My high school experience was largely defined by solidifying my desire to address how racism, white supremacy, and anti-Blackness are upheld and carried out by the state and institutions. During my freshman year of high school, on Feb. 26, Trayvon Martin was murdered, and the summer before my senior year, on Aug. 9, Michael Brown was murdered. At that time, I was deciding where to apply for undergrad, and I discovered Washington University in St. Louis. I was immediately captivated. 

Little did I know that I would have to be the one to end my own dream. Nine years later, I would be submitting a withdrawal form to put an abrupt and unceremonious stop to my long-awaited academic journey because of, as I wrote in the withdrawal form, “racism in the political science department I experienced, that went without being adequately addressed.” Before my reason for withdrawal was officially processed, I found myself erased from WashU’s history. My academic profile was already removed from the department website, with my struggles still unanswered by WashU’s political science faculty to this day.

As a high-school senior, I was excited by the possibility of joining a prestigious school in a region with a complex racial history and at the center of a movement that I was deeply involved and personally invested in. 

I applied to WashU and did not expect to get in, especially because my SAT scores were low for the school, so when I found out that I had been accepted, I was beyond thrilled. But then reality set in. My parents told me that they didn’t think it was best for me to attend a school that looked the way it did in an area with obvious racial tension. They were worried I wouldn’t be in an environment that affirmatively supported my Blackness. So I didn’t go to WashU for undergrad. I never forgot that disappointment.

Fast forward to 2020 — in the midst of protesting, organizing, and working a full-time job, I realized that grad school is truly where I wanted to be, so I applied to WashU for a second time, seeking to join the political science graduate program. Again, I was wary that I would not be accepted because of my background, especially as it relates to a lack of methodological training relative to many of the other students showcased in the program. When I found out I was accepted, I was with my favorite person: my grandfather. We were ecstatic. We celebrated my almost unbelievable accomplishment by opening the last bottle of his homemade wine.

Throughout my time at WashU, I have remained committed to why I came here. In my statement of purpose submitted with my application to the program, I wrote, “My interest in political science is personal; as a Black woman in America I have always been motivated to garner a better understanding of Black Americans’ political behavior and efforts to address racial inequality.” 

In line with this, I’ve chosen to be a part of research that prioritizes the St. Louis community and connects to my broader interests in racial inequality. I’ve made genuine connections with local community members who have, frankly, told me that they wish they had met me before I came to WashU — because they would’ve told me not to come, for my own sake. This is the reputation of the Washington University Political Science Department, as well as the broader University, and sadly, the racism and anti-Blackness of this department marred my graduate experience. 

The disconnect between myself and my department became most apparent, ironically, when I needed the most support. I contracted mononucleosis at the beginning of the spring semester in 2022, a month after I had gotten COVID-19. Dealing with the symptoms of this illness, which included debilitating fatigue, necessitated that I advocate for myself to receive accommodations that would allow me to be a successful student. During my recovery, it became evident that this department is a place where Black women who advocate for themselves cause the ultimate discomfort. Because in advocating for myself, it disrupts the facade of objectivity and neutrality the department presents. In reality, this facade serves as a way to maintain an exclusionary status quo. 

Basic requests for accommodations when dealing with my illness, such as completing readings without taking highly structured notes and receiving extensions on completion of some work, were met with swift responses like, “You must not understand the importance of the readings,” and a suggestion that I withdraw from a course — and the insinuation that I was simply being lazy. It’s hard to interpret the behavior of these professors as constructive as opposed to inequitable when considering the pervasive stereotypes surrounding Black people and laziness in the workplace and at school. Interactions such as these left me wondering, would white graduate students receive the same treatment? 

Like many Black people in academia, I continued to experience various microaggressions. Despite what the name suggests, these slights and comments, especially when experienced on a regular basis, have a significant effect on one’s mental health and overall wellbeing. When I confided in a professor about my struggles relating to this issue, they took it as an opportunity to give me some “real talk.” Instead of offering support or solutions, this professor proceeded to say several delegitimizing statements, including: other minority students have been successful in the department in the past; even if I leave, I’ll experience racist microaggressions everywhere I go; and if I am waiting to see if the department will change, I am essentially wasting my time. A practice of complicity pushed and the acknowledgement of these issues without actionable steps provided to remedy them was deeply disturbing to me — so much so that I left the conversation in tears.

In short, when I have highlighted the racism I’ve experienced, the department has continued to respond callously and flat-out refused to acknowledge the issues at stake, in a way that was shameful and spineless. Even another graduate student’s request to address these issues was raised to the department chair and went unanswered. Frankly, my experience has led me to the conclusion that the majority of the faculty and leadership in the Washington University Political Science Department is the embodiment of individuals who Martin Luther King Jr. warned us about in his “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” 

The political science department consists of a “white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice.” This is why I had to leave the program — because, as King also says in this letter, “[l]ukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.” I did not want to be in a place where my presence, work, and values are merely tolerated on a good day.  

I know who I am. I know I don’t want the boundaries of my work or my classroom to be rigid. Rather, I want the bounds of my research and my teaching to be permeable and adaptable in a way that allows my work to move freely between academic settings and community, in a way that is deeply personal, yet rigorous. I refuse to accept that these two dynamics are antithetical. 

When I teach, I want my classroom to be a space that encourages students to think beyond the walls of the room we’re in and to make connections between their work and not just their own lives, but the lives of others that they would otherwise never have exposure to. I believe this is how we impact meaningful change for those who belong to marginalized communities. Not by coming into their spaces and “saving” them, but rather by making our space in academia, and their space out in the world, one. Because truly, the only thing that separates us is walls, structures, and institutions that either actively or passively support our divisions. 

I have shown I know who I am, but the Washington University Political Science Department is having an identity crisis. The disconnect between their words and actions at this time is an insurmountable chasm, and I refuse to let myself fall in because they are unwilling to close the gap.