The War on Diversity

Please Make it Stop

Diversity offices and efforts in Corporate America and college campuses have been under attack from the political right. This week, a state ban on DEI offices and initiatives went into effect in Texas. It doesn’t help DEI advocates that on the political left, DEI is derided as window dressing that does nothing but give our institutions cover. Missing from this conversation, however, is the role DEI offices play in student’s lives on the daily. Students in Texas said these offices provided them with assistance, guidance, and advocacy necessary to succeed in school. That was also my experience in medical school. Coming from a Historically Black College/University (HBCU alumni, stand up), where nearly everybody was Black, I felt an added layer of familiarity in our DEI office that made it more than a tool to navigate institutional challenges and professional development at Yale.

Some of my fondest memories from medical school are from there. Almost halfway through my clinical year, an afternoon after didactics, my friends told me to stop by the office because “Linda Jackson (the director) had a question for me.” I arrived, and they were there too, with a cake on the table. Duh, it was my birthday! Linda appeared, playing on her phone the “Oh, Happy Day” audio from my favorite Sister’s Act II scene, which I often hummed when I was in a good mood. I will never forget this.

There are more memories that I will share in longer form someday, but I share this one in particular to illustrate how invested Linda was in my happiness as a student. She and the rest of the staff and faculty in the office created one of the spaces I could claim as home on campus, even when I felt most excluded socially or professionally because of interactions with classmates or residents on the wards.

Advocacy, relatedness, genuine care and concern were some of the key aspects of my experience with our faculty and staff involved in diversity efforts. And I am not the only one. Research has shown that Black university students report this seemingly unique kind of support as contributors to their success, and that they receive it primarily from Black faculty and staff. “Going above and beyond” in their support and advocacy, and “raising the bar” by “believing in them and pushing them to succeed” (when others often expect the least of them and expect them to fail) is how some college students describe their relationships with Black faculty and staff. In some settings, there are barely any Black faculty to play this role for all students (…like medical school). So, much of it is borne by the Black staff in diversity offices, or Black Student Affairs staff who are invested in and committed to making the campus experience more inclusive.

The “above and beyond” nature of the fictive kinship between DEI office staff and Black students could be seen as excessive based on conventional professional boundaries. Indeed, Linda didn’t have to throw me a surprise birthday party in the middle of her work day, or remember niche movie scenes that brought me joy. Black feminist scholars call this “othermothering,” (or otherparenting, though it is labor performed mostly by women, given the gendered nature of student affairs and support staff roles in higher education). In her book Black Feminist Thought, Sociologist and Critical Race Theorist Patricia Hill Collins defines othermothers as “women who assist blood-mothers by sharing mothering responsibilities.” It is a practice that dates back to slavery, when community support was crucial to rear black children, and which continued to influence the role Black women played in supporting black students. One study of Black women student affairs officials highlights how many consider othermothering a core aspect of their professional identity. For instance, one participant says “We’re not only advisors and mentors […] We’re their mothers and their aunties. […] Like, did you eat today? Are you hungry? I’m looking at my desk for a snack, taking them out to get food downstairs in the cafeteria.” This level of engagement with students is not as simply tangible from the outside looking in.

Reflecting back on my time in medical school, between the 2016 presidential election and the too-frequent police killings of unarmed Black men, the news were depressing, and the national political climate shaped discussions in and outside of the classroom. There was what felt like too much debate on how bad racism was in the US. It was a cultural shock, having come of age at Howard University, where everyone stood with the victims of police shootings and other forms of state violence first, and asked questions second. But at least, I could go to Linda’s office with my friends, where we found joy and laughter. The year is now 2024, and the political climate is similarly tense (if not more than it was in 2016), and it may only get worse if we are to believe the current presidential election polls are accurate. In Texas, and soon, likely, beyond Texas, many Black students will no longer have a Linda with an office to run to for comfort, refuge, familiarity or support when campus life makes them feel like strangers who don’t belong. And that sucks.

I don’t pretend writing this story will move those who think of Black students as undeserving and want us gone from prestigious universities to maintain the racial order. But I hope that before adding fuel to the fire, those on the political left who understand the limitations of our current DEI offices will dutifully pause and consider the affective, if seemingly intangible ways they currently serve students who are away from their families, and in some cases, help them remain in, and succeed in school. They should only be improved upon. Not torn apart.