My family, filled with smart, shrewd, and funny people, would shrug their collective shoulders and ask, “What good is college?” Only my mom, who died when I was young, valued education. I knew that because her single ambition for me growing up was that I might marry a man with a degree.

I applied to college only because my high school history teacher told me the place he’d attended on a football scholarship just started accepting female students. He thought maybe I had a shot.

When I told my relatives that I was heading to New Hampshire in 1975, they assumed I was pregnant. Why else would an 18-year-old girl leave the state? “It happened to your cousin,” one aunt whispered as I boarded the bus for White River Junction. “You can always come home.” They were skeptical about what I’d learn in some cold building far away that I couldn’t learn in Brooklyn. What was an education going to get me—except into trouble?

I had no idea what I wanted to do or wanted to be, but I wanted a degree of my own. Revising my mother’s wishes, I didn’t just want to stand next........

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