’t good enough, that someone else, with no experience working with migrant students, could do my job better. That moment shattered something in me. I remembered all the times I’d heard that universities only care about numbers, not people. When I held my termination letter in my hands, I finally understood what that meant.
Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, we received news that we had been funded. We didn’t yet know the full amount, but twhat mattered was that we were going to keep CAMP alive. In total, 73 out of 116 programs around the were funded. It wasn’t everyone, but it was enough to keep the heart of CAMP beating.
The celebration was bittersweet. Thirteen programs were forced to shut down. Among them were several Colorado institutions, Adams State University, Metropolitan State University, BUENO CAMP/HEP, and CSU Fort Collins. Losing them meant that thousands of students would no longer have access to the same support that saved me years ago. Our program became the only remaining CAMP/HEP in the state.
For the meantime, our program has survived to continue providing support to students who come from migrant families who travel from state to state following the crops or are the first in their families to attend college. They struggle financially, academically, and emotionally, in pursuit of a better life.
Our job isn’t just academic advising. It’s mentorship. It’s late-night phone calls. It’s attending family events, translating forms, celebrating birthdays, and comforting those who cry. It’s knowing not just a student’s name, but the names of parents and siblings.
Programs like CAMP and HEP remind students that their background isn’t a disadvantage, it’s a strength. They learn resilience, pride, and a sense of acommunity. Without these programs, many students would fall through the cracks in a system that still fails to see them.
Although our funding has been restored for now, the experience left me with a deeper understanding of how fragile support for underrepresented communities can be. I also learned the importance of advocacy. The national lawsuit, student testimonies, and director collaboration showed what happens when people unite for justice. The fight isn’t over, but it proved that we have power when we speak together.
The uncertainty we face this year reminds me that our work can never be taken for granted. CAMP is more than a program; it is a promise that no student, no matter their background, should have to navigate higher education alone.