I have been a student at Harvard for 958 days, and I have seen the silencing of marginalized students far too many times. Bacow has made it abundantly clear that the voices of students don’t matter.
As much as we want to say there’s beauty in how we get up and thank our families for teaching us to be strong like them, I wonder what it’d be like to not constantly be trying to survive.
Our passions motivate us to get involved, but it becomes harder and harder to stay motivated as the stress increases and our efforts are met with administrative inaction.
That’s when you notice that it is not only us who grow numb to our own pain, but also people looking in.
Writing is scary, but it has also become a form of resistance. Spots at the table are not handed to me. I must keep pushing for my voice to be heard.
We believe the tax on Harvard’s endowment could be put to use by giving money back to the community that Harvard has been taking from for centuries.
Having my principal deny my request to read my speech in English and Spanish helped me realize I took my parents for granted way more than I’m proud of.
We are still just guests—living out of a suitcase, careful not to pick up too many souvenirs from a country that could decide we have overstayed our welcome at any point.
I am trying to decolonize my mind. I am trying to reclaim my Latinidad. I am trying to take myself out of this white mold into which I have tried to force myself.
While I found a lot of strength from my undocumented community, now I am finding even more in my community of women of color.
Now that they’ve taken DACA from us, we must recognize that this country was never going to fight for us.
We must take care of ourselves and each other as we take on this pain together. But we are also forced to keep fighting because this is about our futures.
We have gone through hell and back, but still, we thrive. We know who we are. We know our worth exceeds any statistic.
I remembered how fragile my future became as I watched votes go up for a man who held the fate of my undocumented community in his hands. I suddenly remembered that I had more to worry about than academics.
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