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“You should be seen and not heard” is a phrase I was taught growing up. It was supposed to be used as a tool that kept children quiet and well-behaved. As a result, I wasn’t much of a talker during my childhood. I adhered to the aforementioned proverb down to the letter and kept most of my thoughts to myself.

It wasn’t until I started writing that I was able to release my stored opinions. Through storytelling, I was able to create different worlds where I was the queen of my castle and could speak however much I wanted, whenever I wanted. It was my special place. So, when I got accepted into the Newhouse School of Public Communications, the storytelling hub of collegiate programs, I was ecstatic. I was ready to finally be with peers who shared my same passion for telling stories. I was not, however, prepared for the social challenges that came with the program.

Coming from Miami to Syracuse was already a challenge in itself. I was replacing 18 years of sunshine and beaches with apple trees and something the locals call up here “snow.” I was specifically going to miss Miami’s vibrant culture. How walking down the street meant exploring 10 different countries through a variety of foods, music and languages. How, in the classroom, teaching history wasn’t only teaching white history.

From kindergarten to senior year of high school, I have always attended schools that were majority Black and/or Latinx. I never particularly felt excluded or judged because of my race in school. Everyone knew when Black History Month and National Hispanic Heritage Month were, and they were widely celebrated. When I transitioned to Syracuse University, a predominately white institution, I was met with a massive culture shock.

The first time I attended an all-white class was in Newhouse freshmen year. In a class where there’s no other face like yours, the first thought that crosses your mind is to hope. Hope for someone familiar, someone who could possibly understand the feeling you’re feeling sitting alone at that desk.

The feeling that comes from being the only person of your race is a different kind of loneliness. It’s centuries-old trauma under the guise of the white gaze. It’s having the pressure of both wanting to accurately represent the people in your community and not wanting to be the sole voice for your entire community. Under the stare of white classmates, it is hard to ignore that recurring feeling of doubt. Maybe you aren’t as good as you thought you were?

All of these emotions are heightened when you experience your first microaggression. Hearing one of my professors preach about Newhouse’s inclusivity and diversity in the same breath as he asked me specifically about my personal thoughts on the #NotAgainSU movement. Having to read one of my classmate’s screenplays aloud where they cast me to say “coon.” These microaggressions are not only blatantly disrespectful. They are also incredibly isolating.

In these situations, the old proverb I was raised on, “to be seen and not heard,” plays in my mind on repeat. To speak or not to speak. I have to ask myself, “What is a respectable way to articulate my discomfort without being perceived as the ‘angry Black girl?’” If Newhouse is the center for communicating stories, how well can I communicate my story if I am forced to limit my Blackness to appease the comfort of my white peers?

The answer: I can not.

The one thing that my experience at Newhouse taught me is that there is power in discomfort. That I should be seen and heard because my voice has the power to move the mountains of systemic oppression that continues to exist for people of color on this campus.

Being a Black woman in Newhouse is not only looking out for myself but also looking out for my entire community. It’s having the realization that I should call out my straight white male classmate for writing from the perspective of a Black girl solely based on the fact that she is facing racial discrimination. It’s also having the follow-up realization that doing so could possibly lead to an increase in the number of BIPOC screenwriters in the film industry that aren’t willingly profiting off of black trauma.

Throughout my time at SU, I will continue to protest the racial injustices that I witness in Newhouse so that all stories from people of color can be told. To be seen and heard in all white spaces is an act of protest in itself.

Chelsea Brown is a junior television, radio and film and citizenship and civic engagement major. Her column appears biweekly. She can be reached at cbrown38@syr.edu.

Published on February 21, 2021 at 8:39 pm