A friend brought up the connection of higher education and elitism last night.
She reminded me not to be blind to discrimination operating where I am, specifically in the use of grandiose academic language (such as the prison industrial complex). That these terms cloak racism and muddle the issues, as well as make higher education an elitist institution where certain people can participate and how, in that way, we can all be carriers of white supremacy and elitism.
Her words weren’t new, but they caught me off guard last night.
And I would like to leave my thoughts here as I process.
They’re scattered and in some places undeveloped. Bear with me 🙂
Truly my race is not anything I let anyone forget, though they may want to.
I have been privy to conversations about black youth that made me go home and sob, wondering if I would every truly fit into this world of higher education.
Wondering how they saw me behind my back.
Each time, I would speak up and call a student out on her use of the word monster when describing a fourteen-year-old gang member or when someone else said that previous delinquents shouldn’t attend a mainstream school and that school in a juvenile detention center for these student would be safer….
All the while hearing their use of they and them.
Sitting down in the back thinking we and us.
And so that brings me back to the discussion we had: how can I be a carrier of white supremacy and elitism as a black woman in higher education?
Easy, you may think…
I am black first…and then a student, second.
Someone once said that elitism in the black community is likened to people on a slave ship saying they got better seats.
You’re still on the slave ship.
While I think this quote is a bit over exaggerated (there are certain privileges I am given as a woman with M.A. behind my name), it brings up an important point.
No matter where I am on this higher education journey, I am still black.
I will still be slammed to the ground by the police like any other racially profiled black person (e.g. ASU professor Dr. Ersula Ore stopped for jaywalking on campus).
While I undoubtedly have been a carrier of white supremacy at points in my life, like a person who cares the sickle cell trait, I think it takes an additional gene.
I have a seat at this table of higher education and I can talk the talk (using big words) and walk the walk (dressing up in the nicest of suits for an interview), but my place always comes with an eject seat just in case I become too loud, angry, or aggressive.
I am always in fear that my grade will be lowered or I will face disciplinary action.
And it’s not all in my head. I got a B on my final because the teacher felt that I did not fully explain race and racism so that everyone completely understood before delving into the program I proposed…that I made too many assumptions of what people knew.
Yet the instructions for the assignment said to assume that a fellow classmate was reading the paper.
It hurt my heart to know that the teacher did not expect people to understand why I was writing my paper and why I developed the program. That while my program was given high marks, my justification for the program was lacking because I did not provide enough background for my classmates.
To be honest, she is probably right.
Black studies are offered as an elective and not a requirement.
Yet, it’s a lived reality for me so I often forget that some people never stop to think about it.
I could never stop, no matter how many letters and positions are behind my name.
And I may have notebooks filled with academic jargon and racist ideologies, but I would like to think that my political presence and academic contributions begin conversations that questioned previously held notions.
That for too long black students have not been in the room during discussions on the wellbeing of our brothers and sisters…
That me as well as other black scholars are bodies of resistance and carriers of change.
That while I write about black child development in the language learned by the oppressors, the way in which I redefine and challenge those same words is a strategy of resistance in that I am redefining and reconfiguring notions of race and gender held for years?
A final example before I go…
I refused to use the term “at risk” or “help” in my thesis.
I believed it ascribed to deficit language and assumed that I had something to give to someone, when they had just as much to give to me.
So every time I wrote about issues faced by black youth, it sounded something like this:
Black children and adolescents in America are situated within a more vulnerable ecological context than their white counterparts due to a persistent gap in wealth (Centers for Disease Control & Prevention, 2011), a high poverty rate (American Psychological Association, 2011), disadvantaged access to resources, overrepresentation in the prison system (Alexander, 2013), and a host of other factors that perpetuate structural oppression and serve as barriers to achievement.
I refused to juxtapose at risk and black together as if they were intrinsically tied.
Without explaining the systems in place.
But I still lay up at night, tossing and turning…and evaluating my place in the field of higher education.
How my voice comes across.
Being black and being a student is emotionally depleting.
But I will never leave the table.
“Fix your face!”
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“Are you done being sad now?”
are said more often than:
“Don’t worry about the mascara, beautiful. Let those feelings in. Let’s work through them, together.
“He was important to you and he hurt you, I am so sorry. What you feel is valid and important.”
“Girl, pleaseeeee come over here so I can give you a big hug and let your shoulder rest on mine”
“There is no time limit on healing. You do not have to feel like you are taking too long to heal.”
“Want to walk to the counseling center together? Maybe we could schedule a session at the same time because I could always use a listening ear”
If you struggling right now, please know that it does not make you weak or pathetic. Read that again. Please.
No life is without struggle.
And some struggles affect us so deeply that we feel as if we can no longer function.
And that struggle doesn’t have to be about anything.
Often, it can just be a feeling.
A feeling of sadness that never leaves…
That makes us want to end our time here on Earth, because we feel worthless, a burden, or unimportant.
I am going to say the following words and I hope you believe it because they come from the deepest parts of my heart.
You are a woman of great worth.
You are not a burden, but a privilege to be around.
You are important.
Your presence, in whatever state you’re in (sweatpants, hair tied, tear stained eyes) is enough.
Black women, da mules of the universe, are expected to be so strong that we have pathologized sadness.
You don’t have to act a certain way when you’re around me.
Sunday doesn’t have to be a day spent fearing Monday.
Sunday is a day in and of itself.
Sundays in Jamaica Plains became my favorite day of the week.
A day spent resting, praying, laughing, hugging, and studying late into the night with my best friend.
When we worry so much about the day after, we forget that we have Sunday. Do something for yourself on Sunday- make it soulful & soothing.
(Image drawn by the The SketchKu Project)
Check something off your to do list but try not to spend too much of today preparing for tomorrow’s work or school day.
There are TWO days in the weekend.
Don’t let anxiety make it one.
Spend some part of today “off” and away from thinking about events that pertain to Monday through Friday.
I know you have homework or you can’t help it, but try just for a little bit. Do something that makes you smile.
Your smile is an act more important than crying through more studying after your brain says enough. Your smile is more important than putting the final touches on a presentation if in the process it causes you great stress.
Try not to say yes to something that translates to saying no to yourself.