Diversity Statement

I know what it’s like to be both insider and outsider in education. Growing up, the greatest impact to my educational (and, I expect, most other) experiences has had to do with the intersection of my race and socioeconomic status. My single mother and I were the recipients of state assistance when I was young, and by my teens, we were occasionally homeless. On the other side of the token, however, we were white. And the descendants of somewhat upwardly-mobile white Midwesterners (my grandparents). So while we struggled, we also had some social capital on our side. I was enrolled in Head Start, and received high quality early schooling. My mother knew the importance of reading to me, and did so often. I interacted with plenty of people from middle- and upper-classes. And I attended public school in an exceptionally well-funded area (thus the periodic housing insecurity). I ended up a kid in thrift store clothes with a killer vocabulary. This combination of circumstances positioned me uniquely, sometimes as simultaneous insider and outsider, and sometimes as transitioning between the two.

When, in my mid-twenties, I became mobility-impaired, I was introduced to a new way of moving through my life (and education). As much as we as academics (and as social animals, really) like to think of ourselves as empathetic and intuitive, sometimes there are circumstances to which we must be introduced, intimately, to develop that lens. What previously appeared to me, an outsider to the experiences of limited mobility, as perfectly acceptable, fully accessible, spaces, were then revealed for their shortcomings. Navigating higher education, both in the literal physical sense, as well as the more bureaucratic side of things, took on different meanings from this position. Everything took more time, and tasks and activities that had previously required no planning or additional thought now required both – and in spades. This became greatly discouraging at times. Requests by, and interactions with, people who didn’t “get it” were frustrating and exhausting. People who could relate, or were able to offer any kind of empathy, then, eased my frustrations and energized me.

I mention these experiences to say, in short, that I get it. I have been an outsider and an insider at various times, and in assorted capacities, and as I find myself moving closer to “insider” than “outsider,” I do not forget about these experiences. They are an intimate part of my story, and as I encounter these elements in my students’ own unique stories, they remind me of my commitment to not waste these opportunities from which I have benefitted, and of my drive to be a champion for those students like me (and unlike me) – especially those who haven’t caught the same breaks. In being both insider and outsider, I know the skills and strategies needed for successful navigation of higher education, while also having encountered the kinds of situations that mark the educational experiences of the majority of students today.

This is also to say there are things I do not have the experiential authority to speak to. And I bring that into my pedagogy: “I don’t have this personal experience, just like you may not have x personal experience, but through these theories, methods, and voices, we’ll go on that journey of discovery together.” So while there are plenty of experiences and identities for which I can't speak, as a sociologist, I make it a priority to engage in a lot of listening and, when appropriate, asking. As a graduate student instructor, eager to improve my pedagogical and mentoring methods, I enrolled in “Safe Zone” and other training seminars offered across campus on how best to support students of color, queer students, queer students of color, international students, veterans, and others. I remain keenly concerned with how best to support and lift up students.

There are other ways these goals have made their way into my teaching, of course. One central tenet is the practice of “decolonizing” my syllabus. This includes making sure that at least half of our readings (and other primary materials) come from women, people of color, and queer voices. But dismantling the structures of oppression present within higher education must moreover include reaching out to and lifting up those students who have historically been overlooked or outright denied access. In the new and unfamiliar setting of college, incoming students from traditionally underrepresented backgrounds, especially, don’t necessarily know what it is they need, or what to ask for. A student can’t ask for help with more efficient reading skills, if they don’t realize that this is the reason they’re falling behind in a class. It is incredibly easy for students (especially from historically underserved and undersupported populations, such as students of color, student parents, low-income students, returning students, and students with disabilities) to dismiss their experiences as inherent shortcomings or personal failings, and seeing that as the end of the story. So it is my job to point out those features of navigating higher education for which they may have never even considered seeking help. I approach this in the following way:

(1) I open myself up to my students. “Hey, this was me. These were my experiences.” I recognize that there may be little or no overlap between our stories, save for the broadest sense of coming from a nontraditional or underrepresented background. I continue that conversation with mention of those skills I found myself in need of, and what services I utilized (or didn’t, but could have), and where and how these are available on our campus, along with other campus resources. Yes, I know the phone number for the Associated Students Food Bank. Yes, I’ve utilized the services of a food bank.

(2) Encouragement and strategies for seeking out assistance and utilizing resources are a recurring feature of my courses. “Resources” constitute a dedicated page in my syllabi. We discuss them on the first day, I continue to bring them up in class, I send regular email reminders about them, and they are a key feature of an assignment early in each of my courses – in which students are asked to find and utilize a campus resource they feel would bolster their success in college. I also ask in my syllabus (and on the first day of class) that students share with me any challenges they may be facing to their success as students – anything they think I should know about, or that they would like to improve.

(3) I likewise encourage students to come see me in office hours – making sure, of course, that I am widely accessible. I worked and commuted as an undergrad; so being able to meet with professors or TAs could be a difficult enterprise. As such, this is always at the front of my mind when it comes to my availability to students. In addition to set office hours, therefore, I post in my syllabus, announce in class, and remind in emails that I am available by-appointment as well. I also offer alternatives to meeting at my office on campus, including Skype/Zoom, online chat, or phone calls (also by-arrangement), including select night and weekend availabilities. Through this, I have had the opportunity to get to know and come to mentor students, whether those struggling with developmental tasks, or those seeking to break into graduate school or certificate programs.

Trite or saccharine as some may choose to see it, higher education (and broader society) benefit tremendously from a fuller representation of perspectives. Our job as educators and gatekeepers is to actively seek out ways we can lift up and better support students who have traditionally been underserved, if not outright ignored, in higher education. These are my commitments to serving students, and I will always enthusiastically seek out additional and improved strategies to add to my repertoire.