Kyle Dwyer

Prof. Christensen

EDU 280 – 1001

June 18th, 2021

Artifact #1

One of my great grandmothers was born in Indiana, another in Ireland. I am living proof

of America's multiculturalism. Unfortunately for many others, acceptance into the American

fabric has not come as quickly as it has for my family. My paternal grandfather was born in New

York, New York, shortly after his family immigrated from Ireland. My paternal grandmother was

born in Canada to a German family. My father's family often moved around, as many military

families do. My father spent most of his childhood on the

Hawaiian Island of Oahu. At the age of 18, my father

enlisted in the Air Force himself. Shortly after, the Air

Force transferred him from one island to another, from

Oahu, Hawaii to Alconbury, England.

Whereas my father grew up on the island paradise of Oahu, my mother grew up in the

abject poverty of Indiana trailer parks. While my father's childhood was far from the height of

luxury, he grew up within the safe confines of a Hawaiian military base while my mom shared

cups of sprinkles with my uncle for dinner. My mother's childhood was marred by upheaval,

alcoholism, hunger, poverty, and violence. And there were times where she tried to

compensate for that by giving my two sisters and me

more than we probably deserved. My mother, the

daughter of a teen mom, saw her mother battered and struggled with substance abuse before

she eventually married a man in the Air Force. After that, my mother also found herself in the

cycle of constant relocation, leaving Indiana for Florida before moving to Alconbury, England. 

My parents met in England on the Air Force Base located in Alconbury, if it is not clear.

My father was 20, and my mother was 18 when they got married. The Air Force stationed them

in Austin, Texas, and the Azores before landing in Las Vegas

and starting a life. Despite their humble roots, they were

able to pursue opportunities and carve out a life in the

American Middle Class. My mother graduated from UNLV

(University of Nevada-Las Vegas) with a master's degree in

Education while my father became a firefighter. Growing up,

we never went without, but we certainly were not wealthy. 

With some help from her school district connections, my mother got me into Palo Verde

High School, perhaps the most affluent public high school in Clark County. There, I constantly

felt that my family and I were not good enough. That is not to say that I was embarrassed, but I

felt out of place. My home did not compare to those of my friends. Many of my friends lived in

mansions with gated communities while my family lost our home in the great recession. When

other students turned 16, they all got cars. I bought my first car when I was 19. I saw the credit

card bills pile up on the counter and heard the fights about money. Whereas my friends could

go to any school they wanted, it was a foregone conclusion that I was going to UNLV. I realize

that is nothing to be embarrassed about now, but at the time, it seemed like a pretty

unspectacular option when your friends are all discussing their dream schools. Growing up, my
parents frequently discussed money, often in not-so-cordial terms. So, when I got to UNLV, I

was paralyzed by fear trying to choose a major. What could I be good at and free myself from

worrying about money? I feared not having enough. I feared not having a respected job. I

feared becoming a pencil pusher with no autonomy.

There is a common saying that says, "The things we fear

the most have already happened to us." This paralysis led

me out of UNLV and into the hospitality industry, where

all of the things I feared came true.

I started working at the Mandalay Bay front desk when I was 22 years old. Before I knew

it, I was managing room utilization, drafting policies, writing SOPs, and on the verge of getting a

new title. Instead of moving up in my department, I took the advice of a mentor and left to

learn Group Services. My experience in Group Services mirrored my experience at the Front

Desk. I moved up quickly, and within two years of being hired, I became the trainer. I trained

new employees, overhauled the SOPs, crafted lesson plans, and provided feedback to new

employees and managers. Mandalay Bay selected me to be a part of their Hotel Shadowing

Program, a program meant to expose future managers to new mentors, departments, and

management styles. But I ran into a problem I had never experienced before: I was not proud of

the work I was doing. 

I was raised on the value of public service. While I was self-conscious about my family's

lack of wealth as a child, I was always proud to say what my

parents did for a living. I was proud to have a teacher for a

mother and a firefighter for a father. I was not proud to work

for Mandalay Bay. I came to resent my job. I resented the managers who did the ugly bidding of

corporate overlords. I hated the way they treated people. At every turn, the company

seemingly went out of its way to remind employees that they are worthless and replaceable.

They do not respect or value the well-being of their employees. These realizations are what

turned everything around for me. I struggled to understand what I appreciated as an eighteen-

year-old college student fresh out of high school with no real-world experience, but six years of

on-the-job experience allowed me to put my values into perspective. 

When my coworkers struggled to pay the bills while the company made billions, I was

ashamed. When my coworkers struggled to find adequate childcare while the company hosted

events with diamond-crusted cars, I was ashamed. When my aging coworkers could not afford

to retire as I handled million-dollar accounts, I was ashamed. Time and time again, I was

embarrassed to jump through hoops for stockholders and executives that did not know I

existed. I do not want to be part of a system that forces the should-be-retired to get a second

job to make ends meet. I do not want to be a part of a system that won't give you time off if

your grandpa died because bereavement leave is only for immediate family. I do not want to be

part of a system that treats people as if they are disposable and takes advantage of them

whenever possible. I want to do something I am proud of. I want to help people better

themselves. I want to contribute to the common good. I care too much about the people

around me to do anything less. I want to be part of a system that uplifts people instead of

taking advantage of them. I hope to help provide others with the same opportunities that

allowed my family to claw their way into a better life. 

 I am no longer worried about wealth. I appreciate nice things as much as the next

person, but now I am not embarrassed by my family's financial struggles when I look back at my

childhood. I no longer measure myself by the value of the things I possess. I am proud of my

parents' work to provide my sisters and me with whatever we needed. Sure, the burden of

financial stress was always there, but we grew up in Summerlin. We frequently visited our

family friend's cabin in Utah, where we would ride ATVs and fish. We took vacations to San

Francisco, San Diego, Disneyland, Zion, and Yosemite, among other places. It is hard to jet-set

when you are paying for three children and a mortgage, but my mother would always scrape

together as much as she could to have one vacation per year. 

Like many other little boys, I played soccer and t-ball in

local little leagues. Eventually, I started playing basketball. My

sisters did gymnastics and played soccer. In my family, sports

were an essential element of socialization and development.

Most of the things I would consider artifacts are related to

sports. I have memorabilia given to me by my family that I

regard highly, stuff from my childhood like jerseys, cards, pins, and hats that remind me of the

games we attended and the sports I played. While my family had the resources to enroll us in

extracurricular activities, my family does not have much I would consider being an heirloom or

an artifact. Although firmly middle-class now, my family does not have the type of generational

wealth that would have allowed any distant relative to purchase anything worth passing down

other than some photos. 

 My parents had the resources to enroll us in all

sorts of activities. Once my parents realized that sports

were not going to get me to college, they enrolled me in

music lessons. Unfortunately for them, I was not much

better at music than I was at sports. Where I truly thrived

was reading and writing. One of my mother's students

gifted her the first Harry Potter book at the end of my second-grade year. By the end of third

grade, I would read the first four books in the series. I was a voracious reader. I could have

spent hours in Borders if I was allowed. I would often start to read a book in the store and finish

it before dinner. In hindsight, my parents probably should have just taken me to the library

more often. And as it often does, my penchant for reading translated into writing skills.

When I was in seventh grade, I won a state-wide national

writing competition called Do the Write Thing. As a result, I won a

trip to Washington DC, where I met Nevada's then-Congressmen

and Senators. I joined the debate team in high school, wrote for

the school paper, and anchored the daily newscast. However, if

you have ever heard the saying "the whole is greater than the sum

of its parts," my high school career was the opposite. My grades wildly underwhelmed the high

expectations of teachers and family, and they certainly did not match my test scores. My high

school counselors never quite understood why teachers recommended me for AP classes

despite average grades. My entire high school experience is evidence of white privilege. Would

teachers have perceived me differently if I was not white? I would bet quite a bit of money that
teacher expectations would have been quite a bit lower if I were not, and I would have been

written off as disruptive and lazy. I had a history teacher my junior year who told me that, "If

you stopped screwing around, you could be studying for Stanford." Spoiler alert: I did not stop

screwing around. I barely passed my science classes, but I got a perfect score on my science

proficiency (which I do not think exists anymore). In my Junior year, my English teacher had to

give me an extra participation grade so I would not fail the first quarter, but I scored in the top

10% of the country on the writing portion of the SATs. My parents and teachers dragged me

across the finish line, getting me to graduation with a 2.9 GPA. 

Miraculously, on the strength of my SAT scores, entry essays, and my mother's ties to

the school, I got into UNLV. "College will be different," my mother thought. And she was

entirely correct; it was worse! Without my parents dropping me off at school, I rarely went. I

got lost in lecture halls filled with hundreds of other students. Professors did not care if I was

smart. They did not even know who I was. And without the structure of high school, I fizzled

out. 

           Ten years later, thanks to a support system that never stopped believing in me, even

when I stopped believing in myself, I have the opportunity to pursue a college education for a

second time. My journey to this point has certainly been untraditional, but I am seeking a

career that I value with a clearer perspective than when I was eighteen. And I recognize how

much of a privilege that is. For many, the cost of secondary Education is so prohibitive that

some do not even get one chance to pursue it, and here I am making my second attempt.

Whereas I once had selfish fears centered around my status in life, today, I fear for the millions

who are not able to pursue the opportunities I have had in my life. Some of my family members
came to America with nothing, and the ones who were already here did not have much more.

Still, society welcomed my mother and father with open arms, and they used that acceptance

to serve their community. I want to do the same.