When I turned 7 years old, my friends found it rather strange that my family cooked a pig underground for my backyard birthday party. In high school, my friends were shocked to learn that only one of my parents had a high school diploma. And, in college, I had to explain to friends that it was an endearing greeting when my relatives closely sniffed their cheeks.
Growing up with parents who immigrated to the United States had its unusual moments compared to my surrounding peers, but I never felt disadvantaged. All I knew was that my parents worked really hard to pay for all that we had, including my education, so I owed it to them not to waste any opportunities. That’s why, when my college advisor recommended I apply for McNair, a predoctoral program for first-generation students of color like me, I said “yes” to pursuing graduate school before even knowing what it was.
Doctorate of Philosophy. The name didn’t sound all that exciting, but research intrigued me. The research opportunities in McNair were challenging, but overwhelmingly wonderful. I was surrounded by people like me – colorful, first-generation researchers striving to navigate and succeed in academia. I felt invigorated.
That changed when I started graduate school. Many of the people around me weren’t like me anymore – fewer skin shades, more prior academic and professional experiences, and a long line of postsecondary degrees filled their family timelines. I quickly changed from openly embracing my diversity to feeling embarrassingly too diverse. Could it be that I was too diverse for academia? I began questioning when the university would realize I didn’t belong there. Will they know based on all the questions I ask? Do they already suspect it based on my classwork? “It’s just Imposter Syndrome. Fake it till you make it,” friends would say. But, how do you fake belonging to a world you know near-to-nothing about?
I persisted. Not by faking it, but by “confessing” to things I found challenging and by asking countless questions. While I still felt somewhat like an outlier, I realized peers and faculty shared more similar experiences than expected. Those five years of graduate school flew by and, before I knew it, I was filling out a job application for a postdoctoral position at Harvard University. Even saying it out loud made me chuckle. Work at one of the most elite universities in the world? Feeling too diverse for academia would escalate to a whole new level! I only told my graduate school advisor and my husband that I applied. My logic: the fewer people I tell, the fewer people I’ll have to admit to about not getting the job.
The day I received my interview invitation, I cried. A month after graduation, I was on a plane across the country to begin my postdoctoral position at Harvard University. Its historical significance was clearly reflected in the old red brick buildings and white column entryways. Every movie, published writing, and person told me incredibly smart people attend and work at Harvard. And there I stood at the front steps of my building, intimidated, with little idea of what was to come or how to prepare for it.
I was one of a handful of ethnic minority individuals on our 50-person team. I felt like the second darkest-skinned person in most meetings and the only first-generation college graduate to my knowledge. I felt the need to prove myself, to show those around me that I deserved to be working alongside them. So, I took on challenge after challenge. As I worked, I regularly noticed issues of diversity and wondered what my colleagues perceived. Did they notice the gap between themselves and the low-socioeconomic status populations they were striving to assist? Did they notice the distance between my upbringing and theirs? Oh dear, there was that feeling again: too diverse.
