I recently started writing my dissertation and all I hear in my head is
“finally,” “took you long enough,”and “what’s the point, it’ll be wrong
anyway.” Hence, writing physically and emotionally hurts. Many days I
stare at my computer screen and question myself, everything I’ve
produced, and everything I have yet to produce. Did I research correctly;
have I been in the field too long, did I ask the right questions? But
the main question that continues to haunt me is, why do I think I belong
here? That’s the one that replays over and over, and no, this isn’t
some elaborate self-pitying party I’ve created in my mind. This is based
on a graduate career marked by racism, blatant and subtle, attacks on
my credential, and being accused of being spoon-fed, all of which
insinuate that 1) I don’t belong here and 2) the only reason I am here
is because I got way more help than my white counterparts.
I’m still the lone Black graduate student in the department. Well, as far as I know because, as I said earlier, I’ve been in the field for over a year now. These years of being questioned in more ways than I can list, led to self-isolation from everything graduate school represented while in the field. I contacted my adviser maybe once every other month, sharing the very least with her as possible. By doing this I subconsciously hoped when I start sending chapters the accusation of being spoon-fed would have no basis. Unfortunately, I realize an additional basis for those who constantly question my place in academia is not necessary because the basis is my melanin. Either way, I felt that I had to show I could do this on my own. Forget having a chronic illness and being in a life changing car accident, I had to do it alone, while carrying the expectations of other Black graduate students and the doubts of my white counterparts.
I’m sure many have written me off as another phantom Black graduate student who leaves for fieldwork and drops off the face of the earth. They wouldn’t be wrong, except to the fact that I dropped off the face of the earth when I went to the field. The truth is, I dropped off the face of the earth my fourth year of graduate school. I was tired; tired of constantly defending my existence and research, tired of hearing racist comments exemplified by people thinking I was too stupid to realize how racist the comments were and that they were directed at me, tired of the expectation that I would never finish my degree, tired of being the only one,tired of biting my tongue. Biting my tongue became a ritual: in meetings with committee members, in the student lounge, and in conversations with other students.
My tongue was swollen, bloody, and hanging from a thread before I decided to just stop. I only stepped on campus when I absolutely necessary, for years my office mate probably thought I didn’t exist. I didn’t go to any “diversity” activities, because I was always the token,the evidence that the department was diverse, at the expense of that lone student who became more of a symbol than a person. I just stopped. Slowly my tongue healed, but the scar is there and that scar continues to haunt my writing. It throbs when I get ready to write and replays all of my fears. It’s hard to write in extreme pain and one hundred pound weights on your shoulders.Often I may force out a paragraph or more on good days, but I always have to stop because the voices of those who disapprove have become my own. I’m telling myself, “you’re not good enough, why are you writing, Black people aren’t smart enough and you’re at the bottom of that barrel.” Feeling self-dejected, I stop. How can I write about a Black community empowering themselves in the midst of disaster when I feel so dis-empowered? Nothing will be authentic. My words will be exactly what they expect, not worthy of this cannon they guard so fiercely. Even 700miles away I’m still that shy little black girl with blood dripping out the corner of her mouth.
I recently started writing my dissertation and all I hear in my head is “finally,” “took you long enough,”Writing is increasingly physically and emotionally painful. Many days I stare at my computer screen while questioning myself, everything I’ve produced, and everything I have yet to produce until the tears distort the screen too much. Why does it feel like I don’t belong here? The answer is, because I don’t. Realizing this, I get back to writing and the process starts all over.
I’m still the lone Black graduate student in the department. Well, as far as I know because, as I said earlier, I’ve been in the field for over a year now. These years of being questioned in more ways than I can list, led to self-isolation from everything graduate school represented while in the field. I contacted my adviser maybe once every other month, sharing the very least with her as possible. By doing this I subconsciously hoped when I start sending chapters the accusation of being spoon-fed would have no basis. Unfortunately, I realize an additional basis for those who constantly question my place in academia is not necessary because the basis is my melanin. Either way, I felt that I had to show I could do this on my own. Forget having a chronic illness and being in a life changing car accident, I had to do it alone, while carrying the expectations of other Black graduate students and the doubts of my white counterparts.
I’m sure many have written me off as another phantom Black graduate student who leaves for fieldwork and drops off the face of the earth. They wouldn’t be wrong, except to the fact that I dropped off the face of the earth when I went to the field. The truth is, I dropped off the face of the earth my fourth year of graduate school. I was tired; tired of constantly defending my existence and research, tired of hearing racist comments exemplified by people thinking I was too stupid to realize how racist the comments were and that they were directed at me, tired of the expectation that I would never finish my degree, tired of being the only one,tired of biting my tongue. Biting my tongue became a ritual: in meetings with committee members, in the student lounge, and in conversations with other students.
My tongue was swollen, bloody, and hanging from a thread before I decided to just stop. I only stepped on campus when I absolutely necessary, for years my office mate probably thought I didn’t exist. I didn’t go to any “diversity” activities, because I was always the token,the evidence that the department was diverse, at the expense of that lone student who became more of a symbol than a person. I just stopped. Slowly my tongue healed, but the scar is there and that scar continues to haunt my writing. It throbs when I get ready to write and replays all of my fears. It’s hard to write in extreme pain and one hundred pound weights on your shoulders.Often I may force out a paragraph or more on good days, but I always have to stop because the voices of those who disapprove have become my own. I’m telling myself, “you’re not good enough, why are you writing, Black people aren’t smart enough and you’re at the bottom of that barrel.” Feeling self-dejected, I stop. How can I write about a Black community empowering themselves in the midst of disaster when I feel so dis-empowered? Nothing will be authentic. My words will be exactly what they expect, not worthy of this cannon they guard so fiercely. Even 700miles away I’m still that shy little black girl with blood dripping out the corner of her mouth.
I recently started writing my dissertation and all I hear in my head is “finally,” “took you long enough,”Writing is increasingly physically and emotionally painful. Many days I stare at my computer screen while questioning myself, everything I’ve produced, and everything I have yet to produce until the tears distort the screen too much. Why does it feel like I don’t belong here? The answer is, because I don’t. Realizing this, I get back to writing and the process starts all over.
No comments:
Post a Comment