I was born in Pahokee, Florida, a poor migrant community, located on the southeastern shore of Lake Okeechobee. It was a small rural community, populated by black and white residents, who understood their place in society and rarely, if ever, strayed outside their prescribed roles. Like most of the black families in Pahokee, our weekends and summers were spent picking beans and other cash crops in order to survive.

In 1964 as a high school junior, I joined legions of people around the country engaged in various acts of civil defiance. I forged my mother’s signature on a form allowing me to transfer to the town’s all white high school–Pahokee High. At 16, I officially (and unwittingly) joined the civil rights movement.

As a high school junior, I certainly could not have imagined where that journey would lead me. I gave no thought to the fact that I had just challenged the status quo. Honestly speaking, I wanted only to see if the white students, like me, also used the same old, outdated and tattered textbooks I knew throughout my schooling. I remember how I felt each time I opened one of my school books and the pages fell out. That feeling still stings. With each turn of a tattered page, I felt as if I didn’t matter, that it wasn’t important to anyone, whether I could decipher the fading words on those pages or not. On my first day in the white high school, I learned two things – they had brand new books and my life would forever be altered because of that fact.

During my first week at the white high school, administrators discovered that several of the students had forged their parents’ signatures on the transfer forms. Their solution was that we would all return to East Lake and our parents wouldn’t be informed about what we had done. During that first week the black students had been threatened, cursed, kicked, spat on, and called every name but our own, so the prospect of returning to our old school was enticing. I had a bigger plan, however, and with my head held high, I politely said thanks but no thanks. They called my mom.

Looking back, I am amazed that I had such a thirst for knowledge and a willingness to fight for it. In spite of the risks and uncertainty, I remained steadfast and braved my entire senior year alone, never making one new white friend.

On June 3, 1966, I became the first member of my family to receive a high school diploma, an achievement for a child born to two uneducated sharecroppers and the great-greatgranddaughter of slaves. I continued my education by enrolling in Palm Beach Community College.

My intended major was business administration, but during my first term, a white professor, perhaps reeling from the educational gains made by blacks during the mid-1960s, looked at me as I entered the classroom and told me that I would fail his class. Little did I know that he meant exactly what he said-he did everything he could to ensure my failure. Despite having completed all of the assignments, my final grade was a D. Since this was a core course, and he was the only instructor assigned to teach this course, I knew I had to devise a new plan. I could either drop out of college and return to the fields or I could stay. On May 7, 1969 I received my AA degree.

In 1971, I resumed my studies at Florida Atlantic University’s Miami campus. Florida International University opened in 1972, and the FAU campus closed prior to the start of the 1973 summer session. I needed 33 credits to complete my bachelor’s degree so I grudgingly transferred to FIU. In March 1974 I received my Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology/Anthropology.

After graduation, I attempted to get a job at FIU. I visited the Personnel Office only to be told, time and again, that there were no openings. I could not believe what was happening. I had a college degree and could not get a job.

One day, and by pure chance, I stumbled across then-FIU President Charles Perry conducting an open forum on the second floor of the Primera Casa building. I inquired as to whether or not FIU discriminated against blacks. He assured me that that was not the case and instructed me to see the personnel representative at the forum-the very person who had rebuffed me each and every time I visited the Personnel Office. I was hired that same day in the Office of Institutional Research. Less than five months later, the position was made permanent.

Still not satisfied, I continued my educational pursuits, receiving three additional degrees, two masters (1977 and 1996) and a doctorate (2000) in sociology.

In my journey, mentors – old and young, black and white, and everything in between – have provided me with support and direction. They inspire me to remember the 16-year-old girl who defied the norms of the day and continue to guide me along this ever-evolving adventure. In 1997, one of my dearest mentors was diagnosed with cancer. This mentor was also my boss and she was gravely ill – only I did not know how ill. I never had the chance to thank her for everything, including her confidence that I could lead the office in her absence. Ready or not, I decided to step up to the plate. I applied for the position, and in 1999 was appointed Director of the Office of Equal Opportunity Programs.

It’s been more than 40 years since I made the decision that education mattered. I’m still learning new things, only now I’m teaching another generation that they, too, matter. Every time I buy a new book I stare at the crisp words on each page. I admire the book’s spine. I think back to that 16-year-old girl, and I smile.

Bennie Osborne, Ph.D., is director of the Office of Equal Opportunity Programs at Florida International University.