In her 1970 song “Young, Gifted, and Black,” Nina Simone sings:
Young, gifted and black
Oh what a lovely precious dream
To be young, gifted and black
Open your heart to what I mean
In the whole world you know
There’s a million boys and girls
Who are young, gifted and black
And that’s a fact
“You are young, gifted and black”
We must begin to tell our young
There’s a world waiting for you
Yours is the quest that’s just begun
As I reflect on this song and my experience at Harvard as a Black American, I ask myself — what does it mean to be young, gifted, and Black at Harvard? I find myself wrestling with the significance of my existence within this institution. Let it not be forgotten that Harvard is an institution profoundly shaped by the labor of enslaved people on land stolen from the Massachusett people. At its roots, Harvard was built on exclusivity and exploitation. This institution was created primarily for affluent White men and has a history of exploiting Indigenous and Black people. According to the Report of the Presidential Committee on Harvard & the Legacy of Slavery, “over nearly 150 years, from the University’s founding in 1636 until the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court found slavery unlawful, Harvard presidents and other leaders, as well as its faculty and staff, enslaved more than 70 individuals, some of whom labored on campus.” Harvard, the richest university in the world with an endowment of $50.9 billion, has financially benefited from the proceeds of chattel slavery.
Knowing that the same institution I attend today made its fortune through the exploitation of my ancestors alarms me. This hard truth sometimes causes me to feel a sense of guilt. Sometimes, I feel guilty for being in a space that has flourished so much from brutality against and oppression of Black people. I feel guilty for the opportunities and privileges that I am afforded at this institution. And I feel guilty knowing that some of these same opportunities are products of the horrid conditions forced upon my ancestors.
I then recall that I live in America, a country literally built by forced Black labor. Being in spaces that flourished off the abuse and subjugation of Black people is almost inescapable in this country. I seek refuge in knowing that those who came before me fought and died for my right to be in these spaces, that my ancestors made sacrifices for my existence today. These sacrifices were actions of love. My faith, something that is really important to me, teaches in the Book of John that the greatest form of love a person can ever show is to lay down their life for the wellbeing of others. I don’t take this lightly. I try to honor the sacrifice of my people by being a practitioner of love and inclusion while being in spaces like Harvard.
While walking to class, I encounter undergraduate dorms, statues, and buildings that honor the legacy of slave owners, those who profited off of slavery, and those who spread racist ideologies. For example, both Winthrop and Mather House, are named after enslavers Governor John Winthrop and Increase and Cotton Mather. Eliot and Lowell House are named after Charles William Eliot and Abbott Lawrence Lowell, individuals who upheld racist beliefs and structures like eugenics, the inferiority of Black people, and segregation. The continued commemoration of slave owners, those who profited from slavery, and those who spread racist beliefs at this University pains me.
In the past, students have organized and called on the University to address this issue, but the University has taken either performative actions that fall short of student’s wishes or has ignored students’ demands altogether. The University’s continued protection of those who have spread and profited off of racism and hatred is startling. For a university that seeks a diverse student body, one must question the extent to which Harvard cares about its Black student population. Do they see us as the gifted students we are, or as mere diversity tokens?
When Black students are accepted into institutions like Harvard, our merit and giftedness are often questioned. I, along with other Black students, have often been told that the only reason that I am at this prestigious university is because of the color of my skin or programs like affirmative action. People love trying to undermine the accomplishments and talent of minority students. I am tired of having all the hard work of me and my family be diminished and reduced to nothing more than the color of my skin. There are students on campus that think opportunity is just handed to historically oppressed and underrepresented people, suggesting that these people are not worthy of what they rightly achieve. That is one of the reasons why it is so important for Harvard to make sure Black students feel welcomed. Actions speak louder than words, and the University’s actions, or lack thereof, are telling.
While entering a classroom, I often reminisce on the fact that I am learning in the same spaces that were once used by Harvard professors to spread racist ideologies questioning my very own existence. I first learned of Louis Agassiz and his work during my freshman year at Harvard while taking a class at Harvard’s Museum of Zoology. Agassiz, a professor of zoology and geology at Harvard from 1859 to 1873, was known for being a prominent supporter of White supremacy, Black inferiority, and race science. As part of his research to justify Black inferiority, Agassiz commissioned images of 17 enslaved individuals that are described as “haunting and voyeuristic.” These images were taken at a studio in my hometown of Columbia, South Carolina. After coming across these photographs, my stomach immediately turned. Agassiz had left these images at Harvard and they were rediscovered in the attic of the Peabody Museum in 1976. These photos, which are owned by Harvard, were mass produced, with the University profiting off of them.
Currently, Harvard finds itself in legal proceedings with Tamara Lanier, a descendant of Renty Taylor and his daughter Delia: two of the enslaved individuals from the group of 17 who were forced to have their picture taken. Lanier is calling for the University to turn over the ownership of the images of the two Taylors to their descendants. The lawsuit also highlights the fact that Harvard owns the remains of over 7,000 Indigenous people and the remains of at least 15 people of African descent. Harvard’s refusal to turn over ownership of the images of Renty and Delia to their descendants and its commitment to continuing legal proceedings highlights the University’s continued practice of putting profit over oppressed people like me.
When I think of the horrid images of Renty and Delia, I examine my own ancestry. I am a Generational African American, meaning that I am a descendant of enslaved people. My great-great-great-great grandmother was an enslaved person on one of the many plantations located in the lowcountry of South Carolina. Her name was Middy. I honestly never really understood the importance of a name until I learned of hers. A name plays an important role in acknowledging a person as a person, something Middy would not have been seen as in the eyes of figures like Lowell, Eliot, and Agassiz.
Recently, a petition released by the Generational African American Students Association, with the support of the Natives at Harvard College and in partnership with student activists, is calling on Harvard to dename Winthrop House. While I passionately support their efforts, I believe we cannot stop here. Furthermore, while the University has recently pledged $100 million to “redress” its ties to slavery, that is simply not enough to right the wrongs of Havard’s dark past. This is pocket change for a university like Harvard. Though the University can never truly come to terms with its ties to centuries of slavery, discrimination, and racism, Harvard can do more to show that they care about Black people.
I am calling on Harvard to stop the commemoration of slave owners, those who profited from slavery, and those who spread racist beliefs. Rather than performatively renaming houses and buildings and removing statues that memorialize hateful, racist individuals, Harvard should begin to honor the names and legacies of individuals like Richard T. Greener, Harvard’s first Black graduate in 1870; Alberta Virginia Scott, the first Black woman to graduate from Radcliffe College in 1898; W.E.B. Dubois, a civil rights activist and the first Black person to obtain a PhD from Harvard in 1895; or Caleb Cheeshahteaumuck, a member of the Wampanoag tribe and the first Native American graduate of Harvard in 1665. These individuals serve as representatives of those who accomplished what was deemed unimaginable despite the hate ingrained into this institution. These are the people we ought to celebrate and memorialize. The University must also repatriate remains and return artifacts to Indigenous and Black communities. Harvard must commit itself to creating a more diverse faculty and encouraging existing faculty to include more underrepresented authors in their syllabi. Harvard must also invest in more safe spaces dedicated to Black and Brown students so that students can effectively build a community to support one another.
As I suggest that Harvard take these actions, I still want to emphasize that Black people are not monolithic. Black America encompasses a diverse range of cultures, ethnicities, beliefs, perspectives, and backgrounds. That being said, while there is no one way to be Black at Harvard, there is one way Black students exist in America and at institutions within it. Black students are unified by the way our skin is understood and perceived. Because no matter our background, culture, or beliefs, Black people are often viewed as threats — even at Harvard.
I remember my own experience being racially profiled by a White student during my freshman year at the College. I was entering my friend’s freshman dorm one afternoon when I was suddenly stopped by another student who asked to see my identification. The student attempted to act like he had authority over me. When I refused, he then proceeded to ask me questions relating to why I was there. After finally realizing that I was a student, he then attempted to justify his actions by saying that there had been a series of thefts on campus that week and that I had looked “suspicious.”
I remember returning to my dorm room that day confused and immediately contacted my proctor. I then proceeded to rerun the scene in my head. It didn’t feel real. I am not a thief. I have never stolen anything in my life. Questions started rolling through my head. Why would this student ask to see my identification? What about my appearance would cause him to doubt my enrollment as a student? If I was White, would this have happened? This was one of many moments when I did not feel like I belonged at Harvard. This question of belonging at Harvard is one I confront daily. As someone who doesn’t come from a privileged background, navigating a space fueled by entitlement can be a struggle. On the one hand you feel a pressure to fit in, while on the other, you know you never will.
As I reflect on my original question about the significance of being Black at Harvard, I conclude that to be Black at an institution like Harvard is to engage in the practice of resistance. By merely existing at Harvard, I, along with other Black students, am defying the racist origins of the University while pushing it to be more inclusive and benevolent. Black students here have proved that we belong here despite the history and the actions tied to the University that have attempted to keep us out. Black students across this country are making sure that institutions like Harvard realize their full potential and promise. We are young, we are gifted, we are proudly Black, and that is not going to change. We will not be price tagged, ignored, or silenced by this institution. We know Harvard can do more. The only question that remains is whether Harvard is courageous enough to do it.
Image by Jeremy Huang licensed under the Unsplash License.
