I did everything right.
In the summer of 2018, I worked on an intense research project on DACA recipients and spent lots of time looking at graduate programs in rhetoric. I had a table where I’d organize the information I’d find: was I looking at an MA or a PhD? Where was the program? How much funding was typically given? What was the cost of living in that area? Did they have any McNair fellowships? Which faculty was I looking to mentor me?
Then I emailed said faculty. I introduced myself and my research. Sometimes the introduction was easy because I was introducing myself to a colleague of my mentor’s. Sometimes I had only myself to introduce. I told them I’d read their article and had used it in my own work; would they be willing to talk to me about it? Also, I was going to be applying to graduate school soon and I was wondering if they were taking on more students. Most of the time this led to a phone call. And then I’d schedule a follow-up phone call. I wrote thank you notes on stationary and sent them out. Remember this version of me, I was pleading.
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Of course, at the time I did not think I was doing anything right.
I had drafts of writing samples, academic statements of purpose, personal statements, and assistantship application essays by September. I worked and reworked most pieces of application writing up until the day I submitted. Every sentence was typed out with crippling anxiety: I felt like I was lying about who I was and the significance of what I’ve done. And furthermore, was I being presumptuous in applying to these programs? Who the hell did I think I was, applying to schools with low acceptance rates? Applying to work with who many think is the most famous living scholar in the discipline? To work with a rising academic whose work had brought me to tears at a conference? To three PhD’s instead of MAs? To four MA’s instead of just stopping with what I had? Who was I?
Deep down, I did believe I had the right to be doing what I was doing, but I didn’t realize this until after the incident with Jessica*.
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Nobody has simultaneously exhausted, infuriated, and propelled me forward like Jessica. In the Beginning, Jessica and I got along, more or less. Jessica was embarking on her “I want to go to grad school” journey at the same time as I was. I was a McNair Scholar, and was thus on a schedule and was doing things that Jessica wasn’t, like emailing professors and studying for the GRE. Jessica had decided she was only going to apply to the MA program in our school, and so lots of the steps I was taking weren’t necessary for her, but she took my advice anyway. We talked about our struggles. She gave me her phone number so we could text.
But I didn’t text her. I threw her number away, actually. The red flags started coming up almost immediately: Jessica asked me if I ever felt outraged by the lack of female professors in our department. I responded that I was more concerned by only having had one professor of color throughout all my years as a college student. Jessica, a devout vegan, delivered her opinions on food justice and cruelty very decidedly. I told her that most vegetables are harvested by exploited migrant labor; that’s not very “food justice” is it? Jessica responded by asking, “Oh, so just because some people aren’t treated right we shouldn’t care about the animals?” Jessica also had opinions on how possible it is to appropriate Black culture. (Not very). On patriotism. (They make white hoods for opinions like hers, low key just saying). On how pale White skin is just as beautiful as other skin tones. (Again, white hoods).
The last straw came when I was told that she had made the comment that my research, which at the time was briefly looking at the “zero tolerance” policy that has children in cages at the border, wasn’t nearly as important as I thought it was, because I had not thought about the animals we keep in cages. This was only a rumor, but the fact that several people instantly believed this was something Jessica would say said everything.
And so I knew she was privileged and racist, and unwilling to look into any aspect of her privilege or racism. Part of me loved debating her. Because even a year earlier, I never would have dared to talk to a delicate White woman like that. The work of being a McNair Scholar had toughened me up. I liked hearing the slight edge to my voice, the false sense of power. But I did know it was just a false sense. And mostly, I was tired.
That day, it was slow at work. I had time to pick at an application and read a few sentences out loud. I accidentally left a few words out of a sentence and I laughed at myself. “I’m such a dumbass,” I said, “No grad school is going to want me.” When I looked up, I saw Jessica was also laughing. She said it quietly, “You’re probably right,” so only I heard. I’ve never felt regret settle that quick in my chest before. I’d just handed a White woman the opportunity to degrade me. Nobody was on my side: not even myself.
The months passed. Every day, a new comment, a microaggression, a display of power by Jessica. There had been instances before- I’ve been called the Angry Latina in my workplace, for example, and the administration did nothing. When those things happened, I felt powerless. I couldn’t even cry, only lose my breath, watch my hands shake. But this was different. I felt angry. And that anger felt like control. I used to bring up being called the Angry Latina a lot, to remind people what I had been through. And to remind them that I was still angry. I couldn’t say I was mad as hell so I repeated this, so they would feel a fraction of the discomfort I was feeling. Remember this version of me.
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One of our co-workers told me that Jessica and I are running parallel to each other as equals.
This angered me for several reasons. First, Jessica had a single research experience and conference under her belt. I had three separate research projects, spanning 7 conferences.
Second, Jessica’s research had not been as guided as some of mine had been. Jessica writes what she wants and gets the seal of approval. To this day I still hear my mentor’s voice in my head when I write: she asked me to confront my privilege and pushed me and my work so hard there were days it exhausted me to just look at that paper.
And finally, Jessica’s father works for a tech company. I prefer not to speak of my father, but my parents are both immigrants from Mexico- my mother cleans houses for a living. I didn’t have the luxury of having a parent pick up my tuition bill, and my biggest problem is not that my mother doesn’t understand the theories I work with.
I’m not saying I am better than Jessica, because I do admit that she is intelligent enough to appropriate the language of social justice, (she’s more rhetorically saavy than I am, is what I’m saying), she reads complex literature and has genuine critical thinking skills, she is a leader. I’m just saying…Look at all the work I had to do, to catch up to her. It’s work I’m proud of, work that has made me who I am, don’t get me wrong. But I am angry that the White people around us don’t understand the concept of privilege. I am angry because I know it will always, always be like this.
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I told you, in the beginning of this piece of writing, that I did everything right. I say that because I am here.
There’s a box in the garage where I’m putting the new things I’m going to take to my MA program. Remember how I said no grad program would want me? 7 applications: 6 offers, 1 rejection letter. I was a top priority candidate in 4 schools. I owe myself better than that self-deprecating comment. I forgive myself. I give myself permission to move forward, and I pick the offer with the famous rhetorician. The rhetorician that once told my mentor he thinks I’m strong.
It was never just Jessica. It was also the White women who love and protect and empower her, even when they hold the evidence of her racism in their hands. It was also their willingness to shut me out when I tried to talk to them about what working with Jessica, every day, was doing to me. It was also the days, the nights, that the anger wouldn’t let me function. For the first time in my life I found myself so hurt and enraged that I had to breathe, over and over again, to wipe the hot tears from my face and get back to work. It is the understanding that this is racial trauma, it is the knowledge that this is what the rest of my life will be like. There will always be a Jessica in my life. My tiredness and anger are things my ancestors experienced, in different forms, and the generations after me will be just as tired and angry.
This is the version of myself that I remember: Sometimes when I’m left along with my thoughts at night, and all of this resurfaces, I shed a few tears or struggle to sleep. But every morning, I begin again.
*Her name's not actually Jessica. I don't think I even know any Jessicas.
Angry Latina 