Advocacy

 An Exploration of the True Intentions Behind UVA’s Division for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion

“Maybe I’m biased because I don’t like him.”

When I listen to the radio, I can’t help but sing along, even when I know I shouldn’t—like when I hear a catchy tune littered with sexualized imagery and glittering misogyny.

“Why do you think you still have to stay there, after everything that’s happened?” my best friend whispers, her concern ringing out in this childhood bedroom. Nestling my head into the crook of my arm, I struggle to open my eyes, puffy and bloodshot from the evening. The phone rests dangerously warm against my cheek, still damp from this hours-long teary conversation. The question lingers, between her waiting, static, and the thick silence of doubt crawling its way into my twin bed. It creeps in like clockwork. I cling to its cold silhouette.

I wanted to write about self-care, and how my routine has changed since this pandemic. Yet once again I was dragged back to reality and remembered the university I attend. On October 15th the SABLE Society placed ‘White Supremacists’ and ‘Slave Owner’ stickers on the following signs across campus: Maury Hall, Garrett Hall, Brown College, Madison Hall, Curry School, and Minor Hall. The sticker ‘Eugenicist’ was placed on the Alderman Library sign. The dilemma of being a Black student at UVA is that we have to go through stress, depression, and oppression all at the same time.

Before anyone gets mad, the answer is a resounding NO. You simply cannot; well, at least, not if you care about someone other than yourself (I am looking at white people specifically, yeah, you). You see, the issue with separating morals from politics lies in how privileged you are. The more privileged you are, the more you can separate the two, because the repercussions decrease the higher up the ladder you go.

I woke up this past Tuesday morning to a too-bright-too-close sky; pale-yellow, opaque, equally begging for and denying sun break. No distinguishable clouds--just a blanket of sick-yellow--cloaking my apartment’s view of mountains, winding streets, train tracks, and industrial eyesores.

Grotesque and beautiful and speaking, the sky bore a message, and I was its awe-struck audience.

Looking in the mirror I see my scars, messy curls, and oversized shirt, as I try to fix myself up for the day. Sometimes I don’t want to pick up my phone because society is just depressing. Over the summer, social media was filled with constant Black deaths, which made this pandemic even harder to go through as a Black woman. Every day it was another child missing, another Black life lost, another Black Trans woman killed, another white woman abusing a Black person. After all this pain, I’d still see people online maintaining their disrespect of Black women.

Growing up with a fully Japanese grandmother and a half-Japanese mother, I have often seen them take hits from racists over their skin color, eye shape, face shape, and my grandmother’s accent. I have heard a cacophony of racist names thrown with precision at my family, and yes, chink thrown at me. I even, once, was called a “dumb Asian,” and I just laughed at the reverse stereotyping he had tried to pull on me. 

I woke up this morning crying for people I do not know  
And I didn’t have to relate them to my Uncle or Aunt or Mother or Brother.
I woke up this morning and I missed their luminous smile.
I missed the way their lungs filled with oxygen and released carbon dioxide.
I missed the way heat radiated off their body. 
the way the blood pumped through their veins. 
the way their pupils dilated at the sight of a loved one.  
I missed the way their voice chimed in the open air.