In more than twenty years moving through the landscape of Black education—as researcher, theorist, and full-throated cheerleader—I’ve seen wonders. I’ve watched students who were once counted out push across commencement stages with degrees that no one believed possible. They’ve gone on to good jobs, raised healthy families, and sent handwritten notes that begin, “You told me I could.” I cling to those memories because they speak to a quiet truth: extraordinary things emerge from modest classrooms, powered by chronically under-resourced and overworked people.
Dr. Crystal A. deGregory
“Higher ed is not for the faint of heart,” warns Dr. Ebony Gallagher, who studies educational leadership and serves as the founding director of the Black in Business initiative at the University of Miami. “The politics will swallow you whole and imposter syndrome you to death.”
I’ve led two research centers at historically Black colleges. I know this sermon well. I’ve preached it. And I’ve lived the blowback.
Many institutions—HBCUs included—deploy a mix of love-bombing, trauma-bonding, and classic gaslighting to protect bad actors at the top. Once drawn into temporary circles of favor, even victims, once loved on, often become quiet collaborators. They shield the very systems that harmed them or look away when someone else is targeted.
I lacked a name for this cycle until I was heckled from the floor at a national HBCU convening—Ritz-Carlton ballroom, no less.
I’d been invited as a panelist. I expected debate, even disagreement—not dishonor. But midway through my remarks, a fellow Black woman rose and interrupted: “Someone has clearly hurt you, and I’m sorry for that,” she said, with a tone of staged pity. Then she assured the room that I was wrong. “Bring value to an institution,” she insisted, “and you will be honored, praised, prized.”
You’d have no need for self-protection—much less self-preservation.
Moments earlier, my talk had described how institutions celebrate Black women—until our excellence asks inconvenient questions. Her rebuke was proof.
Only recently did I discover that organizational psychologist Dr. Kecia M. Thomas had already named this phenomenon. First introduced in 2009, her “Pet to Threat” theory describes what happens when a talented Black woman is no longer seen as promising but is perceived as threatening. In 2013, Thomas formally published the theory, accompanied by qualitative evidence, giving name and structure to a pattern now widely cited in DEI circles and HR offices alike. It explains why early sponsorship of Black women so often curdles into scrutiny, stalled promotions, and eventually, push-out.
HBCUs are particularly vulnerable to this harmful practice. White supremacy conditions Black institutions to fear internal critique, worrying what outsiders might do with our “dirty laundry.” Scarce resources create space for unchecked favoritism. Constant leadership turnover means faculty and staff who ask hard questions are discarded, while less effective favorites remain protected. With donor demands, enrollment cliffs, and political crossfire, leaders often prioritize holding onto their jobs over self-reflection and accountability.
This environment rewards loyalty over vision, deference over honesty. Access—not accountability—becomes the currency of advancement.
On many HBCU campuses, the journey from “pet” to “threat” is paved with sprinter vans, box-suite tickets, and VIP rides in campus safety SUVs. Administrators call you after hours. Board members offer personal numbers “anytime you need us.” These gestures seem generous, but they come with strings: be grateful, be silent, be loyal.
Even students aren’t exempt. They compete for the backstage passes, golf-cart rides, and other soft perks that signal proximity to power. Often, their longing for mentorship gets twisted into political leverage. Everyone learns the rules fast: benefits flow to those who play along. Start asking structural questions—“What is my unit’s budget, and why can’t I access it?”—and suddenly you’re no longer a team player.
But Black women don’t stop asking. Our excellence exerts pressure. Each act of brilliance—a dataset that disrupts myth, a keynote that names misogynoir, a budget that matches the vision—can turn admiration into unease. Inside HBCUs, where we serve as both the labor force and the conscience, that tension cuts deep. Our expertise is misread as arrogance. Our critique is framed as hostility. And slowly, access vanishes.
Whispers travel across institutions and philanthropy’s lobbies—coded messages passed through backchannels: “You aren’t the first person they’ve done this to.”
The consequences are immense.
Talented scholars leave, tired of cashing emotional IOUs. Students see that institutional excellence often invites institutional punishment. Institutions respond by chasing optics, such as celebrity masterclasses and influencer hires. Meanwhile, community-grounded research suffers. Every departure costs twice: the person walks out, and the path closes behind them.
There is a better way. Stewardship, not favoritism, must become the standard. Resource distribution must be transparent—rubric-scored grant competitions, rather than one hand washing the other. Psychological safety audits should accompany presidential evaluations just as financial audits do. Box-suite perks should reward measurable service, not proximity to power.
If we take seriously the threats of dangerous rhetoric—and even more, the damning consequences of dangerous political climates—we need real accountability now. Ceremonial ombuds roles won’t do it. Establish confidential reporting channels for retaliation, tone policing, and access manipulation as standard, with aggregate results shared publicly.
When Black women’s findings shake the house, the answer isn’t eviction—it’s fixing the foundation. Burying the truth-teller amid the rubble helps no one, least of all the institution already crumbling under the weight of what it refused to face.
Board members, faculty, staff, and alums have roles too. Boards must track psychological safety and Black-women retention as performance metrics. Faculty senates and staff unions can demand equity audits and resist unchecked promotions of favorites. Alums can direct their giving to unrestricted research funds rather than to buildings.
HBCUs do the greatest good. But if they hope to survive the weight of their own excellence, they must do better—by their women.
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Dr. Crystal A. deGregory is a historian and public scholar whose work centers Black women, HBCUs, and the fight for educational justice. She serves as the founding director of the Mary McLeod Bethune Institute for the Study of Women and Girls at Bethune-Cookman University and is the creator of Her Due, a forthcoming multimedia platform and podcast honoring women whose genius has too long gone unrecognized. Her next book, The Greatest Good: Nashville’s Black Colleges, Their Students, and the Fight for Freedom, Justice, and Equality, is forthcoming from Vanderbilt University Press.
