“As a white male, your culture is the norm” （Am I speaking weirdly slowly?） “and it’s likely that that is the reason why you” （are a fucking prick） “think that any deviation from that is lesser than. Why you think anything ‘other than’ is ‘lesser than.’”
The class fell silent and Percy went precisely the color of his confectionery counterpart from M&S. Dr. Miller, her face ostensibly expressionless, was a stoically impartial monarch, dangling earrings adding gravitas, bronze lips pressed in a manner that almost obscured the slight flick in them. The curve would have approximated pride or amusement, or both, if I didn’t know better.
She cleared her throat and continued, “I think what Ms. Banjo is trying to suggest is that what you’re saying aligns with what critics unable to think outside of the confines of their self-imposed racial rigidity would say. And that racial rigidity often leads to bigotry and prejudiced opinions. Let’s be wary of that.”
Dr. Miller paused before continuing, giving us the space needed to digest that she had, indeed, used the language of academia to call Percy a racist prick, her intelligence and expertise protecting her from lawsuit and sanction. “However, it does open up a discussion,” she said, walking the breadth of the lecture hall, pen tapping against her palm. “What do we think? Has social media led society closer to a post-racial society? An interracial society? Or are we more segregated than ever?” She opened it up to the class, but not before throwing me, the only Black girl in the tutorial, a sturdy, small smile.
Although we had an African-Caribbean Society through Blackwell, Whitewell College was still a liberal arts university in pastoral southern England and, therefore, a minority set to task in validating the use of the term “diverse” in the prospectus. We were a world unto our own when concentrated together at a student house party, with the lights turned off, elbow-to-elbow and butt-to-groin in constricted corridors. But in actuality we were scattered across the university, across disciplines, across years, all feeling like rebels because instead of straight-up professional degrees （law, economics, whatever-will-put-you-in-corporate-wear-and-a-9-to-5-and-make-immigrant-parent-sacrifices-worth-it）， we mixed it up with funky minors that our parents thought frivolous.
We thought we were so edgy with our interdisciplinary courses, our economics and art history degrees that made African parents wonder where they went wrong, but the price we paid for being such deviant rebels, in pursuit of higher education, was being even more minoritized, in a space where we were already pretty marginalized. So, when Dr. Miller looked at me that day, I knew she was saying we had to stick together, knew that I had to write a letter asking to be switched from my assigned tutor, who’d informed me they were relieved that they could call me Kiki instead of my full name, Kikiola. Due to the kind of benevolent racism you can count on—your white friend trying to set you up with the only Black guy she knows—I didn’t need to plead too much before my wish was granted, Dr. Miller becoming my personal tutor and quickly part of my university survival kit.
“So.” Dr. Miller reclined in her seat. “You are objectively one of the highest-achieving students that I teach—”
“You can just say the—”
She released a small, demure smile. “Well, you’ve had a little competition lately—”
Impossible. “That’s funny, Dr. Miller.”
Dr. Miller’s face betrayed no evidence that she was joking. I straightened. I took the 102 version of her class because it was the only module where （a） I was being taught by someone who saw me, and （b） I could talk about Aunt Viv being replaced in Fresh Prince and relate it to racialized desirability politics. It was where I thrived, where my mind felt both at ease and challenged and where I also just so happened to virtually get straight firsts in every assignment. Dr. Miller’s revelation was humbling.
Her smile broadened at the look on my face, and she continued, “This is actually what I wanted to talk about. As you know, NYU Brooks Media and Art Institute is our sister college and every year every professor can nominate one second-year student to qualify for their summer program of choice. It looks good on the CV, will boost you in the hunt for grad jobs, and it’s a chance to experience something new, to expand your horizons. I know their pop media program is perfect for you. Candidates will be paid and given the opportunity to rotate departments at a media house that includes audio, digital, television, and print. Many people on the program went on to work at the very organizations they shadowed. Have you heard of Temilola Lawal?”