Rachelle Quinn in Mellon Park. (Photo by Clare Sheedy/PublicSource)
I graduated from the Art Institute of Pittsburgh in 2009. The student loan debt still haunts me.
First-person essay by Rachelle J. Quinn, PublicSource
When I look back on my childhood, I can hear my mother insisting: “Get your education. Study and get a good job so you don’t struggle like me.” I listened.
My mother worked very hard to support her five children, with little to no help. Looking back, we were always either in poverty, or teetering on the brink. Both of my divorced parents took higher education courses, but neither completed a program. Had my mother finished a degree, our situation might not have been as difficult.
It was imperative I use my talents to do better and pursue something greater.
In 2004, I left my hometown in central New York state to attend college at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh [AIP], a private, for-profit institution. My dream was to pursue photojournalism. Though I was told it may be wiser for me to attend a local community college first, the lure of a bigger city and the desire to break the chains of my parentage were too strong. A friend and I took a bus trip to the city for several days, and upon seeing the beauty and life of Pittsburgh, I was sold.
When I signed the master promissory note for the AIP – a legal document through which student loan borrowers agree to pay back their loans, plus any interest and fees – I was 18 years old. I signed on to attend four courses, four quarterly terms per year, for an expected graduation in under four years, and with student loans estimated to total about $45,000.
The note included housing costs for only three school quarters, and I didn’t realize the remainder of my housing costs weren’t factored into the estimated total. Though I worked part-time for the majority of my schooling, it wasn’t enough to support me financially. I ended up taking on additional student loans to cover my living expenses over the five years it took me to finish.
I had loans “out the wazoo,” as my grandmother might have said.
As a youth, that dollar amount was entirely abstract. It was a concern for a date down the line, the distant future, and it was hard to conceptualize its true weight and meaning. That would be the price to pay for the escape from my hometown — and for the education that would bring my dreams to fruition.
College was no cake-walk. I faced some true challenges. My family lacked the generational knowledge of what it takes to get through a degree program. I now understand I have ADHD, which affected my focus. I was broke and depressed. Like many others, I changed majors. The initial course load was too great, the terms too short. I withdrew from and retook some classes. Each of these factors and mistakes added to my bill.
As I made progress through my program, working toward graduation, I watched as those I started with and met along the way began to drop out. For some, their loans were already too great, and they were unable to borrow more to finish. Others couldn’t manage to pass their classes.
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