The Invisible Woman
Santa Clara senior voices frustrations with inclusion on campus
“I was never more hated than when I tried to be honest. Or when, even as just now I’ve tried to articulate exactly what I felt to be the truth. No one was satisfied”
I’ve been part of the Santa Clara community my entire life. Both of my parents are professors here, and they have been since 1999. I was born and raised in Santa Clara. I attended Kids on Campus and grew up in faculty housing, not unlike Dr. Morgan's children.
I learned to walk on the grassy area by the Adobe Lodge, and I learned to swim in the Graham pool—now the Graham courtyard. Many of the people who you may call professors are my stand-in Aunts, Uncles, Grandmothers and Grandfathers. I grew up on this campus.
As a child, I wanted nothing more than to be part of this seemingly enchanted grounds—to be like the “big kids.” Throughout my childhood, Santa Clara represented the existence of family, a place of home and a sense of security. While the family part still rings true, I wish I could say I feel the same about the rest.
My first year, I sat in class almost every day waiting for the moment. The moment where the professor wouldn't call my name while taking attendance because I wasn't on the roster.
“The only reason you got in is because your parents work here,” I would constantly think to myself. “You don’t belong here.”
Today, I recognize these thoughts to be manifestations of imposter syndrome.
With African American students making up 2.8% of the student body as of 2017, I’m hard-pressed to find students who look like me when walking from class to class. The odds I will randomly have a Black professor facilitating my learning are not much better, with full time faculty making up 3.3%, and full time staff constituting 3.4%.
When I stride into class, the first thing I do is look for another friendly Black face. I'm lucky if I can find one. The urge to speak up in class, when I have something to contribute, is immediately met with the compulsion to stay quiet, keep my head down and just get through the day. With just one statement or intonation of my voice, I could be labeled as the “Angry Black Bitch” for the rest of my college career; not only by students, but possibly also by faculty and staff.
When I leave class I am exhausted—drained by the irrational war within my own head, fueled by the environment that I exist in.
When I walk into the Leavey Center for my second practice of the day, I actively remind myself to stand up straight, walk with a purpose and put my game face on. I may see other Black athletes, but the awkward smile or weak “hey...” is as deep as the conversation will get. Even within our community, we lack community.
Black athletes are and always have been an essential part of SCU Athletics. Yet, support for us is lacking. Where was the Athletic DEI community in 2015 when Sanda Bland was murdered? Where is the accountability when Women's Soccer appropriates Black culture by wearing cornrows on game day? Where was the recognition this past year when Women's Rowing had a Black woman break two 20year old records, become the fastest rower in SCU history, and make the U23 National Team?
To them, we are invisible.
But when pictures are needed for an athletic photoshoot, to create an image falsely portraying our schools diversity, you best believe we are on the top of their list. Only then are we hypervisible.
To the general student body, my culture, history and systemic day to day struggles are seemingly nothing but a whimsical afterthought. The students who galavant about, blasting rap at parties, saying the n-word and using African American Vernacular English (AAVE) are the same students furthering a toxic cycle of willful ignorance. They are the same students that make Black, Indigeonous and People of Color (BIPOC) avoid certain frat houses. These are the same students that I have to sit next to in class.
I wish I could say that I was surprised that Saturday morning when I read Dr. Morgan’s tweets. But I was not.
I wish I could say that it was an isolated incident.
But it was not.
I wish I could say that my feelings about SCU are unique.
But they are not.
I recognize that in my time at SCU, there have been moments of light to illuminate the obscurity.
I recognize that there are people here at Santa Clara who help me up when I trip and fall.
I recognize that there are people here at Santa Clara working to create a path, to help us find our way.
But we need more.
We need more than a few moments.
We need more than a helping hand.
We need a new blueprint, a new foundation, concrete resources and a clear road.
Santa Clara, we need you to do better.