Paralegal bachelor degree online

If only I had the money. Or the time. Or the confidence. If only my children were older, or I were young and single. If only I'd stayed in school. That's the way many Black women talk themselves out of pursuing their education goals. But earning a college degree doesn't have to be a pipe dream.

A few decades ago the typical college student was single, young, White and male. Today almost three quarters of America's 13.6 million undergraduates are what the U.S. Department of Education calls nontraditional--for instance, they didn't enroll directly after high school or don't depend upon their parents for support. Women make up the majority. Many work full-time. More than one quarter have children (13.3 percent are single parents). And 39 percent are age 25 and above.

Like community colleges, universities are catching up with the real-life demands of older students, offering support groups, mentors, financial-aid advisers and other programs designed to ensure academic success. And more Black women are taking advantage. We spoke with four sisters who gave it the old college try and, against all odds, earned their degrees. If they could do it, so can you!

ingrid hitchens, 35

FROM TECHNOPHOBE TO ON-LINE ACHIEVER

bY THE TIME SHE REACHED TENTH GRADE, Ingrid Hitchens had had two babies, "hated school" and often cut classes. Eventually the Baltimore native dropped out altogether.

Ingrid's home situation didn't help matters. Her mother suffered from manic-depressive disorder. One sister, Rene, was a drug user who couldn't care for her children. Another sister, Tangier, also had a drug problem, while a brother, Virgil, got caught in gang crossfire and ended up in a wheelchair at age 14.

Though disenchanted with school, Ingrid still thirsted for knowledge. So she enrolled in an alternative-high-school program that let teen parents rotate between working and attending school every two weeks. The schedule suited her, so she stuck with it, and less than a year later, Ingrid earned her GED. Life went smoothly for a while. Ingrid even moved to Los Angeles, where she found a job and a great place to live with a big backyard and slides and swings for her now five kids. But the carefree days didn't last. Her sister Rene, infected with HIV and in poor health, followed her to California with her five kids and another on the way. Her mother, brother and Tangier, also HIV-infected, came, too. Overwhelmed, all Ingrid could think was, I have to go back to Baltimore.

Ingrid returned in September 1994, living in a condemned building (pictured on previous page) before finding a place that could accommodate 11 children (who now range in age from 10 to 20)--one with HIV--and her sister Rene. (Rene later passed away in February 1995.) Ingrid might have remained on public assistance, but new welfare-to-work restrictions spurred her to find a work-study program.

Ingrid landed in a job-skills course at Goodwill Industries, where she struggled to master basic computer skills. "In my inner-city school, we had never seen a computer," she recalls. "I had no idea what 'boot up' meant, and when 'fatal error' flashed on the screen, I thought the computer might blow up."

Ingrid caught on after a few sessions, though, and soon was teaching her classmates. She found temp employment in 1997 at the Community Law Center, where she started as a receptionist and is now a senior paralegal. She quickly became the office's technology maven. Around that time Goodwill was pioneering a partnership with the University of Maryland called Better Opportunities Through Online Education. It offers Iow-income workers a way to get a college education. Ingrid applied and was accepted to the first class.

On-line courses meant Ingrid could pop into class whenever she had time during the week. "I can do schoolwork at one in the morning," says Ingrid, who logs on about two hours a day, doing term papers and other assignments on weekends--when she isn't cleaning offices at night, attending community meetings or attending to the children. "With as many kids as I have, and my work schedule, I could never do this at a regular school," she says. Ingrid intends to pursue a bachelor's degree after she completes her certificate in computer applications this month. Although she has earned a rest, she says she has no plans to kick back: "The learning never stops."

cecelia blanks, 40

FROM WELFARE MOM TO COLLEGE PROFESSOR

aS A SCHOOLGIRL IN GALVESTON, TEXAS, Cecelia Blanks dreamed of college. But her teachers steered her into vocational training. "You know you have to take the SATs and you couldn't do that," she recalls one school counselor saying.

By age 21, Cecelia was married and a mother of two. She and her husband decided to move to Oceanside, California, where he had relatives. But within months the marriage ended and she was on her own.

She turned to public assistance, did housework and retail jobs to pay the rent, and enrolled in every job-raining program she could. But child care gobbled up every dollar she earned. And no matter how many letters or calls to employers Cecelia made, no higher-paying job ever materialized. Frustrated, Cecelia realized she needed more training. "I thought better skills would net me better jobs," she says. Community college offered a way to build a network and her skills.

Cecelia enrolled in MiraCosta College in 1988 to earn an accounting degree. Counselors at the Extended Opportunity Programs and Services (LOPS), a state education program, helped her navigate the financial aid maze and cover tuition. They provided tutors and mentors, discussed requirements and course loads, and even supplied $100 for textbooks she couldn't afford.

While at MiraCosta, Cecelia attended a series of LOPS workshops, where she heard Black professionals describe how they, too, had once been single moms on welfare. They talked about collecting cans and bottles to finance their education, and how they parlayed good grades into scholarships. Hey, I can do that, Cecelia recalls thinking.

She began asking about transfer requirements, choosing California State University, San Marcos--two hours by bus from her Oceanside home--to pursue a bachelor's degree. "I did a lot of homework on those long bus rides," says Cecelia, who had to leave the house by 6:00 A.M. to make her first class. Some days her willpower failed. "I'm quitting! I'm not going another step," she would announce to her peer support group and' school counselors, who encouraged her to "hang in there."

Landing a part-time job on campus as a peer counselor eased her money woes. It also helped her settle on a career. In 1993 she graduated with a major in social science and minors in women's studies and business administration.

Continuing on to earn a master's degree never crossed Cecelia's mind. But one of the LOPS counselors kept broaching the subject and eventually convinced her to apply. "I did it just to shut him up," laughs Cecelia, who beat out hundreds of applicants for one of 18 slots in a one-year master's degree program in counseling at San Diego State University. She graduated in 1994 with an M.A. in education with a focus in counseling.

Now a mother of six, Cecelia counsels students in the LOPS program that pushed her to aim higher. She's also an adjunct professor at Cuyamaca Community College in El Cajon, California. Her course: academic planning. "You can't always control what happens to you in life," Cecelia tells her students, encouraging them to take charge of their own destiny. "You can only change yourself."

cynthia henderson, 50

FROM DROPOUT TO DOCTOR

aS A HIGH-SCHOOL STUDENT IN Chicago during the 1960's, Cynthia Henderson found civil-rights demonstrations and antiwar protests more interesting than schoolwork. "I always liked learning," Cynthia says. "I didn't necessarily enjoy school. Mouthing off used to get me in a lot of trouble." Despite her mother's urging to stay in school, at 16 Cynthia dropped out and got a job. Almost as soon as she landed a bookkeeping position, however, she discovered she didn't even know the basics. To keep that

job--let alone find a better one--she realized she'd have to finish her education.