academia

I don’t know about anyone else, but I have been dramatically sighing and staring out the window since middle school, and one of my best friends since high school falls asleep in class so much that it has become a defining part of his personality. Being unengaged in class is not about the time you are expected to focus, but rather how that time is being used.

In a certain sense, I agree with the frustration that is being expressed in “Eat the Wealthy.” I have been known to “Canada Goose-shame” those around me and point out the absurdity of college breaks since they are just another excuse for some students to flaunt luxurious vacations on social media. Being an international student, I was surprised to learn that the stereotypes of wealthy Americans portrayed in The Real Housewives of New York and Keeping up with Kardashians may, in fact, be true. I have also frequently been accused of being that kind of international student and had to awkwardly explain that I will not be dishing out the $1,000 to fly home for fall, spring, and winter breaks.

I know everyone uses words to communicate, but in academia, words are our currency. We deal in discourse, discussion, and disagreement. We are trained to be critical of everything. But is condemning the very words we use to promote this conversation going too far?

Several weeks ago, as I watched a film for class about the acquittal of Ronald Ebens and Michael Nitz, two men who were charged in 1982 with the murder of Vincent Chin, I felt an undercurrent of rage—the kind that burns coldly, devastatingly, irrevocably—settle through me. I noticed that it felt familiar: The past couple of weeks, and the past couple of years at that, have been filled with moments that have invited and even necessitated it.

A panel of professors discussed the issue of white supremacy in higher education and the ways in which speech emanating from white supremacists can be considered violent at an Academic Freedom Week event on Tuesday night.

My Contemporary Civilization professor writes a question on the board: Do property rights exist posthumously? My classmates insist they must (or, at the least, don pensive looks and meow out a “maaaaybe”). They share stories of how their families “earned” their property through generations of hard work, unanimously insisting that our possessions are secured via our merits. I sit, red in the face. I do not know how to say, in appropriate academic jargon, that my family has never owned a home. I do not know how to say, philosophically enough, that I have never even had my own room. I do not know how to say, or if it is appropriate to say, or if I am even right to feel that my classmates are implying my family is not hardworking, that my family is simply not of the same caliber or mettle as the high-flying parents of my peers.

I wrote a thesis. It is 25 pages long, and my bibliography is less than a page. It includes works from three philosophers—the only three people who care enough about our conception of vagueness and the metaphysical consequences of it to publish papers on their views.

Barnard senior explains how your major can’t replace your heritage.