Queering the African at a PWI
I do not think I can tell a vivid picture of the microaggressions that Black, Indigenous, and People of Colour (BIPOC) encounter in predominantly white institutions (PWIs). I can, however, recall a few instances where I was taken aback by some encounters I personally faced.
Being black and queer, and of African descent, is an identity that shaped some of my college experiences. These individual identities are woven within each other, and isolating them was often a challenge when I interacted with white people on campus.
I remember having a crush on a white gay guy at school. We had worked together on projects, but neither of us had made any advances – timid First Years, maybe. I was excited about the possibility of us having our moment when we were both at the school lounge party. We repeatedly made eye contact, we eventually approached each other, and the moment came: we kissed. I thought I was living my American dream until at the end of the kiss when he looked at me with a smile and said, “You’re welcome.”?! I was taken aback and couldn’t understand what made him think he was doing me a favor by kissing me.
“I remember one staff member who, after looking at my ID card and seeing my name, blatantly told me, ‘You’ll have to pick another name because nobody will call you that.’ That encounter revealed to me how white people will make no effort to learn foreign names and have grown so comfortable that they demand that we make their lives easier.”
In that encounter, it was hard to detach what could have been an unfortunate encounter with a boy from factors of race and ethnicity. It appeared to me that he saw himself as a savior in my situation, and that appalled me. I also reflected on how I would have interpreted the situation differently if the guy had been black. I probably would have easily brushed it off as a silly joke, but in this case, I found myself unpacking whether my black and African identities had influenced his comment.
Other experiences in a PWI that appeared as aggression towards my identity were around my name. Nhlakanipho, which appears long and phonetically complex at first glance, was challenging for some people to pronounce. Needless to say, I felt that white people in my college were in no position to dismiss it as “too difficult.” I remember one staff member who, after looking at my ID card and seeing my name, blatantly told me, “You’ll have to pick another name because nobody will call you that.”
That encounter revealed to me how white people will make no effort to learn foreign names and have grown so comfortable that they demand that we make their lives easier. The subject of naming came up frequently in conversations given that I was already going by a shortened version of my name, Nipho. Those conversations centered on why I made that choice, which was to make my experience easier by avoiding the constant mispronunciation of my name. Yet, that quest also made white people’s lives easier by not pushing them further to learn my full name. It excused their ignorance. The unfortunate part was that even my shortened name was still a challenge to pronounce. I embraced some of the mispronunciations as “mistakes”, but I struggled with the concept that my full name was “too difficult” to pronounce.
As I navigated my college experience, I soon learned that the new environment pushed me out of my comfort zone, and adapting was part of the journey. This process differs with every individual, and we learn to make the best of it and leave college with fond memories.
