Dreams, Nightmares, and Surviving The Plantation: Lessons from The Ivory Tower

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I used to pray for times like this…to rhyme like this. So, I had to grind like that to shine like this.

While schools of higher education throughout the country wish to forge ahead in implementing equity and discussions of racial bias and systemic oppression, I have found Black women that wish to turn back the clock to click ‘Reject offer of admission’. As disheartening as this is, in addition to this desire for a time machine, obstacles have been plenty while support has been scarce.

As the murder of George Perry Floyd, Jr. unfolded nationwide on May 25, 2020 , America picked up a phone with ‘racism’ on the other line. Since this tragedy, it has been the new buzz. Anti-racism. Diversity. Inclusion. It’s as if the nation forgot its own history, or at least chose to. And in doing so, the nation and institutions of higher education within it continue to leave people of color behind…especially Black women.

Dreams.

The above words are not just lyrics by Philadelphia legend, Meek Mill. Nah. For a lot of us here- Black and Brown students admitted to schools at the cusp of the post-George Floyd era, Black and Brown women weathering the new struggles of academia, and Black and Brown bodies refusing to shrink in boxes the world holds us in- it’s our livelihood. Our dreams. Our survival.

For some of us, it’s our homes, hoods, trauma, PTSD, and caskets that we survive. For others, it’s silence, boundaries, generational exhaustion, surrogate mothers, and fathers who thought money and roofs over our heads were enough. For the lot, it is our skin, police stops, and making it home safe from dark roads where broad stripes and bright stars wave on confederate flags. For us who dared to make it to The Academy? It’s quite possible…we’re surviving all the things. And if we were too quick, some of us thought at the start of our journeys, that academia would save us. That we finally made it out. That now, away from the comfort of small, Baptist churches and local wing spots, we can thrive. But, do we?

Nightmares.

I wish I could say that I did not have nightmares. I wish I could say that I did not deal with contradictory feelings of both love and envy. But, my truth is no different than the truths of many of my peers and many others who have been historically excluded from predominantly white institutions. During my first year, I have been beaten with the words ‘diversity’, ‘anti-racism’, and ‘equity’. In fact, I have sat in the Ivory Towers cringing at the pedagogy. While schools have answered the urgent call for change, I am forced to be on the line enduring lashes of language that further alienates me.

Despite the increase of Black women admitted to graduate programs, we are still victimized by racism, tone-deaf curriculums, and inequitable practices. As I have taken the time to create a personal, liberatory space following my first year, I realize that survival is all academia will ever be for the lot of us. Nightmares and survival. We survive the isolation from families and friends that really don’t know what the hell we go through, but go on to tell us they’re proud anyway. We survive sitting in classes surrounded by faces that don’t look like us but pretend to deem us worthy of taking up space anyway. We survive our own violent ounces of emotions in response to gallons of insensitivity.

We even survive anti-Black treatment from skin folk who ain’t kinfolk. But still. Not more than we survive the lack of faculty concordance and funding with capes the world swears we deserve to take off…but still demands we rise to the rescue, diversity supplements, unpaid work, and authorship. We survive. We survive. We survive. Planting our dreams in incompatible soil, sunlight, and harsh conditions.

We thrive, however, with each other. Community and kinship is critical to our advancement. So, when confronted with the question “What do you need?” Us. We need US.

Hold up, wait a minute…y’all thought I was finished?

While my experiences thus far are acquainting me with The Academy’s historical treachery, I am also fortunate to learn and experience immense self-love and vulnerability. Leaning into strangers needing guidance, mentors who’ve done it before, and being comforted by Black women who continue to endure its violence. We bond together because we have to, to feel seen, protected, looked after, cared for, and granted permission to crack under the sacks of cotton, gaslighting, and exhaustion we experience daily.

We water each other because we have to… to grow here. I imagine I’ll grow out of my own pot when this journey is over. Not because the towers really wants me to, but because somewhere, another Black woman needs me to for her own survival. Because somewhere, someone needs not just my flowers, but my roots. My spring, summer, autumn,…and winter, too.

Sincerely Yours Fully in Bloom,

A

“Some of the most important ideas in Black women’s intellectual history come from the sense of writing across time, of having dialogues with women who grapple with questions of injustice in unfamiliar settings. Without listening to those who came before, how can Black women prepare an intellectual & political space for Black women who will confront future, reconfigured injustices?” (Collins 1998)