Preserve Your Presence: NODA Blog

My presence has been the “only” for the majority of my life. I was the only black girl in the majority of my high school classes. I was the only black girl on my soccer team most of the time. That didn’t really change when I went to college. Even in class with more than 100 students, I could still be the only black girl in my college courses. While I was still able to find my community within my predominately white institution (PWI), my PWI’s heightened racial history enhanced the tokenism—particularly as it related to student leadership positions.

As with most PWI’s, the notion of being a student leader had a little different connotation when you were black. You’re not just a student leader, but you’re a black student leader and that holds more weight than I imagined. I shouldn’t have been surprised though. I glorified the black student leaders before me. I looked to them as role models and the epitome of black excellence. Many of them, I still admire today.

At my PWI (like I imagine at many others), you weren’t just a black student leader—you were a representation. Not representation in the “let’s make the university look good” or “let’s show how diverse of a campus we are” fashion, but a representation of what would now be referred to as #BlackExcellence or #ForTheCulture. We knew what it was, what we were doing, and what it meant. It’s hard to explain—but we all knew.

Whether it was acknowledging the “Black Girls Club” (which was actually a thing on my first-year orientation leader team) or running for positions where we knew you’d have to respect our excellence, we represented and we knew it. We embodied #BlackGirlMagic before it had a name. We knew what it meant to not just be an Orientation Leader, but a black Orientation Leader—not just in student government, but being black and holding an elected student government position. And we knew that when we challenged the tradition, we were—in our own way—resisting. Our existence was resistance.

Just as we were inspired, we hoped our leadership inspired others.

But we weren’t just riding our high horse hoping to inspire others. We were letting people know that this was our campus too. It was our home and it could be yours too!

For most students attending college, they are coming from homes where they see people that look like them. If our colleges are also to be their homes, the presence of individuals with marginalized identities matters. With orientation as most students’ first welcome to their new home, how do we remind them that their presence matters?

Many years have passed since I was a student leader, particularly an orientation leader, but I am still in orientation. In my office, I’m not the only; however over time I have struggled with my own presence. Despite how much I used my voice, I felt disregarded. Despite how hard I was working, I felt insignificant. Despite showing up every day, I felt invisible. Not only did I feel like my presence didn’t matter, I felt as if my impact did not matter either. While the how and why are important, they aren’t the point of this narrative.

The point is to acknowledge the correlation between mattering and marginality and how that may impact our students with marginalized identities. The point is to be transparent and authentic in my struggle in order to acknowledge that our students with marginalized identities can also feel these sentiments as they transition to their new homes at our institutions. To assist them with their transition, it is important for professionals with marginalized identities to celebrate our own presence as well as have our presence supported by our colleagues.

In one of my moments of invisibility, an upper-level administrator reminded me that I show up as a black woman every single day—and I am going to bring the perspective of a black woman EVERY DAY. And most importantly, I show up as that black woman EVERY DAY–even when others forget or struggle to understand my perspective.

I was reminded by that administrator how much presences matter and how much I should celebrate my own.

This summer, as often as I could, I cherished moments when I felt that my presence and the presence of other individuals with marginalized identities mattered.

I look back on the moment when…
As I sat at our terrace table with one of our Black orientation leaders, we were approached by a Black mom. Amusingly and buoyantly, she approached us grazing the black side of her hand and said “Oh, perfect! Since it’s just us, I can ask you this and get a straight up answer.” She proceeded to inquire about the opportunities for her daughter to get involved in identity-based organizations such as the Black Student Union and National Pan-Hellenic Council. Our presence in that moment mattered because it created a space when she felt comfortable to voice concerns for her daughter amongst individuals that looked like her daughter.

I felt pride in the moment when…
During another afternoon at the terrace table, I sat with one of our Latina orientation leaders. I listened, without much understanding, as our OL conversed in Spanish with a mom and her daughter. With only the context clue of the open orientation handbook to the meal plan page, I appreciated the comfort this leader created with this family.

I felt uplifted when…
As we concluded orientation, articulating my emotions was distressing and few words brought me solace. However, at our closing summer banquet, one of our Black orientation leaders reassured me that watching me “do the damn thing as a black woman” meant more to them than they had truly expressed during their experience. She hailed that my braids had empowered other black women on the team to embrace braids. Though I didn’t know what I needed to hear, her elevation allowed me to find well-being in my reflections afterward.

I vowed to be more present after…
During my transition, I have learned a lot about the identity based agencies within my institution’s student government and I have been amazed at the level of support provided. As an agency, the Black Student Union operates differently than what I have observed at other institutions. Through my students, I have been able to observe the phenomenal community that the Black Student Union creates, but never stepped inside the community. Following the conclusion of our summer orientation sessions, one of my students invited me to a general body meeting on black versatility. Within minutes of arriving, I was immediately recognized as “the orientation boss”.  While I am not the orientation boss, I acknowledged her intentions and realized that my presence at my institution extended beyond the siloed role I had been playing.

Though it has and does continue to take time, celebrate your presence. While we, as a profession, are struggling to support authenticity—it’s now even more important. Your existence is resistance and your presence is a present.