When I stepped onto campus, after passing the security checks with posters and markers in tow, I was excited to see other Radford University faculty members. I strolled around taking pictures of the unique and powerful signs faculty had taken time to create. I made my way to where the students had gathered in front of the brick and white column façade of McConnell library. Students of different races clustered in groups. Waiting for the speeches and march to begin. There were also Individual White students standing alone. Physically present as an ally and supporter. One young White student’s t-shirt said, “Why be racist, sexist, homophobic, or transphobic, when you could just be quiet.” Yes, it was a reminder that we are multidimensional beings who encompass many intersections including race, gender, sexual identity, socioeconomic status, etc. We are simply complex. Having multiple layers of minority status’ stacked on top of one another is challenging to carry on your shoulders.
The women’s entire volleyball team was present, each holding a sign for justice and equality:
Silence is Violence.
If you’re tired of hearing about racism, imagine experiencing it.
Black Lives Matter.
Color is not a crime.
Support us when we’re not trending.
All powerful signs lifting up their voices. Demonstrating the desperate need for change. I felt their comradery, their connections with each other, love for each other. They were a team. A racially diverse team that works hard on and off the court to bump. Spike. Win!
Other signs stood out to me. A sign, “To be a negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in RAGE almost most of the time,” carried by three African-American female students holding up their fingers making peace signs. I wondered what these young women had experienced. A tremendous amount of racism. No doubt. Several signs brightly carried familiar slogans, “Say their names,” “No justice. No peace.” Song lyrics were visibly present with one of my favorite songs (Same Love by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis) “No freedom till we’re equal. Damn right I support it.” What was striking to me is that all but one student held their signs with pride. This student was uncomfortable with me taking their picture. This White student explained, as they jumped out of the picture, that their parents had threatened them if they attended the march. This brave student exercised his/her own rights, and was acutely aware of the familial backlash that would occur. Courageous indeed.
I carried a sense of pride and solidarity throughout the march. Proud of Radford University students for standing up for injustice and inequity. For organizing such a well-executed event. For caring themselves with such integrity. Underneath all of this, I felt a sadness. Both of my male African and African-American colleagues could not attend the march because of vulnerable health conditions. COVID has highlighted the disparities that exist related to health care and the vulnerability of people of color. I wished they could be here. To support our students. To lift up their chins and being recognized. To show our students of color that they matter. I carried these two men in my heart as I followed the students marching and shouting a cadence. No justice. No peace.
The background of my thoughts on this issue is a lifetime of challenges and even trauma. My lived experience may be significantly different than other people’s experiences. Certainly my connections to people of color are markedly different. When I was little girl, I lived in North Miami, Florida. If you are familiar with Drake’s song, God’s plan, then you might recognize the lyrics, “I go hard on Southside G. I make sure that North side eats.” Because the video for this song was filmed in Miami, I interpret Drake to mean, he plays hard on South Beach. Yet, he is aware of the struggles in North Miami. That’s where I lived. I witnessed a young African-American male die in front of me when I was three. People administering CPR. All I could see through the crowd was his arm and part of his lower torso. He must have been a teenager or young adult. I could not see his face. When my father and I talk about where we came from, his voice slows down and he pauses. Do you remember that young kid? His unresponsive body flashes before me sometimes. I wanted my hair braided like my little Black girlfriends and at one time, I believed my skin color was the same as my friends. A deep rich brown. I love the smell of coconut lotion.
A shift occurred for me before kindergarten. My mother married a man who was in the air force. We were stationed in Anchorage, Alaska. I loved my native Alaskan dolls with long black hair intertwined with feathers. The dark skin was familiar to me. They were beautiful. I learned a great deal about culture in school and exploring Alaska with my family. My wild hearted nature was drawn to climbing trees, jumping off rocks, and living off the land. I was the epitome of tomboy. Skinned knees. Grass stained clothes. Rocks and roly-polies in my pockets.
We moved to England for several years shortly after Alaska and the culture shock and bullying left me hating being an American. A “Stupid American.” I quickly worked on my language, choice of words, how I addressed my teachers, how I ate, how I spelled words, and how I dressed. We traveled everywhere in Europe and for the first time, I became aware of poverty. I was standing on a corner waiting for the cross walk to change, and I saw a little boy with his mother. Begging. The boy was shoeless and his face was dirty. He was a toddler. I was holding my father’s hand and I was so engrossed. Watching them. When the light changed and my father stepped forward, I was abruptly shaken out of my horrified trance. Stumbling to catch my balance. Physical balance. Emotional balance. Spiritual balance. When I moved back to Florida at the age of 11, I again felt the culture shock of
adjusting and transitioning back to American culture. Acculturation of a White American girl. Working to conform. Ridding myself of the British accent I acquired. I still cross my 7's and catch myself spelling the British way. At 17, I was homeless. The woman who took me in, provided me shelter, and hot showers, was a Black woman. She accepted me. A terrified White girl who needed a home.
My entire education was laced with awareness of other’s who are in some way different from me. Two out of the four college roommates I had were Black. At the master’s and doctoral level multicultural competence was threaded throughout the curriculum. My doctorate program was explicitly focused on counselor multicultural competence and we were challenged and pushed throughout the entire program to examine our beliefs and values, and to connect, and come into contact with “other.”
Maybe because the way I was raised and where I lived impacted my ability to see others beyond the surface. To see them at their core. To notice the microaggressions, overt acts of racism, and discrimination. Hate. Maybe sitting with Black clients who ask me, “When is it going to stop?” with tears rolling down their brown cheeks propelled me to see. Maybe it was talking to a father who was an illegal immigrant working three jobs, begging me, as a school counselor, to help his son get into college. The heartbreaking reality is this: Undocumented students, even if they graduate from a high school in the United States, do not qualify for financial aid or loans through FAFSA. Additionally, these students are charged out of state tuition. Knowing the college costs for a father working three hard labor, low paying jobs still haunts me. This is an example of systemic racism in education. There are many other examples. How schools are funded based on real estate taxes. Poor areas have poor schools and limited resources. Systemic oppression. Course tracking beginning in middle school and sets students up for different high school diplomas. Students of color are less likely to be on the college diploma track. If you’re not college ready with the upper level math courses etc., the climb in terms of higher education, the fastest way towards upward mobility, is an almost impossible climb.
I caught up with one of my students of color after the march a few days later on campus. She was hurt that more faculty from our department were not there. She did notice us. The line of moms. She took stock of the presence of faculty and lack thereof. She took stock of who really gets it. “Who really cares about me.” Cares that because of the color of her skin, she is treated differently. She faces discrimination. Often.
In my Facebook video post after the march, I discussed what I see in my college classrooms in relationship to race. Below is a one former students’ (she is a person of color [POS]) response to my post, Why I supported my student today at the march- The Bigger Picture:
Thank you for representing and taking a stand! It’s crazy because everything you said about POC entering classes is true... i didn’t realize i did that until you mentioned it to be honest! I actually find myself still doing it in the workplace. Now that i look back on it, my university 100 or 150 class was filled with POC and if I’m just looking at myself, i had a pretty decent gpa entering college so i honestly am now wondering if i was Put in that class because I am a person of color, and I was first generation— so i fit the description. I am so glad this March happened on campus, because I’ve experienced racism from professors, peers, and just in general in the city of Radford! But I can honestly say you made me feel comfortable in your class and you ALWAYS tried to Point out the good in people. I’ll never forget one day in class you had everyone turn around and look at me (sitting allllllll the way in the back) and You said “I just want everyone to look at how beautiful her hair is!” & everyone turned around and for a second i was thinking “what in the world has this lady done?! I’m trying to lay low back here!” But then, everyone started to compliment me and each other. I started feeling more noticed each time i walked into that classroom. People who had never spoke to me before, started speaking every day. & now i realize that it was because you noticed the barrier, and wanted to build that connection so i wasn’t just coming in, sitting in the back, and staying to myself. And the same for the others in the classroom. So thank you again for attending in representation of past, current, and future students of color! Appreciate you!
Change is painfully slow. Especially in the face of injustice and inequity. With the convergence of people of color being killed by police being highlighted, the protests and the march at Radford University, the future world my children will live in, and the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, I will commit, for the rest of my life, to work towards equality, justice, and peace.
No Justice. No Peace.
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