Pieces of Faith
A Letter to Doctoral Women of Color by Lorena Gutiérrez and Sakeena Everett
This piece is a part of our Spark Series: Women of Color in the Academy
Dear Doctoral Women of Color,
Our experiences in academia were, and continue to be, shaped by our positionality as women of color. While our experiences are deeply personal, we imagine they are not unique. Thus, we write this letter to you, women of color, who, like us, pursue PhDs. In thinking through our truths and experiences, we hope to provide insight and guidance for doctoral women of color, especially first-generation college and PhD-earners like us.
Lorena is a Mexican American native of Colton, California, and Sakeena is an African American woman from Brooklyn, New York. The West and East coasts, where we come from, are bustling with racial, ethnic, and linguistic diversity. We both attended K-12 schools with Latinx and Black youth where we heard and spoke Spanish, Spanglish and English on a daily basis. We also both earned bachelor degrees from prestigious predominantly White research-intensive (R1) universities in our respective home states (University of California, Los Angeles and Cornell University). Home was so close — physically, culturally, and linguistically. Furthermore, in the communities where we were raised, we were members of the racial, ethnic, and linguistic numerical majority. As such, we had a strong sense of self within, across, and beyond our communities. Our commitments to our respective communities were never confused.
When we met in Michigan — the “mitten” in the middle of the country where we each earned our PhDs — our numerical majority status was flipped. Both of us could count on our hands the number of doctoral students, faculty, and administrators who shared our race or ethnicity. Michigan State University, a large predominantly White R1 institution, is not unique in this regard. In fact, most large R1 institutions have limited numbers of doctoral students, faculty, and administrators of color. In the “middle of the mitten,” now very far from home physically, culturally, and linguistically, we had to reconcile what this meant for each of us personally. Specifically, the flip from being in the numerical majority to being in the numerical minority meant that many of our beloved ways of being, our respective coasts, which shaped our identities, as well as our faith, were often minimized or went unacknowledged. This created intellectual, cultural, and spiritual wounds.
How could we do our best scholarly research and teaching when we had limited access to theoretical and methodological frameworks that aligned with our community commitments and personal ways of being? How could we do this work when we felt so distant from home? Finding spaces in “the mitten” that felt like the communities we left on the coasts took some time, but we eventually found them. While we searched, we found ourselves relying more and more on the faith that brought us to Michigan. The stories that follow are brief excerpts of our journeys.
Lorena’s Story
Four. That’s how many times I used to go home per year on average as a doctoral student. For most, going home that often was a luxury. However, for me, going home was necessary for my survival. Each time I went home it was difficult to leave; I always failed at not crying. On one visit, my then 9-year-old nephew, Freddie, won his first two little league baseball medals. As I prepared to leave and hugged him goodbye, he gave me both medals. He said, “Nina, whenever you feel lonely, look at my medals, and remember that we are with you. You can do it too.” Even at nine years old, Freddie fully understood that graduate school was no easy task, and I needed his faith in me to fuel my way to the finish line.
Five years later, I still have his medals. Now I am back in the Southern California’s Inland Empire with no plans to leave. Returning to my community was just as important as earning my PhD. Unwavering faith and demonstrations of love like Freddie’s got me through graduate school. His medals served as inspiration for me to stay grounded and focused when a few faculty discouraged me from returning to my community to put my experiences and degrees to work. “You will not be taken seriously,” one said. “Why don’t you become a community organizer instead?” another suggested.
Youth like Freddie need to see us, first-generation people of color, finish and apply our knowledge and experiences in the communities we call home. They deserve us. They believe we can do it, and we have a responsibility to show them how to do it when it’s their turn. Freddie’s faith in me cut across generations, borders, and distance. He believed in me during times when I did not believe in myself. Time and time again, he saw me leave, but he also saw me return.
Sakeena’s Story
My transition after my doctoral studies was triumphant and unexpectedly traumatic. It was triumphant because I moved from East Lansing to work in Chicago, a large urban city where I regularly saw Black and Brown faculty, staff, and students. I was immersed in racial, ethnic, and linguistic diversity — much like home in NYC. Furthermore, my work as the inaugural research director of a $1 million grant-funded elementary literacy institute directly impacted over 100 Black boys in the Chicagoland area — work that was valued and affirmed by the communities I worked with. In my role, I led a team of graduate students in literacy research and teaching across multiple school sites, maintained school and community partnerships, and handled administrative duties. I also communed with Chicago’s district-level administrators (the third largest school district in the US), school principals, education researchers, teachers, parents and third through fifth grade students. These conversations afforded me direct access into multiple perspectives of literacy education and research. Typically, advanced faculty direct large grant-funded projects, but I embraced my role as a newly minted PhD.
My grant-funded academic appointment fittingly aligned with my personal research and teaching commitments, but it did not have the built-in institutional supports or securities of a tenure-track job. In addition to the professional transition itself (living in a new city and learning the demands of a new position), I unexpectedly endured two immediate family severe illnesses and five tragic back-to-back family deaths within two years. Yes, seven different family members total. The most traumatic loss was (and continues to be) my sister; she was my best friend. Needless to say, I experienced compounded levels of professional and personal stressors. Though I sincerely loved my work, at various points over the past two years, my faith and personal wellness were compromised. As a Black woman, I felt a deep responsibility to appear strong and hold everything together. Sadly, I suffered in silence.
About a year into my position, I remembered I loved jigsaw puzzles. I went to the store and purchased a challenging 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. I excitedly opened the box and spread the pieces on my kitchen counter. In that moment, it hit me that this was first thing I had done in a long time that primarily benefited me. Putting the puzzle together facilitated much-needed spiritual, personal, and professional healing, which I eventually learned as I journaled and took progress photos.
I came to see my journey through academia through the lens of the jigsaw puzzle I was trying to assemble. Like all jigsaw puzzles, it had a picture (vision) on the box. I quickly created the perimeter of the vision without much guidance. The puzzle framework forced me to keep the remaining pieces in perspective. I had a vision of the type of educator, researcher, and community contributor (familial, spiritual, and professional) I wanted to be. Next, I separated the remaining pieces into piles by their color. At times I struggled to understand how the pieces — which had come to represent my life experiences — fit together. Though I intensely studied the vision, and I had all the puzzle pieces in front of me, it still took me nearly four weeks to complete the puzzle. I was learning to be patient, kind, and forgiving with myself. Throughout this process I thought of the times my family, friends, and students prayed with me and interceded on my behalf — before, during, and after my traumatic transitions, especially in times when I had too little faith to pray for myself or to see beyond my immediate challenges. When I struggled, I only saw the unfinished piles of pieces and not the larger vision my Creator has for me. Completing the puzzle helped me identify how the pieces of my life fit together. It was not easy, but as Audre Lorde once explained, “I was forced to look upon myself and my living with a harsh and urgent clarity that has left me still shaken but much stronger” (Lorde, 1984, p. 40). My experiences with triumph and trauma over the past two years have undoubtedly shaped my intersecting personal and professional journeys. That is, I have “urgent clarity” in my daily priorities and relationships as a Black woman, leader, and academic. This deepened vision allows me to operate more effectively in my family, community, and academic field.
Footprints Forward
Our stories reflect the vulnerable, unforeseen, and often scary situations we faced in and beyond graduate school. As first-generation college and PhD women of color in our families, our faith and the faith our family, friends, and faculty kept us grounded in our life’s Purpose, Purpose with a capital P.
We learned faith is multidimensional. It is spiritual hope that unseen things will somehow work together. By acknowledging the faith our loved ones had in us, we give credit where credit is due. Faith continues to be so deeply intertwined into our ways of being that it was extremely difficult to choose specific moments where we did not rely on our faith to and through our academic journeys. If faculty and administrators seek to recruit and retain women of color in the academy, then it is crucial for them to see women of color as whole beings who need access to the things they hold central in their lives.
In our case, faith was central to our survival. Without it, we would not have earned PhDs or pursued academic careers in the communities we care about. Although we understand the responsibility of doctoral programs is to confer degrees, faculty and administrators ought to also consider: What would institutions of higher education, specifically doctoral programs, look like if they were intentional about retaining students of color and ensuring their success beyond the graduate school journey? How might they design programs and institutional supports grounded in the lives of doctoral students of color, especially women of color, who often face complex intersectional (race and gender) forms of marginalization — at home and in their doctoral programs? How might we offer additional supports for first-generation scholars of color who do community-engaged work? What would academic advising consist of if faculty were intentionally trained to prepare doctoral students for tenure-track and alternative career paths — without any stigmas? What if faculty and administrators worked from an understanding that for some communities of color, degrees are often a means of survivance for the recipient, their families, and the communities they come from? These entities are inextricably linked.
To the doctoral women of color who see themselves reflected in this piece, you are exactly where you need to be. And you are not alone. By reading our stories, we hope you find the courage to trust your process as you struggle to pave your own pathway. Your pathway through and beyond graduate school is yours. You are the visionary of your dreams. Have faith that there are greater plans for you than you have for yourself. The invaluable lessons you learn along the way are not only for you, but for those coming after you. You are trailblazers. The experiences shared in this piece are just glimpses into our complex journeys as PhD women of color. We hope you too will share your experiences with future generations of PhD women of color. Doing this will assure our legacies of excellence — in institutions that were never made for us — will shine brighter than the strength of these institutions’ attempts to keep us out.
We do not know what the future holds for us, but we have faith that sharing these stories will support doctoral students and recent graduates to embrace their uncertainties and struggles.
In faith and solidarity,
Lorena & Sakeena
Reference
Lorde, Audre. (1984). Sister outsider: Essays and speeches. Trumansburg, NY : Crossing Press.
Dedication
“Pieces of Faith” is dedicated to the life and legacy of Cherene Everett — a woman, daughter, sister, and mother whose faith courageously outweighed her fears. She exemplified a full, fun, and spirit-filled life. We share pieces of our faith in her honor as we attempt to make sense of her physical absence in our lives.
Lorena Gutiérrez is an assistant professor in the Graduate School of Education at the University of California, Riverside and a member of the Diversity Scholars Network at the National Center for Institutional Diversity. Her research highlights the ways Latinx migrant and seasonal farmworkers thrive in their educational pursuits in spite of the inequities they face in K–12 schools.
Sakeena Everett is assistant professor of language and literacy education in the College of Education at the University of Georgia, and a member of the Diversity Scholars Network at the National Center for Institutional Diversity. Her research and teaching focus on the literacy development of Black male students in elementary and secondary schools; culturally sustaining pedagogies; transformative urban education; critical perspectives in English education; and literacy teacher preparation.
