It’s Black History Month, and while the campus flyers are out and the panel invites are rolling in, the truth of the matter is this: I carry this identity every single day, not just in February.
Being Black, first-gen, genderqueer (and so many more intersecting identities) at a predominantly white institution is… exhausting, most days. Not just because of what’s said out loud, but because of all the things that aren’t, like the stares when I walk into a classroom and I’m the only Black student there. There’s also the way some professors assume I’m less prepared, or the elevator silence, or even the cautious friendliness that feels more like tolerance than a welcoming energy.
Then there’s the way I’m expected to represent every marginalized identity I hold, as if I’m here not just for myself, but to make the university look good. Like I’m proof the system is working, but the system isn’t built for me. It never was.
Despite all of this, I’m still here, taking up space. I’m still entering and existing in rooms that weren’t designed with me in mind. I’m still turning my presence into something that demands acknowledgment.
Some days, that looks like correcting someone when they mispronounce my name (for the third time). It looks like mentoring other first-gen students through TRIO, or holding space in meetings where I know my voice is the only one speaking from certain perspectives. Some days, it’s just showing up to class when I’d rather disappear, or it’s letting myself rest without guilt, because just existing in this space is already emotionally taxing enough.
Now, let me be clear: being on this campus is not only survival. There’s joy here too. There are moments of deep connection and community, like how my Black friends and I catch each other’s eyes across campus like we’re sharing a secret. The moments that bring me the most comfort are at the student org meetings where we talk about real things, not just what looks good in a brochure, or when dancing with friends in a space that actually feels like home. For me, community is being seen by people who don’t need me to explain myself.
I’ve learned how to advocate for myself over the years because I had to. I’ve had to navigate microaggressions without letting them shrink me, and demand grace for myself, especially when no one else offers it. I’ve learned that it’s okay to be loud, to be soft, and to take up space in whatever way I need to.
So if you’re another Black first-gen student reading this (especially if you’re also queer, also AFAB, also carrying things no one else can see), I want you to know that you’re not too much. You’re not being dramatic. You’re not alone. You don’t need to shrink to survive.
You were always meant to be here. You don’t have to prove your worth to anyone. Your joy, your grief, your anger, and your love, all of it is valid. All of it is sacred. All of it is yours. I hope you know that.
– Toni <3