Essay

There Are No Goalposts

Anonymous — Wed, 11 Nov 2020 06:00:00 +0000

There Are No Goalposts Anonymous (not verified) Tue, 11/10/2020 - 23:00

Olivia Pearman

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[soundcloud width="100%" height="300" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/897322156%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-BeV0ghSbA0S&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true"][/soundcloud]

Dear white ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ alums,

Black Lives Matter at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. Black voices are the ones that matter in this conversation. Black voices are telling us they are not safe here. That means white people, who enjoy the privileges of whiteness, such as feeling safe where we live, work and play, have a responsibility to demand safety for Black bodies.

My first piece of advice: If you reached this essay first, go and read the essays from Black students, faculty and staff. If you have read those, go back and read them again. Fully absorb and take in their stories before reading this letter.

I am a white graduate student at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder. I write to you as someone trying to advocate for Black communities at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. I am not writing to convince you to advocate for Black lives. If you care about Black lives at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ (and everywhere), then the best advice I could give you, white alums, is to recognize and accept that nothing you can do will ever be “enough.” That might feel harsh and disheartening — but hear me out. It is also liberating.

If you can never do enough, stop asking, when will I meet my quota for allyship? And, instead, ask: “What can I do? And how can I increase my capacity to do more?”

Black Lives Matter at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. Black voices are the ones that matter in this conversation. Black voices are telling us they are not safe here.

You’ve been traveling on a path — your life path. You’ve chosen what that path looks like and where it goes. You’ve always aimed for goalposts along the way indicating you've achieved something. Earning a degree or landing an internship are important goalposts for many people. Advocating for justice, for Black lives, is different: There are no goalposts. There is personal work to be done. There is community alignment. There is advocacy and activism.

Since there are no goalposts, on this journey you must shift the direction of the path. It is about aiming your life in an altogether different direction than you otherwise would have gone. Yes, this is a big task. But instead of starting a million miles away from an imaginary goalpost in an impossible race, every step you take on your new path creates a meaningful shift in a new direction.

Black Lives Matter is a movement to dismantle race-based oppression. Dismantling oppression is not a goalpost — it is a vision for the future. Changing the direction of your journey supports that vision.

My second piece of advice: Accept that you will be uncomfortable and that you will make mistakes along this journey. If you accept that mistakes are inevitable, you will stop fearing them and start learning from them.

Advocating for Black communities at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ means listening to Black students, staff, faculty and alumni voices. Advocating means researching and creating ways to make ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ safer by removing threats to Black students, faculty and staff and removing barriers for Black people to attend ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. Pay attention to BIPOC-led groups like the Black Student Alliance or Diversifyŷ��ڱ��ƵBoulderNOW which is an ad-hoc group of mostly white people trying to amplify BIPOC voices at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ.

It may seem contradictory, as a white person, to write a personal essay about a movement that is precisely about centering Black people. And yet, it is a movement that requires me, and other white people, to take action, to take responsibility and to do work.

Sign our petition to get on our mailing list.

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No one should be afraid to exist anywhere, especially not on a college campus. Black students, faculty and staff do not feel safe, are not safe, at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ because of systemic and institutional racism, and because of individual biases and prejudices. This is wrong. We can change it.

Olivia Pearman (PhDEnvSt'22) is someone on a journey with a long way to go as well as a doctoral student in the Environmental Studies program. She is focused on how individuals' beliefs, values and worldviews influence institutional and organizational decision making.

Read more essays.

Photos by Matt Tyrie

Black voices are telling us they are not safe here. That means white people, who enjoy the privileges of whiteness, such as feeling safe where we live, work and play, have a responsibility to demand safety for Black bodies.

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That Could Have Been Me

Anonymous — Wed, 11 Nov 2020 06:00:00 +0000

That Could Have Been Me Anonymous (not verified) Tue, 11/10/2020 - 23:00

Obinna Onyeali

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[soundcloud width="100%" height="300" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/895675972%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-AQnJtOfEzHc&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true"][/soundcloud]

The murder of Elijah McClain triggered me more than I ever thought possible. It made me feel the same anxiety I felt 16 years ago as a freshman at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder. I come from a diverse community in Aurora, ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. I grew up in a loving and nurturing, traditionally African household. My parents taught my sister and me to respect that which is different from you as it is part of our existence in this world. At Gateway High School, I began cultivating my cultural networks and identity. The acknowledgment of varied cultures, styles and languages were held in the highest regard amongst students and staff. As a first-generation Nigerian I never felt that I did not belong. I truly felt seen and heard.

My experience at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder changed that. Attending ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ was a culture shock. It was the first time in my life that I was the only Black student in my classroom. It was the first time I felt all eyes were on me everywhere I went. Honestly, I only felt comfortable with the community I found in the Black Student Alliance and African Student Association. We created a safe space. We felt safe in the BSA and ASA office in the UMC, and even at the number of tables we commandeered and called Chocolate City. At Chocolate City we studied, played cards and listened to music. We formed ties that felt familial. We became each other’s network of support through the good and the bad.

I was Elijah McClain — a young, vibrant, dream chasing, fun loving, ambitious Black man just trying to live.

Therefore, it was especially hurtful — and honestly terrifying — when we received racial threats through the BSA office and one of our sisters received racial death threats and hate mail. This thrust us into what seems like years of student protests. I spent the majority of my time at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ split between my studies and my activism; I wanted to create a space at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder that was safe for me, my friends and for those who would follow us.

It was a hard fight. I was thrust into an era of change against systemic racism. It was difficult to be a Black student in a predominately white space, so I joined the BSA and ASA leadership teams and the Arts & Science Student Government — catapulting myself into student activism. Who knew that I would have to fight for my freedom while enhancing my education?

As the president of the BSA, I joined committees and task forces and attended meeting after meeting after meeting, intending to make the university administration recognize the pain and anguish the student body was facing while on their self-discovery journeys. We fought to have a seat at tables that were not inherently welcoming.

It’s crazy — 16 years later — we are up against the same issues. I am thinking about the same traumatizing things I thought I could forget and move on. Not that I feel my time for activism is over — rather, a natural change of the guard has taken place. I was once the young people, so I unapologetically support them and love them, and I understand them on a spiritual level.

The young people protesting have my undying support because I know how they feel. I remember what it was like to begin the journey of self-discovery while simultaneously fighting to be seen as worthy. As I continue on my journey of life, I look forward to further curating spaces for others to have the opportunity to create their personal narratives and share their stories with the world.

I was Elijah McClain — a young, vibrant, dream chasing, fun loving, ambitious Black man just trying to live. His life was tragically stolen by hate. That could have been me.

Obinna Onyeali (Comm’09) is the past president of ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder’s BSA and the current co-president of the Forever Buffs Black and African American Alumni Club. Since graduation he has worked at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ, the Daniels Fund and the Denver Scholarship Foundation helping students and scholars to navigate higher education.

Read more essays.

Photos by Matt Tyrie

The murder of Elijah McClain triggered me more than I ever thought possible. It made me feel the same anxiety I felt 16 years ago as a freshman at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder.

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Beyond a Moment, a Movement

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 18:00:00 +0000

Beyond a Moment, a Movement Anonymous (not verified) Tue, 11/10/2020 - 11:00

Against the backdrop of the Black Lives Matter movement and widespread protests for racial justice, six Forever Buffs — students and alumni — and two faculty and staff members share deeply personal stories about racism and injustice on and around campus and illuminate pathways forward. Their stories are accompanied by audio recordings of the essayists reading them aloud.

As contributor and president of the Black Student Alliance Ruth Woldemichael (IntlAf’22) says, “I’m dreaming of a time when this does not have to be the next generation’s fight.”

By Maria Kuntz, Editor

Paris Ferribee

A Blessing and a Curse

Read Listen

Philip Hart

An American Reckoning on Race

Read Listen

Ruth Woldemichael

Fighting to Survive and Thrive

Read Listen

Obinna Onyeali

That Could Have Been Me

Read Listen

Shamika Goddard

Grace and Dignity through Tech Chaplaincy

Read Listen

Olivia Pearman

There Are No Goalposts

Read Listen

JB Banks

Freedom Is Not a Physical Fight

Read Listen

Tanya Ennis

Breaking Down the Glass Door, Floor and Ceiling

Read Listen

ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Buffs share experience with racial injustice on campus and illuminate paths toward anti-racism.

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Breaking Down the Glass Door, Floor and Ceiling

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 07:00:00 +0000

Breaking Down the Glass Door, Floor and Ceiling Anonymous (not verified) Tue, 11/10/2020 - 00:00

Tanya Ennis

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Since I was a little girl, people have often told me that I was different from what some folks consider to be the typical Black girl and Black woman. I was smart. I was an exception. For a long time, I’ve resisted this stereotype. Now, I proclaim that all Black girls and Black women are exceptional and smart. If not, how, then, have we thrived in this country fraught with an oppressive and traumatizing history against Black girls and women?

Black women and men who came before me created an environment where I could pursue whatever educational field I wanted. They persevered and practiced their faith in God and believed that all things were possible. These giants include my parents and 14 siblings who supported me, prayed for me and opened doors of opportunity for me. I stand on their shoulders and am eternally grateful for their sacrifice and perseverance.

I had a great undergraduate experience at Southern University, a Historical Black College and University where I earned a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering. However, as I grew into adulthood and pursued a higher degree in STEM at the University of Southern California (USC) — a predominantly white institution — and an engineering career, the message changed: I did not belong. I was not smart. I was treated as though I was a threat. People made incorrect assumptions about me. I experienced stereotyping and microaggressions that closed many doors of opportunity. Some classmates and professors at USC challenged me on a daily basis. After earning my master’s degree in computer engineering, I worked as an engineer on high speed transport systems for data transmission. My professional colleagues often excluded me from consequential conversations, and I had to battle the privilege that my colleagues possessed.

I proclaim that all Black girls and Black women are exceptional and smart.

Still, my faith and my Lord have sustained me. I think of the hymn “My Help” when I pray and ask for help from the Almighty. The hymn begins, “I will lift up mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord — the Lord who made heaven and earth.” When I look toward the hills of the beautiful Rocky Mountains, it reminds me of this hymn and my prayer.

Being courageous and comfortable in unfamiliar places is important to my story. I describe my experiences using the images of the glass door, the glass floor and the glass ceiling.

To gain access, I had to break down the glass door. I could see in but was not always welcomed. I would think about the Bible verse that says, “Knock, and the door will be opened to you.” But before I could enter, I had to shatter the glass door. Many good people helped me break it down, answering my prayers and encouraging me to walk through the glass door that had been closed for so long — and for many who came before me — I was grateful. God answered my prayers.

To find opportunity, I had to crack the glass floor. After I broke down the door, I had to walk into spaces that were unfamiliar and often unwelcoming. I frequently walked into rooms where others looked through me, as if I were invisible. My prayers were answered again when I was able to connect with good, supportive people from a variety of backgrounds, identities and races, who helped me break down the unhelpful assumptions of that glass floor.

Lastly, to emerge as a leader, I had to break the glass ceiling. With the support of my faith and my community, I shattered that last barrier to my success and am continuing to break down more obstacles every day. Now, whenever I lift my hands in praise, I’m honoring my own journey and all those who have come before, breaking through that glass ceiling.

Tanya Ennis (PhDEdu’21) is the director of the BOLD (Broadening Opportunities through Leadership and Diversity) Center in the College of Engineering and Applied Science. She is passionate about giving students the creative capacity to achieve and exceed their goals, bringing a wealth of knowledge from both her professional and educational experience to her teaching and advising.

Read more essays.

Photos by Matt Tyrie

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Freedom Is Not a Physical Fight

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 07:00:00 +0000

Freedom Is Not a Physical Fight Anonymous (not verified) Tue, 11/10/2020 - 00:00

JB Banks

[soundcloud width="100%" height="300" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/926072191%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-AwX1uRl2pKZ&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true"][/soundcloud]

Growing up in Hammond, Indiana, near the south side of Chicago in the 1970s was as one might imagine. Less than a decade after the greatest movement of civil rights in the history of America, I was oftentimes in the middle of something that I didn't quite understand.

As a preteen and impressionable young man, my curiosity was piqued by subtle gestures from gang influencers and older men who were supposed to be griots of the community. Branded by the underworld of socialized male identity, I wore the perceived toughness of manhood — flanked by my biological brothers who had paved the way.

I am the youngest of seven children, first-generation, Black and heterosexual using the pronouns he/him/his, but most of all — I am American. My childhood memories of high school riots and watching my older cousins fight for their sense of belonging stained my brain for life. This was my first glance at inequality, injustice and fear. My elementary school would release classes early just so we could return home safely. Though I was considered middle class, many of the individuals in my neighborhood viewed themselves as less than their realities.

In order to combat racism, each of us must have: faith, purpose, someone to love and something to look forward to.

In my eyes, the fight for freedom was not a physical fight — it meant survival of the fittest emotionally, spiritually and mentally.

Racism as a system is directly correlated to power and control, something I realized when my best friend was suspended indefinitely from our high school — without due process — for a theft he did not commit.

I attended a Catholic, private school with more than 900 students. In my graduating class of 215, only 10 of us were Black. It was considered an elite school that, frankly, people from my neck of the woods could not afford to attend.

Being exposed to racial slurs after school, placed in remedial courses and given a class clown superlative at the senior year awards ceremony were not positive memorable experiences. However, my life — these experiences — has driven me to work as an advocate for college students at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ and beyond.

Today, values, beliefs and mindsets are being challenged across the globe. The sense of uncertainty plaguing the American consciousness seems to have no end in sight. My 83-year-old mother is wondering if she will be able to see her grandchildren for the holidays, due to the sudden surge in COVID-19, and my 18-year-old triplets, who are in college hotspots, are trying to stay safe. I, too, join ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ and others in anxiety, caution and wonder.

And yet, there are practices to help us deal with racism and all other systems of oppression. In my life journey, I continue to return to these ideas: It is not about me, but about us. “It takes a village.” Find ways to acknowledge one’s shortcomings, and make a pledge to change them. Dig deep into the very soul of the human spirit and practice seeing the good and committing to the work of doing the next right thing.

Finally, in order to combat racism, each of us must have: faith, purpose, someone to love and something to look forward to.

These issues have long existed in our nation. Today, we have the power to make a difference — and it begins with a change of perspective. Let’s work together to make it happen.

Austin Jamar “JB” Banks was appointed dean of students and associate vice chancellor for student affairs at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder in summer 2020. He previously served in the same position at Winston-Salem State University where he was a senior leader on issues involving student health, wellness and safety. He earned a bachelor’s degree in speech communication and criminal justice from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, a master’s degree in educational leadership with a specialization in leadership and multicultural student development and retention from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and a certification in leadership from Harvard University.

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Photos by Matt Tyrie

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Catalyzing Change

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 07:00:00 +0000

Catalyzing Change Anonymous (not verified) Tue, 11/10/2020 - 00:00

Philip P. DiStefano

This edition of the Coloradan calls out unrelenting injustice, and a new chapter in our university’s long history of amplifying student and alumni voices to catalyze change.

Eight essayists have shared their personal experiences with racism on and around the ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder campus and throughout their lives, as well as insight on anti-racist actions, to commence a united effort to create the equitable and just community we are capable of becoming.

We cannot look away from the genuine and harrowing experiences and perspectives of our students and alumni. Their stories serve to illuminate our fault lines and failures as we strive to be a better and more inclusive institution. The essayists also provide vision and tangible steps to move forward as a community.

We listen to these voices. We see our fellow Buffs. And we acknowledge that anything short of participating in holistic change isn’t enough.

As civil rights legend and longtime congressman John Lewis said, “If you come together with a mission, and it’s grounded with love and a sense of community, you can make the impossible possible.”

We have to take decisive, immediate action. As a university defined by diversity, equity and inclusion, it is incumbent upon all of us to act together, swiftly, meaningfully, in unison. Now.

I, along with campus leadership and stakeholders, am implementing the multiple priorities of our Inclusion, Diversity and Excellence in Academics (IDEA) Plan, which will continue to serve as our campus blueprint to strengthen climate, culture and leadership. This fall, we announced the search for a new chief diversity officer who will report directly to me as we make financial investments in recruitment and retention. Moreover, we will find and initiate ways to honor alums, students, faculty and staff who have contributed to ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ’s rich history.

We must swing the pendulum of ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ’s history in a new direction. We are building the foundation of cooperation, compassion and talent to make meaningful change.

At this moment in time, it is critical Buffs join the movement and take action to create positive impact. Read and listen to the essays, both in print and the expanded collection online, familiarize yourself with the diversity plan and find an area to engage in and further this conversation while we build community, understanding and change.

When we work together, progress will carry the day.

Chancellor Philip P. DiStefano

Essayists, clockwise from top left: Obinna Onyeali, Paris Ferribee, Shamika Goddard, Philip Hart, Olivia Pearman, Ruth Woldemichael

Photos by Matt Tyrie; Ruth Woldemichael; Arnold Turner (Philip Hart)

This edition of the Coloradan calls out unrelenting injustice, and a new chapter in our university’s long history of amplifying student and alumni voices to catalyze change.

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A Blessing and a Curse

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 07:00:00 +0000

A Blessing and a Curse Anonymous (not verified) Tue, 11/10/2020 - 00:00

Paris Ferribee

Listen to recording:

[soundcloud width="100%" height="300" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/897313132%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-wW6LggbqOza&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true"][/soundcloud]

ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I was gaining an Ivy-League (public) education. I was learning new ways of thinking from globalized professors. I was becoming equipped to be a “Forever Buff” — an alum who represents tradition, passion and influence.

At ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ I was hyper-involved. I maintained two jobs, was president of Black Student Alliance, earned three majors and two minors, was treasurer of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc., sat on the Chancellor’s Committee for Diversity & Inclusion and did a stint on ŷ��ڱ��ƵSG’s finance committee. But what if I hadn’t pressed myself to stay dedicated despite my race?

ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ was also a curse. An ideal student on paper, my reality was perplexingly different. According to ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ’s Diversity Reports, in 2012 — my first year on campus — 391 Black undergrad students enrolled at the university. In 2019, that number had only increased by 0.04%.

Imagine being a part of what Regent Carrigan deemed a “blemish” on ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ’s campus. I was a part of one of the smallest racial communities, which was not easy. I can count on one hand the BIPOC friends I met at, and who graduated from, ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. I’d been egged, called racial slurs, was wrongly arrested and immediately released. I was stopped by police to “gut check” the vehicle that I OWNED. It was gruesome.

I don’t want future generations of Black students to endure what I endured. They deserve to be at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ.

I was exhausted, anxious, fearful. I learned to survive in a world that situated me in last place and to endure a system and its institutions that forced me to work harder, smarter. I maintained the ability to love and transmuted negativity into passion.

Graduating in 2017 was one of the best moments of my life. I attended every gloomy, cold commencement ceremony before mine… but the 2017 ceremony was magic. It was a beautiful clear-skied summer day. All the work had paid off. At least I thought it had.

These last few months prove the importance of advocating for #BLM at the local, national and global levels. I don’t want future generations of Black students to endure what I endured. They deserve to be at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. I’m saddened students of color are fighting the same battles my peers and I fought. They deserve all of the fun, carefree adventures their white classmates experience.

I’m scared for myself, my friends and family. We can’t run outside, ride bikes or grocery shop without the possibility of being murdered in broad daylight — simply for being Black. My credentials don’t matter in a world where I don’t matter. The fact is: I’m a disposable Black woman in America.

What can you do about it? Pandemic or not, get uncomfortable. Breonna Taylor’s, Elijah McClain’s, Sean Reed’s [#SAYTHEIRNAMES] murderers are working and leading normal lives. Posting a black square to Instagram isn’t enough.

Engage in dialogues with colleagues or family members around the current state of our democracy. Sign petitions, make some calls and send emails! Contribute to bail funds. Educate yourself! Support local Black-owned businesses! Volunteer digitally. Lobby. Donate. Share info! VOTE! Support your former student groups. Join your company’s Black employee resource group. Be persistent and stay abreast of changes within your industry, company and at your alma mater that directly impact BIPOC communities.

As ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ alumni, we have a duty to exemplify what it means to be inclusive, global citizens. I am honored to align with the current co-presidents of the Black Student Alliance, Ruth Woldemichael (IntlAf’22) and Olivia Gardner (EthnSt, WomSt’20), who last month urged Chancellor DiStefano to demonstrate his commitment to this work by critically analyzing the budgeting of both the Boulder Police Department and ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Police Department.

How will we set the precedent for future generations of BIPOC students and alumni who deserve to thrive at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ, in their careers, and as American and Universal citizens?

Paris Ferribee (Comm, Mktg’17) is an advocate for underrepresented communities (POC and Womxn) in the entertainment industry. During her time at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder, she was the president of the Black Student Alliance, winner of the 2015 Forever Buffs student award and held numerous campus jobs and leadership roles.

Read more essays.

Photos by Matt Tyrie

How will we set the precedent for future generations of BIPOC students and alumni who deserve to thrive at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ, in their careers, and as American and Universal citizens?

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Grace and Dignity through Tech Chaplaincy

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 06:00:00 +0000

Grace and Dignity through Tech Chaplaincy Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 11/09/2020 - 23:00

Shamika Goddard

Listen to recording:

[soundcloud width="100%" height="300" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/897329971%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-xLYC1BOS7Z4&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true&visual=true"][/soundcloud]

Born in 1949, on Juneteenth — the day celebrating the end of slavery — my grandmother, one of nine children, could barely read, but she understood the meaning of equity. On her 71st birthday this year, I launched a social justice-minded business to provide technological/digital literacy training to faith communities and mission-driven organizations.

By introducing faith leaders and seminarians to better ways to engage with technology and develop digital ministries such as virtual prayer and spiritual care, the Tech Chaplaincy Institute equips those who serve often forgotten communities with tech-savvy tools to connect and engage their constituents.

The institute began when I was a master of divinity student at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. In my spare time, I helped students with email and setting up devices. Within a year, I was helping staff, faculty and outside organizations leverage technology for their mission. I realized there was a need for tech support that went beyond the technology — a way to center the individual experiencing a technological crisis and empower them with dignity and grace. When explaining to a pastor the work I was doing, he remarked that my outreach sounded very much like chaplaincy — and Tech Chaplaincy was born.

My work as a doctoral student studying technology, ethics and social justice at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder has become my form of protest.

My work as a doctoral student studying technology, ethics and social justice at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder has become my form of protest, my call to anti-racism and releasing the shackles of white supremacy by uplifting others to freedom. In the same way that my business addresses knowledge gaps and needs within technology, my research looks at the gaps that technology creates for marginalized people.

I began incorporating social justice into my research during the initial Black Lives Matter protests in New York City in 2014. After weeks of marching for Black lives in the afternoon and writing papers about theology at night, I began merging my scholarship with the chants and cries of protests.

As one of the first Black people in ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ’s information sciences graduate program, I locked arms with a fellow Black graduate student to challenge the academic canon by extending the syllabi to include the works of Black, Indigenous and People of Color (BIPOC) scholars. We released a call to action in the form of an open proclamation (BlackInComputing.org) married with references to institutions, including ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder, to commit to create welcoming and unbiased learning and work environments.

ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder, and others who receive public funding, must take steps to ensure they are providing equitable opportunities. Communities must hold organizations accountable; it will take more than an Office of Diversity and Inclusion to create lasting change.

The efforts of change are the beginning. I press on — working inside and outside of my learning institution.

Tech Chaplaincy Institute is building access to the fruits of technology to redefine mission-driven organizations and faith-based communities. My focus on how technology negatively impacts marginalized people, while helping support the use of technology for good, aims to positively impact how technology is developed and experienced.

My work is an expression of gratitude to my grandmother who inspired me to do right for other people. She dropped out of school to care for her family. Through Tech Chaplaincy I practice care for my family, my community and my society.

My life, my grandmother’s life — all Black lives — are worthy, as they always have been. This is a movement — not just a moment — and I will not stop advocating until justice is achieved for all Black lives.

Shamika Goddard (PhDInfoSci’24) is passionate about people and technology. From AmeriCorps, to seminary to doctoral studies at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ Boulder, she is dedicated to pursuing knowledge at the intersection of technology, ethics and social justice.

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Photos by Matt Tyrie

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An American Reckoning on Race

Anonymous — Tue, 10 Nov 2020 06:00:00 +0000

An American Reckoning on Race Anonymous (not verified) Mon, 11/09/2020 - 23:00

Philip S. Hart

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My parents moved to Denver in 1940 from Kansas thinking it was a good city to raise a family — despite the Ku Klux Klan presence exemplified by five-term Denver mayor Ben Stapleton, a member of this white supremacy group. Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s, Denver’s Black community was segregated in Five Points. Racism was less intense than in St. Louis or Kansas City, but it always lurked around the corner.

Having been quarantined at home in Los Angeles since March 11 due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I have had ample time to think about growing up in Denver and going to college at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ. The murder of George Floyd, which set off a massive protest movement in this nation and abroad, took me back to Aug. 11, 1965.

Approaching my senior year at ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ, I was completing my third summer working as a mailman. I was walking along Stout Street to hop a bus home to Northeast Denver when a white newspaper vendor running toward me shouted, “This is the United States of America! This can’t be happening here!” The newspaper headline was about the rioting in Watts, a Black neighborhood in Los Angeles. “The Negroes are rioting” blared headlines across America. From 1965 to 2020 the story remains the same.

In quarantine, I’ve realized in addition to a COVID-19 virus vaccine, we desperately need a vaccine for the virus of racism, COVID-1619. Africans were brought in shackles to Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619 and racism and white supremacy have guided the country’s evolution since then.

I’ve realized in addition to a COVID-19 virus vaccine, we desperately need a vaccine for the virus of racism, COVID-1619.

Along with racial protests there are energetic calls from across the business world and many communities to support Black business. But supporting Black businesses today is not enough. It’s time that the country, the business world and yes, universities, right the wrongs of the past with reparations.

Japanese Americans received reparations after WWII to acknowledge the harm done when the U.S. government confined them to internment camps and forcibly took their homes and businesses. In 1988, 40 years after the camps closed, President Reagan signed the Civil Liberties Act offering a formal apology and $20,000 to each Japanese American survivor.

According to a recently commissioned reparations case analysis by BET founder Robert Johnson, America's first Black billionaire, each of the 40 million African Americans in the U.S. are owed $350,000, for a total of $14 trillion.

In addition to reparations from the federal government, if universities that benefited from slavery, including Yale, Harvard, Princeton, UVA, Georgetown and Wake Forest, allocated 1% of their 2019 endowment funds for reparations purposes, $1.05 billion would be available — annually — as a higher education reparations fund. Similarly, corporations like the 334-year-old Lloyd’s of London that benefited from the Atlantic slave trade could devote 1% of their annual market capitalization to create corporate reparations funds.

In 1991, video cameras captured white police officers beating Rodney King. In 2020, iPhones captured George Floyd’s murder by a white police officer. We have advanced in technology, but not in terms of addressing racial violence and police brutality aimed at Black Americans. To this end, just as we witness radical changes in the world of technology, let’s challenge ourselves to take radical steps in order to eliminate racism and white supremacy in American society.

As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. stated at the 1963 March on Washington, “I look forward to the day when my children will be judged by the content of their character, not by the color of their skin.” What a revolutionary idea whose time has finally come. The three R’s: racism, redemption and reparations, define this American reckoning on race.

Philip S. Hart (Soc’66) is a member of ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ’s Distinguished Alumni Gallery, civic leader, educator and award-winning author and documentarian who is a leading authority on the history of Black aviators. He and his wife Tanya created the PBS documentary Dark Passages: The Story of the Atlantic Slave Trade, which tells the story of the Atlantic slave trade in addition to numerous books and films that examine Black history.

Read more essays.

Photos by Arnold Turner

In quarantine, I’ve realized in addition to a COVID-19 virus vaccine, we desperately need a vaccine for the virus of racism, COVID-1619.

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Fleeing Vietnam

Anonymous — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 06:00:00 +0000

Fleeing Vietnam Anonymous (not verified) Wed, 06/01/2011 - 00:00

Quynh Nguyen Forss

Quynh Nguyen Forss (Jour’95) leans against her dad with her sister at left and her mom and newborn sister directly across from them as they fled Vietnam in 1979.

Standing in the checkout line with a cart full of groceries at Pacific Ocean Marketplace, my 5-year-old daughter Madison tugged at my shirt.

Pointing at the grey-haired couple chatting in front of us, she asked, “Mom, what are they saying?”

I told her they were speaking Vietnamese and thought they were from Vietnam, a country halfway around the world where I was born.

“Vietnam? How did you get here?” she asked.

It was the first time I had explained to my daughter where I’m from. I was Madison’s age when my family fled.

I remember being very tired when my mom woke me on July 1, 1979, and said we were going on a trip.

When I asked where to, she said, “It’s a special place. I’ll tell you later.”

In the dark, she rushed to get my toddler sister Nhu and me dressed and to the docks at Han River where my dad waited for us. They were racing against the sunrise.

Dad was an officer in the South Vietnamese Army who fought alongside Americans during the Vietnam War. After the communists took over, they put him in a “re-education” camp where he was abused and tortured while others were executed.

When released three years later, dad reported weekly to the new government and turned in a log of his activities.

Fearing for his life and wanting a better one for his family, my strong-minded 26-year-old dad decided we should flee the country.

After 10 months of planning, we crammed 17 people on a 15-foot wooden fishing boat with a rebuilt engine. My parents paid a fisherman all of their savings for the escape vessel.

To complicate matters, mom was nine months pregnant. Nevertheless, my parents were determined to leave before she had the baby. They figured since dad was under communist surveillance, no one would suspect he’d dare escape with a pregnant wife.

Our destination was a refugee camp in Hong Kong about 600 miles away. Dad thought the trip would take three days. We hid under the boat’s worn timber platform while dad and his friend posed as fishermen on the deck. My mom gave Nhu and me sleeping pills to keep us quiet. Dad nervously steered our boat toward the South China Sea, inching closer to armed guards patrolling the area. Getting caught attempting to escape could mean prison, maybe even death.

Luckily, the guards didn’t suspect anything.

Once the sleeping pills wore off, I looked around me. All I could see was water, which stretched with seemingly no end in sight.

I asked mom, “Now can you tell me where we’re going?”

She said we were going to visit grandma and grandpa in America.

Suddenly, the engine stopped working. Dad tried frantically to fix it but couldn’t get it to restart. It became painfully obvious to the adults that we were stranded at sea.

I recall the heat was awfully intense. My dad used fishing poles to prop up a blanket to shield us from the sun’s unbearable rays.

I kept asking, “Why is it taking so long?”

Trying to keep me calm, mom replied, “We’ll be there soon — don’t worry.”

But no one knew what would happen to us. The waves continued pushing us along.

On the second evening, mom warned dad she was in labor. He had hoped for a birth at daybreak because the sky was turning a deep black. Despite that, under the glare of two flashlights around 3 a.m., mom miraculously gave birth to a healthy baby girl. I slept through the delivery.

Dad cut the baby’s umbilical cord with a pair of nurse’s scissors and tied it off with some fishing line. Fittingly, my parents named my sister Dai Duong, which means Grand Ocean.

We floated aimlessly for days, steadily running low on rice, crackers and water. Dad gave his portions to me, Nhu and mom who had to eat enough to breast-feed Dai Duong. Dad puffed on cigarettes to curb his hunger.

On the 10th day, a Chinese naval ship came to our rescue and the crew helped fix our engine. I can still picture the ship’s immense size as it maneuvered toward our boat.

We reached Hong Kong nearly three weeks after we escaped. We spent several months at a refugee camp, sleeping on the floor of a crowded warehouse with thousands of other Vietnamese waiting for resettlement. I remember feeling anxious to leave.

We immigrated to the U.S. and lived with my grandparents until my parents could afford a one-bedroom apartment in Denver. I didn’t speak English and remember practicing everyday to sound like my classmates in elementary school. I repeated things I heard on TV and rehearsed words in the mirror.

Beyond language, another barrier I faced was my parents’ strict rules. I missed out on slumber parties, sports victory celebrations and other social activities in high school because dad always said, “Nothing good happens to teens after 9 p.m.” I resented him for being overprotective but later realized his intentions when I became a parent.

My parents expected us to study, get good grades and go to college, which they believed was key to a future of possibilities. They instilled that message so much that it, too, became my goal.

My siblings and I put ourselves through college via scholarships, student loans and part-time jobs. Four of us are ŷ��ڱ��Ƶ grads. After graduation I reported the news at TV stations across the country.

My thick Vietnamese accent still followed me. I read out loud, spoke into a tape recorder and even worked with several voice coaches throughout my journalism career to ensure my enunciation was clear when I delivered the news.

That day when Madison and I got home from the Asian grocery store, I pointed to Vietnam on our globe.

She said, “Oh, it’s not that far away.”

She’s still too young to fully grasp how the escape changed the course of my life. One day, I hope Madison will understand and appreciate that she’s connected to a heritage of survivors.

A personal essay describing an escape from Vietnam.

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