In 1999, we moved to Alpine, Texas. The closest city, Midland, is 165 miles away. My mom felt isolated and defensive in the desert town of 5,000, where most speak, write, and read in English or Spanish.

My dad worked on oil rigs in Venezuela or Indonesia. He did as much as he could when he was home. Bills arrived while he was abroad. He left it to me to write checks for the bills and address payments accordingly.

There was no public transportation in Alpine. She bicycled to get errands done. I accompanied her to the grocery store to help read labels. When it was time to pay, she passed me her checkbook. She whispered to me, “Go to the bathroom so nobody can see you. Write a check for $200 for the food.” Her nervousness rubbed off on me. After filling out the check in the bathroom, I tucked the checkbook into the waistband of my pants, power-walked to our shopping cart, and snuck it into her purse. It felt like we were engaging in illegal activity.

At around age 10, I tried teaching her with my books. We would fight; maybe I wasn’t patient enough. I eventually left it alone. When she needed help with recipes or subtitles, I read aloud for her. My dad and I realized that she might be dyslexic — there had been signs, with how she jumbled some letters and numbers.

Now, my mom tells me that she was ashamed. She wanted to be like the American parents. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could read to you and Omar. But you’re so smart. Everyone tell me you so smart. What do you study again?” It’s hard to not get frustrated at her for not knowing what journalism is after explaining it throughout the years. But how could I be angry or upset? She was robbed of an education for simply being born a girl.