About four years ago, I created a blog with the intention of documenting and demystifying the long road to a doctoral degree by sharing my graduate journey with my public. My goal for grad school was not to be incredible, brilliant, or exceptional in this academic space. Rather, I just wanted to exist–an action that had proven difficult enough for me in countless spaces long before I arrived at the massive predominantly white institution that is Penn State.
Frankly, the decision to enter the ivory towers of academia at all was one that I had always been reluctant to make. I take incredible pride in being a first-generation daughter of Haitian immigrants. Ever since I grasped what it meant for me to be Black in the United States, I have embraced and nurtured my own Blackness. By my senior year at my alma mater, I was very vocal about the challenges that I faced whenever my non-white, low-income background clashed with the elitist atmosphere that still surrounds that particular institution. Countless microaggressions were catapulted into macroaggressions when considered alongside the racist and sexist overtones of not just the school, but the conservative bubble of a college town that surrounds it. By the time I graduated with my BA, my first French degree, I was already *so* tired.
Still, the idea that I should go to graduate school quickly and comfortably set up camp at the back of my mind, and it incessantly reminded me of its presence. I would eventually realize that it was not simply a nagging gut-feeling, nor merely an excuse that could stave off the panic of the post-college question, “what will you do next?”—though it felt like both of those at the time. Rather, pursuing this doctoral degree was — IS —a calling. Nearly every day is an affirmation of this truth; I see it when I come across something in my research and reflections, when I interact with my professors, colleagues, and students, and even (especially!) when spending time with my family and close friends. I have no doubt that I am where I am supposed to be, doing what God wants me to do. I come across even more instances that demonstrate how badly I am needed on this side of academia, closer still to the inner workings of a massive, broken, and sometimes impenetrable system.
Mind you, I am NOT here to “fix” that system. That in itself is not my calling, and I certainly do not get paid enough to take on that extra labor. I am here to exist. And to call out the systemic cracks and obstacles that I must face while I do so.
I am here to be Black and woman and Afro-Caribbean and American and scholarly and creative and imperfect and soft and human and adaptable and resistant to and within an ancient institution that must confront the tired, white male mold into which minds and bodies like mine are still being stuffed.
I am here to demonstrate that while these thick thighs and this big-haired mind were never going to fit into that slender silhouette, I am just as capable of completing this degree as those in whose image it was made. I am here to expose the excessively rigorous process and how it was designed to make bodies and minds like mine feel that much more inadequate whenever we struggle to reach these already unattainable standards.
I have only recently found the words to express the importance of my presence here. It took every minute of the past three years for them to reveal themselves to me. When I started this blog, I had no idea how rough the road would be, nor where it would lead me. My first big post, “Photo of the Year,” was three pandemic years, two fibroid removal surgeries, and one still-fresh heartbreak ago. I did not know the extent to which I would have to constantly prove myself and validate my radical and public work to a system that is neither of those things, but I also did not expect to feel as seen and validated as I have—not by this place, but by a very special group of people that is fighting the same fight and challenging the same system.
The network of Black women that I have found here—an ever-growing support group of family, friends, colleagues, and advisors—is the reason I am still here. They shielded me when I was at my most vulnerable, put me back together when I was broken, taught me to celebrate every little win and every big victory. The more they showed up, the more I took stock of how much they brightened this otherwise dim and seemingly impossible journey. I am a witness to the power of radical care, mutual enrichment and education, and collective Black feminism and community. Eventually, this group of Black women and my place among them transitioned from supporting my research to becoming my research. After all, what better way to share my work and my journey than to center the people who continue to make both possible?
To bring us back to the here and now, I am a little under a month away from facing the biggest and most crucial hurdle of this degree journey yet (besides the dissertation itself): the comprehensive examination (“comps,” for short). Every grad department does this essential PhD benchmark a little differently; most have it as a standalone exam, some combine it with the dissertation proposal, and others stagger the two but keep them in close succession. At Penn State, I am a dual-title PhD candidate in both French & Francophone Studies and Women’s Studies. Since my home department is in FFS, the expectation is for me to complete the exams and the proposal concurrently (as though completing the exams alone isn’t hard enough 😬). The purpose of this stage is to ensure that candidates are ready to begin their dissertation projects by requiring them to prepare extensive reading lists (of books, articles, films, visual art, performances, and other relevant media) and then defend their choices before a faculty committee (university professors who already have doctorates) of their choosing. Candidates often use these same lists and the written part of these exams as the foundations for their dissertation projects. When I started this blog, terms like “comps” and “dissertation proposal” were ones that I heard a lot but was told not to stress over yet. I would cross that bridge when I got to it, my older grad friends advised. But then I blinked, and now it’s my fourth year and I’m standing a few steps away from that bridge. Suddenly, it’s my turn to cross.
I am terrified, but my hope outweighs my fear. By existing here and simply doing my best, I have made it further than I even thought I could go. While passing one’s comps exams is not a guarantee, I’m certain that I will find a way to do this work even if I don’t get this doctorate. (Imma get it, though. Periodt.) Everything I’ve done and endured up to this point has prepared me for this here and now. I am now closer to the end of this program than to the beginning, and I ended up being incredible, brilliant, and exceptional anyway, in spite of this place and this system.
I found my people and my people found me back. Most important of all, my people HAVE my back.
The support is supporting, and the call is calling.
Someday soon, God-willing, Dr. Michel will pick up.
Bad Blackadémique 