BLACK FEMINIST AUTOETHNOGRAPHY

Autoethnography refers to “research, writing, story, and method that connect the autobiographical and personal to the cultural, social, and political” (Ellis Reference Ellis2004, xix). By linking personal experiences to underlying societal structures, autoethnographic writing transcends autobiography to situate the standpoint of the autoethnographer as a site of meaning making (Ellis Reference Ellis2004). Autoethnography aligns with BFT in that both embrace the autobiographical voice as an important site of knowledge production. For Black women academics, Griffin (Reference Griffin2012) offered Black feminist autoethnography as a theoretical and methodological means to critically narrate their experiences with systemic forces of racism, sexism, heterosexism, and classism. Griffin (Reference Griffin2012) further theorized that the writing of Black feminist autoethnographic text is an act of resistance in the tradition of bell hooks’ (Reference hooks1989) call for “talking back” to oppression. In my autoethnographic account, I draw on intersectionality—coined by Black feminist scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw (Reference Crenshaw1989)—to put into perspective how race, gender, and class animate hierarchies of oppression and consolidate epistemological dominance in sites of power—namely, the academy.

In homage to Dr. Fujii’s earlier career in theater, the remainder of this article is divided into three acts. In Act I, “Another Exit,” I reflect on the departure of a fellow Black graduate student from her doctoral program. Act II, titled “Whose Political Moment?,” explores how student organizing bodies can be insensitive to the pressing political issues that impact the lives of racialized members on campus. Act III, “Crossroad,” reflects on a pivotal moment during my doctoral studies, when I contemplated leaving my doctoral program.

The data for this article were generated through the written narratives of my experiences (i.e., journal entries and email correspondence) with family members and friends. I use the first person throughout my narratives to maintain the authenticity of the experiences as they occurred.

ACT I: “ANOTHER EXIT”

Fall 2018

I received a call. JeremiahFootnote ³ told me Simonne, a Black woman graduate student, was leaving her doctoral program. Simonne’s doctoral experience had been marked by troubling anti-Black comments in the classroom and a lack of departmental support for her research on the economic lives of Black Diasporic women.

Before hanging up, Jeremiah made a solemn pronouncement: “Shit. Another one is out.” He echoed what I was thinking: another exit.

*****

The call from Jeremiah gave me pause. As I further reflected on the experiences of other Black graduate-student colleagues, a distinct pattern of isolation and lack of support emerged (Milner Reference Milner and Cleveland2004, 19; Sligh DeWalt Reference DeWalt, Cassandra and Cleveland2004).Footnote ⁴ The common feature to all the exits, and near exits, of Black women from the academy included feelings of disillusionment and alienation, produced by misogynoir—that is, the intersection of misogyny and racism uniquely experienced by Black women (Bailey and Trudy aka @thetrudz Reference Bailey2018).

Similar to other sites of power, the academy sustains a hierarchy among social groups through the simultaneous absence of racialized scholars within its walls and the invisibility of scholarship by and about them. When I joined my doctoral program, I was the only Black woman doctoral student. This is not anomalous. As other Black women political scientists have observed, to be a Black woman in the discipline is often to be the only one: in your doctoral program, academic department, and conference panel (Alexander-Floyd Reference Alexander-Floyd2015; Brown Reference Brown2007). Consequently, traversing the academy is to occupy two competing processes: invisibility (Milner Reference Milner and Cleveland2004; Sligh DeWalt Reference DeWalt, Cassandra and Cleveland2004) and hypervisibility (Collins Reference Collins2000). The classroom, for example, is a site that exemplifies this dualism. As recounted in the narratives of other Black graduate students (Grant and Simmons Reference Grant and Simmons2008; Milner Reference Milner and Cleveland2004), there is an inherent visibility in being the only Black student in the classroom because our presence disrupts normative assumptions about who is a legitimate producer of knowledge. At the same time, however, our embodied perspectives, viewpoints, and lived realities, as a Black person, are not represented in the field’s canonical texts. Furthermore, when Black students provide interpretations or discussions that do not align with dominant disciplinary renderings of the social world, their contributions often are ignored or minimized and their intellectual and research acuity is questioned (Brown Reference Brown2007; Grant and Simmons Reference Grant and Simmons2008; Sligh DeWalt Reference DeWalt, Cassandra and Cleveland2004; Walkington Reference Walkington2017). The cumulative experiential effect is the marginalization of young Black women scholars, like Simonne and myself, in the academy.

In the absence of systemic institutional change to address these practices of epistemic violence, an avenue to help racialized students navigate the alienation and isolation experienced within the academy is ensuring their access to a positive mentor (Patton and Harper Reference Patton and Harper2003). As a mentee, I experienced a supportive multidimensional relationshipwith Dr. Fujii. She embraced all aspects of my identity: the antiracism activist and the scholar. For example, we discussed my community work as much as we did my scholarship. She also encouraged me to view myself as a scholar rather than as a doctoral student: this perceptual shift of my academic identity empowered me to take up space in academic sites, especially on occasions that I was met with hostility. As a mentor, Dr. Fujii drew on her subjectivities as a bridge to relate to my raced, classed, and gendered experiences in the academy. As a result, she created space for me to develop a positive academic identity, even if my research agenda challenged the epistemological foundations of the discipline. Both her racialized presence in the department and her approach to research, teaching, and mentoring presented an alternative view of what a real political scientist looks like.

ACT II: WHOSE POLITICAL MOMENT?

The invisibility of the pressing sociopolitical issues impacting BlackLife (Walcott and Abdillahi Reference Walcott and Abdillahi2019) is not limited to the classroom; I also encountered it in “progressive” spaces on campus—for example, at our local union.

*****

Winter 2015

I returned to Toronto from doing fieldwork in Jamaica in January. My father was still sick, and I was needed at home.

The fieldwork was intense. I heard reports from residents about the abuses they experienced from security officers and criminal actors alike. As a trained clinical social worker accustomed to listening to the nadir moments in a person’s life, I found myself very aware of the emotional impact of these stories. I also was sick: I had contracted the Chikungunya virus.Footnote ⁵

At the same time, I was tuned into the Black Lives Matter protests in response to police killings of Black men, women, and children: Ferguson, New York City, and Oakland. In the evenings, I was on Twitter while my father was glued to the television.

We contemplated driving down.

To show support.

To witness.

To testify.

To do anything other than sit idly by the television.

We mapped out the trip. However, my mother, also a social worker, ultimately persuaded us to stay put. Looking at my aged father, who was in remission from cancer, she reminded both of us of our physical limitations.

The experience of fieldwork and the public response to the protests weighed heavily on me. The precarity of BlackLife felt pronounced, more than it had in any other period of my life. It was soul wounding.

In what felt like a different universe, our union was on strike. The campus was abuzz. Union members picketed through the March snow, bundled in the Local’s toques and scarves, hoping to shield themselves from the cold winds, and walking in slow methodical circles chanting: “This is not a corporation! No more neoliberal education!”

At a union meeting, we were updated on the status of the bargaining team’s negotiations. They noted that the picket lines were becoming thinner as the days progressed. We were encouraged to keep up our spirits. And then, one of the strike team members took the mic and pronounced that “this is the most important political moment of our time.” The predominantly white crowd roared in support.

I was momentarily nonplussed—and then my tongue found purpose in the rolling expletives that fell from my lips.

“What about Eric Garner, Laquan McDonald, Michael Brown, and Tamir Rice?” I cried out to the colleague seated beside me.

“What twilight zone am I in right now?” I demanded, knowing she would have no answer.

I left the meeting in a whirlwind of feelings.

Hurt.

Anger.

Invisible.

*****

The staggering deaths of Black lives at the hands of police—captured on smartphones for the world to see—was not the political moment of my peers. The visual evidence was not enough. The murdering of BlackLife did not disabuse people from thinking the strike was their political moment. A small increase in funding took precedence over Black people literally fighting for their lives. I realized that our political moments were wildly different.

I was reminded that the concerns of my community were invisible. As I tried to process what I was feeling, I reached out to Dr. Fujii.

We processed it.

She listened.

She affirmed what I was feeling.

I saw the hurt I felt mirrored in her face.

Her frustration echoed my own.

Particularly important in the context of this article is that Dr. Fujii counseled me to use the incident as a moment of reflection. She pointed out that this incident spoke to the epistemic limitations of the discipline about which we often talked. Here was a perfect example of how identity informs what is prioritized as politically significant, whose lived realities are ignored in that configuration, and how the status quo reproduces itself.

I walked away from the conversation stronger.

Although mentors do not have the ability to shelter their mentees from the experiences of racism in the academy, they do have the capacity to acknowledge and affirm those oppressive experiences as real. This means that mentors must be conversant in how oppressive social structures in the discipline influence the mentee’s relations not only with their peers and faculty but also with the academy at large. Being well versed in these matters is important for being able to provide empathetic counsel during challenging times. The implication of not having a diverse faculty is the silencing of pluralistic viewpoints and the reduction in the number of racialized mentors available for racialized students. This has the added consequence of increasing the emotional labor and physical burden of the few racialized scholars present.

ACT III: CROSSROAD

In the winter semester of my third year, I was ready to leave the program. Every facet of my doctoral studies felt like a struggle and a failure. This in turn opened the door to rumination. I was feeling regretful: I had left a career that made me feel fulfilled and entered a space in which I frequently questioned everything. I questioned the theories I learned. I questioned the methodologies. I questioned my place in that space. And now, I questioned my capacity to complete the program.

I was at a low point. I was in Jamaica; Lee Ann was in Seattle. I emailed her. Less than an hour later, we were on a Skype call. Following is the reflection I journaled after our conversation.

Winter 2014

I just got off the phone with Lee Ann.

It was messy.

I am messy.

As grandmama says, “mout open, story jump out” [when the mouth opens, the story jumps out]. The moment I opened my mouth to tell Lee Ann I was ready to leave the program, all of the discriminatory experiences I weathered in the academy tumbled from my tongue. It is as though their resting place in my mind was disturbed and, in retribution, they were determined to stake their presence. They were determined to be heard.

Lee Ann was an empathetic audience. Her “umm-hmms” at my teary efforts to recount my experiences served as applause, welcoming in the next act…the next plot…the next story.

And the next.

Each story testifying.

My closing arguments were strong, the evidence ironclad. My most valiant efforts to stay in the program had been bested. I was the loser. The academy was the victor.

Evidence presented.

I waited for Lee Ann’s verdict.

I was anticipating a lively response in keeping with her high energy, perhaps even a few colorful words for emphasis.

I was giving up, breaking the cardinal rule in the Black girl’s handbook: “We do not give up.”

But Lee Ann appeared somber.

At some point in my telling her every raced and gendered injury I sustained in the academy, my sadness made the “vicarious” trip and arrived at her door.

It went viral.

It hung in the air, multiplying in the pockets of silence.

“If YOU want to walk away, that is your choice,” she began. “But, if your decision to walk away has anything to do with doubts about your intellectual capacity, or you question the merit of your work or its theoretical contributions, then don’t. You will get through this. I will see you through this.”

I half-heartedly nodded in response.

Perhaps she felt the indifference and insincerity of my nod because she asked me: “Do you doubt me?”

She didn’t wait for a response.

I think she knew this may be the one area that I may just doubt her…

“I believe in you. You belong here. Do not let others determine your path. Focus on getting it done.”

Even through the grainy-ness of the poor Skype connection and my blurry vision caused by efforts to hold back tears, I saw it: she had contracted my sadness.

Following this conversation and several others with Dr. Fujii, I decided to continue my studies.

****

As I begin my career as an assistant professor, I have had several years to reflect on this exchange with Dr. Fujii, more so following her passing. Although I always understood the exchange as a pivotal moment in my doctoral studies, its significance deepened with time. For a period, I focused on what Dr. Fujii said. Her words of encouragement were compelling. As time passed, I became more attentive to another significant feature of that exchange: her display of empathy.

“My mout open[ed] and stor[ies] jump[ed] out” because, in that moment, what I needed—what Dr. Fujii intimately understood that I needed and that she provided—was a witness to my testimony. I needed to document my experiences in the academy, even if I was on my way out. In turn, she empathized through listening, noting, acknowledging, and ultimately advocating for me, to me.

My experience also highlights the time and energy associated with this type of hands-on mentoring for racialized faculty. It can be draining. For racialized women faculty who mentor and advise students at disproportionately higher rates than their white counterparts (June Reference June2015; Lloyd-Jones Reference Lloyd-Jones2014), mentoring can come at the expense of other tasks related to their scholarly productivity (e.g., research and publishing). This “invisible labor” (June Reference June2015) goes unacknowledged and unappreciated by the same institutions that espouse prioritizing the increased diversity of the professoriate and student body. If the academy is serious about recruiting and retaining racialized faculty and students, an important initial step is to assign commensurate value to mentoring within the tenure and promotion process.

Although my own experience demonstrates that the practice of mentoring is critical for student retention, better academic performance, and career-advancement success, it is not a panacea for the oppressive structures and lack of institutional support in the academy.