I'm Gonzalo "Pancho" Saucedo, a Rio Hondo student and worker.  I'm homeless, formerly incarcerated, and queer.

Health Science and Nursing Dean, Katherin Brandt, unfairly rejected my request to continue in the program and retake Pharmacology 2, which I did not pass the spring '25 semester (74% when I needed 74.5).  I previously did not pass Pharmacology 1, but that grade was later reclassified as an EW (excused withdrawal) by a Rio Hondo counselor because of my homelessness and poverty struggles.  The point of EWs is so that your performance in that class is excused and the grade permanently removed because of your circumstances that semester.  So, currently, in my history in the program, my only non-passing marks are one EW and one D.  According to the section on readmission in the current handbook I should be allowed to rejoin the program:

"HSN Division allows for one opportunity for readmission into a HSN course after failure from any program course.  Any student who fails two or more HSN courses for any program will be ineligible for readmission to that program...  A student can withdraw from any HSN course and be eligible for readmission without penalty pending space availability.  Any student who withdraws twice from a program will be ineligible for readmission to that program."

Dr. Brandt is creatively interpreting the word "withdraw" instead using the definition most people on campus interpret it as (a transcript W).  It doesn't make sense as to why the handbook distinguishes different understandings and rules for "failing" and "withdrawing" if the terms could be interchangeable.

She is counting my EW as a withdrawal (more valid, still not right).

I fractured my elbow in an accidental fall before Med/Surg II started Spring '25 and the dean required that I drop the class because of liability issues with the attached clinical training (dropped 1st day with no W or grade).  She's counting that as a withdrawal, a clean drop before the class started, mandated by her.

I nearly didn't pass the Maternity/Newborn class, but I passed after the instructor agreed to change my grade.  The dean's counting that as not passing.

She says all three instances above each count as a withdrawal for three in total, when technically only one is a true transcript withdrawal and one is a failure.  Even if “withdrawal” doesn’t mean a transcript W specifically, how can you say I withdrew from classes I finished?  The handbook says you’re ineligible to return if you have two withdrawals and ineligible if you have two failures.  I have one of each, which the handbook does not say makes me ineligible.  According to Dr. Brandt, she would allow me to stay if the policy allows it and her hands are just tied.  The dean weaponized the policy to purge me from the program, treating me like a repeat offender who had struck out.  It wasn’t just a bureaucratic decision, it was personal, a judgment on my worthiness to become a nurse.  Dean Brandt’s distorted interpretation of “withdrawals” treated my hardships as academic crimes.  To her, I am not a student who has overcome homelessness or a future nurse with valuable lived experience, just a problem to be eliminated from their pristine statistics.

Additionally, when I nearly didn’t pass Maternity/Newborn, I met before the grade was final to discuss the scenario in which I failed with Dr. Brandt.  If I had failed, I would have the one EW and the one failure.  Dr. Brandt decided in that instance when I hypothetically would have had the same transcript “strikes” against me as I do now that she would allow me to retake Maternity/Newborn if I failed.  I’m in the exact same situation now, since I actually passed Maternity/Newborn, but at this point, Dr. Brandt is tired of seeing me in her office and has decided to wield her power differently this time.  Another note is that I received four scholarship letters of recommendation, each from a different nursing instructor, in my time in the program.

Río advertises support for students like me, those who’ve been arrested, who struggle with housing, who live at the intersections of marginalized identities.  The Student Equity Plan vows to “mitigate disproportionate impact on students” and “coordinate interventions and services for students at risk of academic progress or probation.”  They claim they won’t let people fall through the cracks.  What I lived through in the ADN (Associate Degree in Nursing-RN) program leading to my removal tells a far different story, one of punishment and exclusion.  Río is a system that reproduces carceral and capitalist hierarchies and I call to action every Río Hondo student, especially my fellow future abolitionist nurses.

As a person who has survived incarceration and homelessness, I see nursing as a path to heal my community and myself.  Unexpected burdens quickly piled on, revealing a program designed to weed out those like me.  The financial strain hit immediately.  One semester, we were blindsided on the first day of class by a mandatory $600 digital textbook rental.  There were other mandatory program fees, such as uniforms and equipment.  It feels like the program expects every student to have excess time and money.  Each new surprise cost or extra task sent a clear message about who the program was built for.  Students with financial cushions, supportive families, stable housing – they could manage.  For me, every “extra” was a potential crisis.

I carried into the classroom the trauma of incarceration and the daily reality of being queer and housing-insecure.  Yet, I don’t see that reality reflected or respected by those in power.  In subtle ways, I was made to feel that I didn’t belong.  A comment here, a dismissive tone there.  The cultural disconnect and lack of representation weighed on me.

From day one, the program made it clear: not everyone would make it to graduation.  They called it rigor, presenting the nursing program as an almost elite boot camp.  On paper, that sounds reasonable.  Nursing is a tough job, lives are on the line.  But the way rigor was enforced felt inequitable and punitive.  There was almost pride in how high the attrition rate could be.  We were warned: if we struggled to keep up, we could be “cut from the program.”  I understood the need for standards, but where was the understanding for context?

My peers who have the luxury of only focusing on school often excel, while those of us juggling work, family, or in my case survival, are constantly on the brink.  I work 20 hours a week for the Education Justice Programs on campus.  Rigor should not mean exclusion, but that’s what I feel.

We aren’t being nurtured into competent nurses; we were being tested, constantly, mercilessly. And the tests weren’t just academic. They were tests of how much stress and injustice one could endure. I saw a classmate with a documented disability fight for basic accommodations.  Quiet forms of ableism pervade the program.  Instructors are routinely late to class or clinical training without consequence, yet a student faces failure in the same situation.  These policies aren’t about maintaining quality, they’re about maintaining power and control.  It feels like a microcosm of the carceral state.  Rules over empathy, discipline over support, and a hierarchy that demands obedience.

Río Hondo’s nursing program was recently ranked 13th in California based on its high NCLEX pass rates.  They even boasted a 100% NCLEX pass rate for two years straight.  This requires a ruthless removal of anyone who might pull the numbers down.  Maintaining a perfect pass rate becomes easier when you drive out students facing challenges, effectively ensuring only the most resourced and supported make it to the end.  It’s a perverse incentive of the system.  They get to appear excellent, and Dr. Brandt gets to bask in accolades, while students like me are left devastated, our dreams deferred.  This is how capitalist metrics and reputations can override human reality, the opposite of what an educational institution devoted to equity should do.

Río Hondo College loves to market its commitment to equity and student success.  The administration speaks in lofty terms about “diversity, equity, and inclusion.”  In fact, the college’s official plans explicitly state goals to support marginalized students and “coordinate interventions” for those at risk.  Where was my intervention?  All I found was exploitation of my labor and identity when it was convenient, and expulsion when I no longer fit their image.

Think about it: as a formerly incarcerated, queer, Latinx student, I was exactly the kind of “success story” they like to put on brochures, at first.  I overcame the odds, I worked hard, I even participated in campus programs for re-entry students.  The college no doubt would count me as evidence of their good work, until I needed them to uphold those values in practice.  When I was struggling with finances, with injury, with mental health under extreme stress, the institution’s carceral logic kicked in.  Rather than extend support, they tightened the vise.  Rather than “mitigate disproportionate impact,” they exacerbated it by penalizing me for circumstances largely beyond my control.  Rather than treat me as a whole person worthy of investment, they treated me as a liability to be removed.

They boast about “fueling the local economy” with healthcare graduates, but they are willing to throw away a ready-and-willing future nurse who will serve the community, just because I didn’t fit their cookie-cutter timeline.  This is what capitalism in education looks like.  Human outcomes be damned, so long as the metrics and funding keep flowing.

And let’s not ignore the broader context of power.  Nursing as a field has historically excluded marginalized people and enforced hierarchical, military-like discipline in its training.  Río Hondo’s program is no exception in replicating those hierarchies.  The fact that nearly all the gatekeepers (faculty and administrators) align with the status quo is not a coincidence.  When I raised concerns, I was seen as trouble.  When I struggled, I was seen as disposable.  It’s the same logic that pervades our society at large: those on the margins are expected to pull themselves up without complaint, and if they falter, the system is quick to discard them and blame them for it.  It’s a vicious cycle of oppression that colleges like Río Hondo say they want to break, yet actively perpetuate behind closed doors.

My story is not just mine – it’s the story of every student who has been chewed up and spit out by an educational system that operates like a prison warden.  We must demand better.

To my fellow students, especially those who, like me, have lived lives at the rough edges of society, know that you are not alone.  If you are a future nurse, or whatever your field, and you feel the system is rigged against you, it’s because it often is.  But remember, we have power when we stand together.  The nursing program tried to isolate and silence me, to make me feel like I failed.  In truth, they failed us.  They failed every value of equity and compassion they claim to uphold.  We do not have to accept their definition of rigor or excellence.  Our excellence will be in our solidarity, in refusing to leave any of our peers behind.

Imagine a truly abolitionist approach to nursing education, one that doesn’t mimic the jailer, but instead embodies the healer.  Abolitionist, anarchist-communist principles tell us that care should replace punishment, that hierarchies can be dismantled in favor of mutual aid.  What if our nursing program applied those principles?  Instead of cutting out students who struggle, it would rally around them so that we all graduate together as competent nurses dedicated to our communities.  Instead of hiding behind bureaucratic policy, it would center human needs and context.  This is the vision of nursing education and education in general that we must fight for.

To the administration and Dean Brandt, you’ve ignited in me an even fiercer drive to advocate for change.  I challenge you to look at my case and ask yourselves what it says about your values.  All the diversity and equity statements mean nothing if your actions push out the very students you claim to serve.  End the zero-tolerance mentality.  End the exploitation of student labor and money.  Invest in your marginalized students not just with words, but with material support.  Until you do, we see through the hypocrisy.

Finally, to the future abolitionist nurses reading this, carry this fire with you.  Whether at Río or other programs, remember that every unjust rule, every oppressive practice in our education can be challenged and changed.  Let’s build a healthcare future where nurses are trained not just in clinical skills, but in solidarity, empathy, and radical inclusivity.  My journey has been full of pain, but I choose to transform that pain into power shared with all of you.

I may be one student against a system, but together we are a force.  My story is an appeal and a warning: Río Hondo College, live up to your promises or expect your students to rise up and demand the justice we deserve.  I’m still here fighting for myself, for those who will come after me, and for the soul of a nursing program that could truly serve the people instead of the system.  Education should be liberatory.  That is the hill I stand on, and I invite you to stand with me.

In solidarity,

Pancho

 

This narrative reflects my personal experiences and interpretations as a student at Rio Hondo College. All statements are made in good faith and based on firsthand knowledge, official documents, and publicly available information.