When I was a junior in high school, a classmate who sat next to me in AP U.S. History told me that I needed to be “smart” to get into the University of Maryland. While sitting in the same AP class, this confused me, but I knew why she made this statement because I had been navigating white educational spaces since I was in the 6th grade. This was not the first microaggression that I experienced in these spaces and certainly would not be my last. But in that moment, it reinforced to me that teaching and learning while Black would always be a different experience for people that looked like me. 

I did go on to attend the University of Maryland for undergrad, a school that was ranked 13th by Forbes this year in public universities in our country. An amazing school that had a bustling Black community that I could be a part of, but lacked in Black faculty. While this would have been seemingly disappointing, again, I had been navigating white educational spaces since the 6th grade and had only had one Black teacher from 6th-12th grade. This was the norm I had accepted. But why had I accepted it? 

Learning.

Learning while Black in K-12, as well as at the University of Maryland, meant that I was not simply learning content – I was learning a way of being and living. I learned how to talk in a way that was acceptable to the people around me. How to conform to the standards both physically and mentally. At the time, I thought this learning would keep me safe. That this learning would protect me from being “othered.” But this learning was exhausting. By the time I graduated from Maryland, I was tired, and I was so far removed from who I was as a Black woman. I had spent so much time learning how to navigate the spaces that were not created for me, that my rhetoric for Blackness was rooted in the anti-Blackness that permeates higher education and education as a whole. 

Two months after graduating from Maryland, on a summer August day, Michael Brown was shot and killed by police in a St. Louis suburb. This shifted something in me. I had to learn a hard truth about our country that I already knew, but honestly, did not really know until this moment. What I had learned about Blackness, and what I had internally processed for years in my K-12+ education, was that we (Black people) are not enough. While we may have to work twice as hard to get just a little bit of what our white counterparts have, it still will not be enough. I let this rhetoric sink into my mind and let it control me. But something about this shooting sparked in me a desire to learn something new. I had no idea where that learning journey would take me, but I was angry enough at this situation, in our country, that I knew I wanted something different, not just for myself, but for my people. 

Teaching. 

In September 2014, which would begin my journey of being an educator in Chicago. At the time, I was co-teaching a middle school class in an after-school program in East Garfield Park on Chicago’s West Side. I found home here, literally and figuratively. I built community in this neighborhood and regained a love for my Blackness and for my people. My students taught me how to love the pieces of my Blackness I learned how to stifle in white spaces. I carried with me the anger that I felt from the Michael Brown shooting into my first year in Chicago daily. I wanted to learn how to be the best educator I could be because my students deserved that. 

 I taught in various capacities in this after-school program, moved to education policy, and eventually found my way back to the classroom teaching 8th grade science at a charter school in Fall of 2021. I can look back on all my experiences of teaching (and learning) and say that my students, coworkers, and parents taught me freedom to be me. Freedom to be the Black woman I was meant to be in its fullness. To love the way that I talked, dressed, and even thought. 

Teaching was hard. Very hard. But what made it easier was not only the fact that I was in a predominantly Black school, but had predominantly Black coworkers who I knew understood me and our students. I trusted them to have our students’ best interest in mind, and I knew that I was supported wholeheartedly by these people as well. Again, I felt at home. But again, teaching was hard, and I realized by winter break that this was not what I wanted to do, and I started to explore other employment options. 

Learning, again. 

In the midst of searching for a new job, I found my way back to the Center for Teaching and Learning at DePaul, a department where I had spent my last year as a graduate student working as a graduate assistant. I was grateful to be hired within this department, a place that accepted me when I was a student and was a place that allowed me to grow and make mistakes in my role. 

But the transition from my west side charter school classroom back to DePaul was a difficult one. I realized very early on that I would be in a space of learning again. As a graduate of three predominately white institutions (PWIs), I am not new to being an “only.” The only woman or, more specifically, the only Black woman. I logged into my Zoom meetings, seeing the seas of white faces on my screen, and was struck with a fear that maybe I had not grown enough to learn how to be here without being who I knew myself to be. Could I use my voice here? Would I be heard? Would people see me as simply a diversity hire, not qualified for the role? Would I be able to stand on my own two feet, loud and proud that my Blackness is deserving of being in this space? All of these questions rattled through my mind for my first couple of months in the role, knowing that no one would be able to answer these questions for me or even be able to help me work through these things because I was one of the only. One of two Black women in my department, something that is not unusual at DePaul. 

Student diversity at DePaul, although not yet commensurate with the city of Chicago, is greater than faculty and staff diversity. For example, although 64% of full-time faculty are white, 46% of students were white in Fall 2022. Another point of asymmetry regards Latinx faculty and students, at 7% and 20% respectively. Although the university would like to see this change, the possibility of that occurring without more intentional efforts is very low. It is much easier to diversify the student body because new students are arriving every year. Faculty and staff, on the other hand, remain at the university much longer, many to retirement. 

There is a clear imbalance within faculty and staff, and in order to rectify this imbalance, academic departments will need to create sourcing plans to determine the best placement of their faculty job ads to reach more diverse applicants. They will also need to reach out to HBCUs and other universities with Ph.D. programs in their fields to recruit diverse Ph.D. candidates. Our efforts have to be intentional and if we are, we could accelerate the diversification of our faculty. In the meantime, it will be just as important for current faculty to make it a priority to diversify their curriculums and become more culturally competent.

At the time of writing this, I have been in this role at DePaul for about a year and a half. I have learned a lot in that time, but I have ultimately learned how to stay true to myself. I carry myself as the strong Black woman that I am in every space because I am deserving to be here, in the many ways that I wish undergrad me would have carried herself. I am now continuing to learn how to use my voice. How to advocate for myself and speak my truth. I am willing to challenge my coworkers without fear and accept criticism without taking it personally. All of these skills are not unique to being Black, but when you have been a Black woman in white spaces for so long, you learn how to navigate the world without doing these things. I am now simply learning a new way of thinking and living in a space that is still not created for me.