Before starting my Ph.D. at the University of Cincinnati, I found myself in a unique position: I had never studied philosophy in a setting around a man or a group of predominantly white people. I was introduced to philosophy in a space where solely Black women attended the courses, and all of my professors were women as well. This was because I attended Spelman College for my undergraduate degree, which is a historically Black and all-women’s college. I never had to experience the typical “know-it-all” chauvinistic male student who always had a point to prove, because, to be honest, the know-it-all student in my undergraduate setting was probably me. Naturally, my environment influenced my interests, as feminist philosophy, philosophy of race, indigenous philosophy, and embodiment all became my primary areas of interest. I knew that my education, which focused on marginalized philosophies, was to my advantage because it gave me a unique perspective on philosophy. Still, it was also intimidating because I was worried that my lack of “classical” philosophical knowledge would put me at a disadvantage compared to my peers.
Needless to say, entering graduate school, I was warned about the male egos, inappropriate comments, and microaggressions I would likely encounter in a predominantly white institution—all things my previous classroom setting was free from. However, even though all the warnings and reassurances that I could get through it were encouraging, as I entered my first year of graduate school, I immediately felt out of place. I don’t think anything could have prepared me for the whiplash that I would experience going from a department where I was able to concentrate almost all of my philosophy courses in feminist philosophy or critical race theory, to taking a class on the philosophy of physics. Transitioning from a space where I always knew I would be understood to one where I felt no one did was incredibly isolating. While I worked hard to maintain a happy demeanor, looking back now, I can recognize how lost I truly was during the first semester of my Ph.D. program. Since I had been lucky to pursue my higher education at Spelman, where I was surrounded by people who looked like me and, for the most part, were able to understand my perspective, the impostor syndrome I began to experience was nearly paralyzing. Like many Black and Brown women often do in predominantly white spaces, I felt burdened with a need to over-explain myself and self-police my actions and behaviors not to be “too much” and to adhere to unspoken norms. While I had previously admired myself for my ability to always maintain a strong sense of self and confidence, for the first time, I felt it begin to slip. There seemed to be an endless list of reasons why I didn’t fit into my Ph.D. program: age, race, gender, philosophical interests, lack of academic experience, and my self-awareness of it all made it impossible to ignore.
Despite these struggles, I never regretted my decision to pursue my Ph.D. Frankly, part of this was because I was going to have these feelings regardless of where I went, which is just the unfortunate reality of academia. However, I found this knowledge slightly reassuring because it reminded me that I wasn’t losing my mind and that my feelings were normal. Ultimately, it was my unwavering passion for doing philosophy that kept me reading and writing, even when I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I reminded myself of the reasons that drew me to philosophy in my sophomore year of college, and how that first intro to philosophy lit a fire inside of me that has only grown stronger over time. As clichéd as it may be, I can also say that things do get better with time. My second semester in graduate school was leaps and bounds less terrifying than the first one, and I slowly became more comfortable expressing myself authentically.
I share my experience for two reasons: the first is to serve as a source of reassurance and relatability for other students who are experiencing something similar to what I have. For those who can relate to my experience, I wish I could provide definitive advice on how to suppress self-doubt or uncertainty, but this is something I am still working on myself. However, I will say that the biggest hurdle I’ve had to overcome was caring less about how I was perceived and just being authentically myself. I could only tolerate so much code-switching before it began to take a toll on me mentally and emotionally. I couldn’t maintain the performance of who I thought I needed to be or the version of myself I thought was the most palatable. Once I was able to do that, my experience in academia became a lot easier. Although I recognize that this can be a lot easier said than done, because it is challenging to be your authentic self if that version of you isn’t one that you think the people around you will understand or accept. For those who can’t relate to my experience, I hope to provide some insight into a different perspective on what it feels like to be a part of academia as an individual who is on the receiving end of microaggressive comments and overall prejudice.
My experience during this first year of graduate school is only one example of the challenges that come with navigating academia as a Black woman. My transition from Spelman to a predominantly white institution was jarring, but it also deepened my resilience and clarified my purpose. To those who share similar struggles, know that your voice matters, even when the environment feels indifferent or hostile. Authenticity, though challenging to prioritize, is a radical act of self-preservation. And to those unfamiliar with this experience, I hope my story highlights the importance of creating inclusive spaces where marginalized scholars can thrive without compromise. Academia is not immune to systemic inequities, but it is also a place where passion and persistence can create space for change.
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