Latest / The Good Fight: People Fighting for Justice & Change / Mentoring First-Gen Students: How to Guide Without Taking Over | The Good Fight
Transcript
- You’re sitting across from a young person who has never heard the word 'syllabus' spoken aloud, and you realize with a jolt that your entire childhood was built on rules they don’t know exist. The urge to fix everything is so strong it actually hurts your chest. Let’s get practical for a moment. We often talk about mentorship as if it’s just sharing wisdom, like passing down a family recipe or a favorite book. But when we’re talking about first-generation college students, the work is less about giving advice and more about translating a language they haven’t been taught to speak yet. I remember my first year of nonprofit management, I hired a brilliant young woman who had gotten straight A’s in high school but froze every time an email came from administration. It wasn’t because she didn’t understand the content. It was because she didn’t know the unspoken hierarchy of tone, the way a subject line could signal urgency versus courtesy, or why CC’ing someone felt like an act of aggression rather than inclusion. That is the invisible curriculum. It’s the set of social codes, networking norms, and bureaucratic navigations that middle-class kids absorb by osmosis at dinner tables or through parents who have already walked those halls. For first-gen students, university isn’t just a place of learning; it’s a maze with no map. And when you offer to be their guide, you have to resist the temptation to pull them through the door yourself. That’s the hard part. You want to write the email for them. You want to make the phone call. You want to smooth over every awkward interaction so they never feel the sting of being the outsider. But if you do that, you aren’t mentoring them. You’re parenting them. And parenting creates dependency, while mentoring creates capability. I’ve seen well-meaning mentors fall into the rescue trap time and again. It feels good to be the hero. It feels good to swoop in when a student is struggling with a professor’s office hours or confused about financial aid forms. But here is the quiet truth: every time you solve a problem for them that they are capable of solving themselves, you inadvertently reinforce the idea that they are not competent without you. And that belief is toxic. It keeps them small. It keeps them waiting for permission to take up space. What’s next? Well, next you have to learn how to sit in the discomfort of watching them struggle. It’s uncomfortable. Your instinct will scream at you to intervene. Your grandmotherly side will want to wrap them in a blanket and shield them from the cold wind of academia. But you have to hold back. Instead of offering the solution, offer the scaffolding. Ask questions that help them find their own answers. Say things like, ‘What do you think the best approach here is?’ or ‘Have you considered reaching out to the department advisor?’ Let them formulate the plan. Let them draft the email. Let them send it, even if it’s not perfect. Because perfection is not the goal. Progress is. Competence is built through repetition, not observation. They need to feel the weight of the decision and the relief of the outcome, whether it succeeds or fails. That feeling is what builds confidence. Another huge piece of this is translation. Not just of language, but of culture. First-gen students often come from backgrounds where education is viewed as a duty, a sacrifice, or a transactional investment in the family’s future. On campus, however, education is often framed as self-actualization, exploration, or personal growth. This clash can create profound guilt. They might feel like they are betraying their roots by pursuing interests that don’t have immediate economic returns. They might feel shame about not having the right clothes for a networking event, or not knowing which fork to use at a formal dinner hosted by donors. Your role is to normalize these gaps. Make it clear that not knowing is not a moral failing. It’s just a lack of exposure. When they ask you about something, don’t judge the question. Answer it with grace and detail. Explain why certain norms exist, not just what they are. Help them understand the mechanics behind the manners. When you demystify the arbitrary rules of privilege, you strip them of their power to intimidate. You turn the unknown into the known. And the known is manageable. You are giving them a lens to see the system clearly, so they can choose when to play by its rules and when to bend them. We need to talk about availability. In the age of digital connection, it’s easy to assume that being present means being constantly available via text or quick check-ins. But real mentorship requires structure. It requires boundaries. If you are always available, you become a crutch, not a guide. First-gen students, who may be working multiple jobs or caring for family members, often feel pressure to maximize every second of interaction. They might apologize for taking up your time, or hesitate to reach out because they don’t want to be a burden. Set clear expectations. Define how often you meet. Define the mode of communication. Be consistent. Show up. Even if it’s just twenty minutes once a month, show up fully. Put your phone away. Listen. Make them feel that their time is valued as much as yours. This consistency builds trust. Trust is the foundation of all good work. Without it, they will never share their true fears or failures with you. And without knowing those things, you can’t help them navigate them. Create a safe harbor where vulnerability is allowed, where mistakes are discussed as data points rather than character flaws. Let’s address networking. For many first-gen students, networking feels like selling out or bothering people. They view professional relationships as transactions that require favors in return. You need to reframe this. Networking is not about asking for things. It’s about building genuine human connections based on shared interests and mutual respect. Introduce them to people in your network, but do it carefully. Don’t just send an email saying, ‘Meet this person.’ Prepare both parties. Tell the contact what you admire about the student. Tell the student what to expect from the contact. Follow up afterwards. Debrief. Help them process the interaction. This is where your experience as a strategist comes in. You know how doors open. You know how conversations turn into opportunities. Share that knowledge. Teach them how to follow up, how to express gratitude, how to maintain relationships over time. These are soft skills that have hard impacts. They determine who remembers them when a job opens up. They determine who advocates for them in rooms they weren’t invited to. By teaching them the art of connection, you are giving them a tool that lasts a lifetime. Remember what we said last week about sustainable change over viral moments? Mentorship is the ultimate sustainable change. It’s slow. It’s incremental. It doesn’t get likes or shares. But it changes lives. It shifts trajectories. When you mentor a first-gen student, you are not just helping one person. You are helping their future children. You are helping their community. You are breaking cycles of exclusion that have lasted for generations. It’s a long game. There will be days when you feel like you’re making no progress. Days when they ghost you. Days when they fail a class despite your support. Stay steady. Your presence alone is a message that says, ‘You belong here. You are worthy of this space. Keep going.’ What’s next? Start looking around your own life. Who is the first-gen student in your circle? Maybe it’s your nephew, your niece, a neighbor’s kid, or a young colleague. Reach out. Offer a coffee. Ask them about their goals. Listen. Then, start building that scaffold. One brick at a time. One question at a time. One honest conversation at a time. Take a breath today. Notice the small wins. Celebrate the effort, not just the outcome. You are doing important work, whether you’re mentoring officially or just being kind to someone who needs it. I’m Judy Growney. Until next time, keep fighting the good fight, but remember to rest your hands occasionally. They’ve earned it.