My Black Woman’s Tears
I cried more as a department chair than at any other point prior.
I cried at the loss of one child in a painful pregnancy the summer before I became department chair. I cried as I was in the process of losing my first child on the floor of my office after completing search committee reviews for a junior faculty position across the college.
I cried tears of joy at the birth of my child, the fourth one and the only living one to date. I cried when my father died three months after he entered the hospital and one week before he was scheduled to return home after being in the ICU and rehab.
I cried when the primary advocate who was the selling point for me to accept this job left my college. I cried at the accusations and claims that I still can’t discuss in detail although I no longer hold that position.
I cried when people who I thought should have stood up for me didn’t. I cried as I sat in the parking garage outside my office building knowing that I had to face another day of uncertainty and meanness.
I cried when people didn’t listen to my complaints about how I was treated as a chair. I cried when they had no answers to my questions about whether the treatment against me was equitable and was the norm in the college. I cried when they said they didn’t know what to do to help me.
I cried when people didn’t “get” me and damned me for having the same personality that they supposedly loved when I told them to check out my blog posts and social media accounts before I was hired.
I cried when that small group of very persistent subordinates gossiped about me and I was told to take the high road; when I was reminded of my positionality while having little to no power to stop the cruelty of people who professed to be people of faith and advocates for diversity.
I cried after faculty and staff meetings where I was dismissed and disrespected by people who wanted to put me in my place. I cried when I tried my best to bring a team together but it wasn’t enough to remove the ripples that never left the organization.
I cried when years 1, 2, 3, and 4 of my department chair appointment moved on and work never got better. I cried because no matter how hard I tried, my efforts and successes were never enough.
I cried at the party honoring my time as chair because I felt like I had been thrown away as an administrator by my college.
I cried about all the personal and professional sacrifices and how all I had to show for it was pain and accusations and loss that had caused so much pain to my family and me.
I cry as I write this because I still don’t see the courage needed to ensure that what happened to me doesn’t happen to any other Black woman in this organization.
My Black woman’s tears are real. They are not surface tears. They come from a place deep in my soul. When they run down my face, it feels as if my heart has broken, as if there are numbness and pain at the same time.
At some point in my time as chair, they would drip like a faucet at the most inopportune times. A memory would come to me, triggered by a conversation or an exchange, and I couldn’t turn those tears off no matter how hard I tried. They were spontaneous and endless, leaving my eyes red and puffy.
I hated those tears because they displayed my weakness. They hurt. I never expected to cry. I was a “strong Black woman,” and those tears seeped through my cracks. My mask, code-switching, and assimilation tactics couldn’t hide them.
Those tears let people know they had gotten to me and that they had power over me. Those tears showed that I cared about being accepted by my haters.
My organization didn’t deserve those tears, but they came anyway.
