Profile

About: Hi, I'm Amanda! I'm a Public Health and Plan II major from Coppell, TX. I'm originally from Aguadilla, PR, but I moved to Coppell in 2013. My biggest existential question is which hometown to claim when introducing myself to others. After graduating, I'd like to (eventually) go to medical school.

My top five artists on Spotify this past year were Taylor Swift, Bad Bunny, Lorde, Phoebe Bridgers, and Olivia Rodrigo.

Last year, I spent most of my time working for The Daily Texan, where I worked as a senior news reporter (on the science and research beat!) and then as a news desk editor. It was a true privilege to get to report on how COVID-19 affected the student body — I'm particularly happy I got to talk to students with chronic conditions and share their stories with the UT community.

This year, I'm a 2021 tap for Texas Orange Jackets, along with some of the coolest people I've ever met (some of whom are in the 2023 team). I'm also a new research assistant for Karen Fingerman in the Human Development and Family Sciences department!

I'm always happy to talk about health equity, extended family dynamics, Taylor Swift, and dog shenanigans.

Why I Ride

At times, I find myself drawn to poetry. My paternal grandfather is a poet. His works span so many topics: the moments where he grappled with his own mortality, every pet he’s had, retirement, and so much more. For as long as I can remember, he’s told me I’m meant to be a poet, despite having little evidence to support that claim.

I ride for Abuelo Pai, who fought and won against thyroid cancer and showed me the power of poetry. Because of him, I turned to poetry to express my relationship with cancer.

Before I write, I always read — that’s why I found myself reading accounts of cancer’s devastation from the perspective of both patients and providers. I’ve perused poems in medical journals, Mary Oliver’s poems about her experience with lung cancer, and Audre Lorde’s cancer journals. In these writings, I see the stories of my family’s fight against cancer.

It will soon be the fourth anniversary of Tío Mikey’s liver cancer diagnosis. This has been my first brush with cancer during my adult life. I see the exhaustion in his eyes when he arrives late to a family reunion, after rounds of chemotherapy. I ride for tío Mikey, who loves us so well, despite the immense energy cancer siphons away from him.

I’ve watched my best friend’s mother struggle with breast cancer through her daughter — the worry that comes with surgery and chemotherapy, but also the hope when she buys gifts to celebrate her mom’s last surgery. I ride for Jayashree, for the hope that she will never have to subject her body to more torturous treatment in order to see her children grow up.

This summer, my grandmother was hospitalized. It was terrifying to think about losing my family’s matriarch, who has taken care of us in every way imaginable. This fear was compounded by watching her roommate at the hospital fight against terminal lung cancer and dementia. While she hallucinated at night, she called out for her son, who no longer lived in Puerto Rico. I found myself comforting her too, trying to advocate for her in these moments of extreme vulnerability. I ride for Doña Carmen, and for others forgotten, dehumanized, and betrayed by the healthcare system.

My grandmother’s sister who fought bravely against liver cancer, told me that guanábana, soursop, helped with cancer. I ride for Titi Fran, who embraced the healing power of her land’s fruits alongside conventional treatment and made a young me smile even as she faced dark moments.

I ride for my dad’s cousin and my aunt, both breast cancer survivors. They showed me what it’s like to face terrifying odds and live to tell a story of hope for other women.

Despite the devastation cancer has had on my extended family, we don't talk about it enough. We know it’s there, but the word is not often said outright. Besides riding to amplify the memories and stories of those cancer has touched, I hope Texas 4000 will help open a dialogue in my family about the ways cancer has affected us. This, I hope, will be a way to start to heal the wounds cancer has inflicted and is still inflicting on us.

I also ride for those caretakers who so often suffer in silence. For my abuela, who took care of her mother, brother, and aunt during their last days of battling cancer and other terminal illnesses.

In reading personal accounts of cancer, I saw a common theme. Many survivors remark that we weren’t supposed to exist anyways. I take this to mean that it’s statistically astounding that we exist and live the specific lives we get to live.

As Mary Oliver said in The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, “there is so much to admire, to weep over. And to write music or poems about.” With the time we have, we must admire and weep over and write and feel all we can.