Praxis: A Writing Center Journal • Vol. 19, No. 1 (2022)
Making and Taking Up Space as a Black Woman at a Predominantly White Institution
Talisha Haltiwanger Morrison
University of Oklahoma
tmhmorrison@ou.edu
My friend Sherri and I (Craig and Haltiwanger Morrison 2021) have been thinking and writing a lot lately about the challenges of being Black women in higher education and how Black women in academia make space and create ways to support one another, helping others navigate the strange and difficult and often oppressive environments of higher education and academia, specifically the environments of predominantly or historically white institutions (PHWI).
I’ve spent pretty much my entire educational career in predominantly white spaces. So, often, being in these spaces does not bother me because I’m used to it. I’ve built up a tolerance or barrier to many of the subtle reminders that I am somewhere I was not meant to be. But then, I reach a point where tolerating leaves me exhausted. I feel drained and weary and have knots of tension in my back and shoulders.
Turns out there’s a downside to increased racial awareness. Reading, writing, and thinking about race so frequently makes it impossible to dismiss subtle microaggressions as harmless or irrelevant to my identity. Incidents such as someone interrupting me, failing to see or acknowledge me, or being afraid of me I might have, in the past, wondered about, trying to determine why it had happened. Now, I attribute these moments to others’ reactions to my embodied identity as a Black woman. For example, once on my way to a meeting with writing center colleagues, I passed a white woman attempting to get into her office. Her arms were full, so she put down her computer and other items to unlock the door. As I approached, she gathered up her things and clutched them to her chest, still trying to unlock the door and sending furtive glances over her shoulder at me as I passed by. In another instance, I stopped by the library cafe to grab lunch. As I exited through the double doors, a white woman entered. She turned to face me, eyes wide, sliding by with her back against the door like a heroine in a horror movie trying to escape from the killer.
These moments, neither of them particularly subtle, demonstrate the things that happen to Black women and other BIPOC folx all the time on PHWI campuses. These moments leave us feeling angry or frustrated or exhausted. They remind us that the spaces we inhabit were not meant for us and that our presence is often viewed as a threat to the comfort of others. These moments often take place “between” the work (really, it’s all work)—on the way to the meeting, while gathering materials for the workshop—and then we are meant to go on as though nothing happened: discuss long-term goals for our centers, deliver the workshop to a mostly white audience with varying degrees of interest in what you’re saying. And Black women at PHWIs do this largely without built-in community support.
I said nothing to the women in either of the above examples. Nothing to inspire their fear, and nothing to confront them and their racism. Some might say that I should have, but the time and energy to engage with people who are not ready to engage are not things I have to waste. Ironically, in the second example described here, I was in the library to pick up books for a workshop I’d been asked to do on racial battle fatigue¹ in higher education.
I’ve spent the entirety of my time in my current position (Director of the OU Writing Center and Assistant Professor of Writing) in the COVID-19 pandemic. The Writing Center is an independent department, reporting directly to the Provost. While this setup has its advantages, it also means I have been more isolated than I would probably be if I were in, for example, the English department. I have met no other pre-tenure faculty (of any race) and almost all of my interactions with other Black employees have been with Black people in professional staff positions. Much of this is due to the pandemic, as I assume that, under different circumstances, many Black faculty might have reached out to me to welcome me to campus if they weren’t busy trying to keep themselves and their students sane.
What’s interesting, however, is that this isolation and lack of interaction with Black faculty also occurred at my former institution. I was in my previous position for two years. During that time, I did not meet any other Black women faculty. Or, I should say that I did not have any substantial meeting with another Black woman faculty member. I had a passing conversation with a tenured Black woman professor who immediately dismissed me upon learning that I was in a non-tenure track position (we do not always look out for one another). I did meet one Black male professor, and I had the opportunity to connect and work with some amazing Black women in professional staff positions. I reached out to several women to collaborate and found support that was gravely lacking elsewhere on campus. I showed up to the meetings with these Black women ready to talk business, and their first question was always, “Are you okay?” They were checking in on me, as a Black woman and as a person. Although I was in a faculty position, my writing center work felt familiar to them as administrative work. Black staff, like Black faculty, are often overlooked and overworked in institutions of higher education (Arday, 2021; Payne & Suddler, 2014), and they could relate to feelings of stress, anxiety, and isolation as Black women on a predominantly white campus. That question that was posed to me, “Are you okay?” is an important one. And I will say that the answer was and is not always, “yes.” I was asked this question out of concern, but also out of knowing how difficult it can be for a Black woman at a PHWI.
I am now at a different institution, and I am fortunate to have inherited a writing center that has a reputation for being one of the more inclusive spaces on campus, where conversations about race and social justice are frequent, and that other offices and departments that serve underrepresented populations want to work with. As Director, I can talk openly about racial justice. I can ground my consultant education curriculum in racial justice and, despite the overwhelmingly conservative culture of the state, not go out of my way to conceal this. I can take up space in a way that works for me. But I am not without worry. As a Black, female, non-tenured faculty member, I cannot be. But, I’m grateful for the Black women and others who are here and helping to create space for me and my work. I hope that I can do the same for others.
While I can say that I am genuinely happy in my new position (I know, odd for an academic) and that I enjoy the work I do each day, I am also exhausted.
At times, I’ve been so tired that I’m almost in tears. Sometimes my immune system is just like “nope,” and I have no choice but to stop. It is the daily strain of inhabiting this space, and, of producing work that I know is intended for a mostly white audience of that cannot fully understand my story.
I want to end this column by returning to the workshop I mentioned before on racial battle fatigue. I ended that workshop by referencing the recently published (Dooley & Douge, 2019) policy statement entitled “The impact of racism on children and adolescent health,” published by the American Academy of Pediatrics. I brought in this perspective because one, I thought it was interesting, and two, because I felt it useful to acknowledge that pain and trauma from racially tense or hostile environments do not start in higher education. Black and brown faculty, staff, and students have preexisting exposure to and consequences from their previous educational and societal experiences. I have not always been okay. Sometimes I have been exhausted or overwhelmed or frustrated or angry. As readers of this piece will know, teaching writing and directing a writing center can both be emotionally draining. My friend Sherri and I (Craig and Haltiwanger Morrison, 2021) have developed some guiding principles for supporting Black women colleagues, including writing center administrators. These principles include accepting and taking opportunities to build community as they arise, particularly in informal ways. We also encourage exercising privilege in a way that acknowledges and advocates for Black women. Finally, we encourage permitting failure. There are so many ways to fail in this work. But we cannot be so afraid of failure, of saying or doing the wrong thing, that we leave Black women in isolation, without support or community.
Notes
1. Term coined by critical race scholar William Smith to describe the psychophysiological symptoms Black men (and later other people of color) experience as a result of living and working in historically white spaces.
Works Cited
Arday, J. (2021). No one can see me cry: understanding mental health issues for Black and minority ethnic staff in higher education. Higher Education. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10734-020-00636-w.
Craig, S. & Talisha Haltiwanger Morrison (2021, September 21). Weaving inclusive communities through Black feminist waymaking [Online Webinar]. CFSHRC “Advancing the Agenda” Series. Virtual. https://tinyurl.com/waymaking2021.
Payne Y. A. & Carl Suddler (2014) Cope, conform, or resist? Functions of a Black American identity at a predominantly white university. Equity & Excellence in Education, 47:3, 385-403, DOI: 10.1080/10665684.2014.933756.