So, let’s set the scene. You’re a first-generation student of color who just got into a prestigious university. You show up with your second-hand suitcase, a head full of dreams, and the kind of hope only FAFSA paperwork can generate. You step onto campus expecting Dead Poets Society, but what you get instead is Get Out: Ivy League Edition.
Welcome to college, where diversity brochures are more colorful than the actual student body.
Chapter One: The Admissions Trap
Let’s not kid ourselves. Universities love students of color. Especially for photoshoots.
If you’re a Black, Brown, Indigenous, Asian, or some dazzling intersection of all of the above, admissions officers were salivating over your application like it was an AP-level Crème Brûlée. You were the special seasoning in their otherwise flavorless class stew.
But let’s be real: after you arrive, it doesn’t take long to realize they wanted your presence, not your perspective. The institution loves to pat itself on the back with statements like: “Our incoming class is the most diverse in university history!” As if diversity is something you cook up once and serve cold for four years.
When you try to speak up about real issues—microaggressions, lack of faculty support, that one frat that keeps throwing “Border Patrol” themed parties—they respond with the institutional equivalent of a shrug and a smiley face: “Thank you for your feedback. We’ll take it under advisement.” Translation: “We hear you. Now go away.”
Chapter Two: Classroom Culture Shock
Picture this: you're in your freshman-year English seminar titled “Otherness and Empire: A Critical Reading of Post-Colonial Thought”. Sounds promising, right? Until you realize the class is taught by a white guy named Greg from Vermont whose only brush with “Otherness” was a summer trip to Tulum.
Greg spends 45 minutes explaining the “Black experience” using quotes from The Wire. You look around. Everyone is nodding. No one notices your face melting into your desk.
Later, you try to challenge the narrative: “Actually, that’s not how police surveillance works in Black communities.” The room goes quiet. Greg gives you that patronizing nod, the one that says, “Wow, your lived experience is adorable.”
And just like that, you become The Student of Color™. Spokesperson. Historian. Cultural liaison. Every time someone mentions slavery, immigration, or colonialism, 23 heads swivel in your direction like you’re the magical encyclopedia of oppression.
No pressure.
Chapter Three: Office Hours of the Oppressed
You try to seek support. You go to office hours. You want to discuss your paper. Your white professor leans in and says, “I just want you to know, I really value your voice.” As if your “voice” is some precious endangered species that needs to be protected under academic glass.
You hand over your essay, and the feedback? “Too angry.” Not “too factual,” not “too poorly written”—just too… real.
It’s almost like academia wants your trauma, but only if it’s nicely packaged and comes with footnotes. If you cry on paper, that’s art. If you rage, that’s “unprofessional.”
And God help you if you write about whiteness. That's when your essay mysteriously gets marked down for being "biased."
Chapter Four: The Diversity Office™ Industrial Complex
Ah yes, the Office of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion—the university’s official PR arm for making sure your pain stays on brand.
Let’s break down what they actually do:
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Host pizza nights with inspirational hashtags like #UnityInDiversity
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Send campus-wide emails after hate crimes saying, “We are aware and deeply saddened…”
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Invite you to sit on panels called “Voices That Matter,” where you perform your trauma like a TED Talk to an audience eating catered hummus
You ask for institutional change. You get a workshop with a title like “Unpacking Our Bias Backpacks: A Journey of Growth.”
Meanwhile, nothing changes.
The frat still flies confederate flags. The engineering department still has one Latina professor who teaches every diversity class. And the one Black dining hall worker everyone loves? Still the only person on campus who knows your name without checking a spreadsheet.
Chapter Five: Belonging Is a Scam
Let’s talk about this cursed word: belonging. Universities throw it around like candy.
“We want everyone to feel like they belong.”
“We are building a community of belonging.”
“We believe in belongingness.”
It’s corporate gibberish. What they actually mean is: “We want you to blend in just enough that we don’t have to change.”
Belonging, as marketed on campus, is often just assimilation with sprinkles. Speak like us. Dress like us. Laugh at our jokes about Patagonia vests and trust funds. And whatever you do—don’t bring up Palestine, policing, or the fact that no one ever pronounces your name right.
You belong, sure—just don’t make anyone uncomfortable while doing it.
Chapter Six: Racial Burnout is Real
By junior year, many students of color are tired. Not regular tired. Existentially tired.
You’ve joined six cultural clubs, led five protests, organized three town halls, and corrected approximately 284 mispronunciations of your name. You’ve given your whole self to make the university more equitable, and all you have to show for it is a stress-induced twitch and a commemorative tote bag from the “Race and Resilience” symposium.
Meanwhile, your white classmates are skipping class to “find themselves” in Bali or launching a startup that sells oat milk made from recycled yoga mats.
You think about transferring. You think about dropping out. But you stay, mostly out of spite. Because this campus may not deserve you—but dammit, you worked too hard to let Chad win.
Chapter Seven: The Graduation Glaze
Fast forward to senior year. Graduation looms. You’ve survived the seminars, the gaslighting, the performative allyship, and the relentless institutional indifference.
Now, it’s cap and gown time. You’re invited to the Multicultural Student Banquet. You’re given a certificate that says: “You made it. We’re proud of you.” There’s a slideshow with your photo, overlaid with soft piano music and a Maya Angelou quote.
You cry. You hug your friends. And for a moment, it feels like it was all worth it.
Then the university president gets on stage and says, “We’re committed to continuing this important work.” As if this “work” wasn’t built on your unpaid labor, your trauma, and your unwillingness to shut up and play nice.
They’ll forget your name by August. But they’ll remember your photo. That glossy shot of you in kente cloth, smiling under the campus archway, forever immortalized in next year’s admissions brochure.
Epilogue: A Love Letter and a Warning
To students of color on campus right now: You’re not crazy. You’re not “too sensitive.” You’re not imagining it.
You’re navigating institutions that were never built with you in mind, all while being asked to smile for the camera and represent your “community” with dignity, poise, and endless patience.
But let’s be clear: you don’t owe these places your silence.
Speak out. Be angry. Be exhausted. Be real. Let them squirm in their seats. Let them sit with the discomfort they’ve built into the very walls.
Because belonging shouldn’t mean self-erasure. And representation shouldn’t require martyrdom.
So next time a campus administrator says, “We value your voice,” feel free to respond: “Great. Then maybe you should start listening.”