Next was the University of California, Berkeley, where approximately 3% of my fellow undergraduates identified as Black. That homogeneity was evident in my chemistry lab when the instructor asked us to find a study partner for the semester. To my right a white classmate smiled at me and twirled her pencil. “Do you want to partner up?” I asked. “Sorry,” she said after a moment, “I’m waiting for my friend.” But minutes later, it was someone new to her, another student who was introducing himself. They exchanged names and agreed to work together as partners. A sense of loneliness washed over me as I surveyed the room. I was the only Black student in the lab.
I was studious in school, starting ahead of schedule and skipping seventh grade altogether. At 12, I began high school in Ontario, California, wearing pigtails and a patent leather backpack, my days bookended by math and science. In between I sought comfort in the company of Mrs. Zondervan, the pious librarian with oversized glasses. In the sanctuary of the stacks, I fell in love with reading, with books like The Bluest Eye and Their Eyes Were Watching God—books that captured the maturation, suffering, and fortitude of Black women. Senior year, I was elected student body president, set to graduate with honors at the top of my class.
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