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"Making the Digital Physical: AADHUM's "Intentionally digital, inteltionally black " conference
Following the opening session of University of Maryland’s African American History, Culture and Digital Humanities’ (AADHum) “Intentionally Digital, Intentionally Black” conference on Friday, the first thing I did was run up for a hug from a young man named Nathan Dize. Nathan and I were strangers in real life; but we were also twitter friends. This process of linking up with people that I knew digitally IRL was a huge personal theme of this particular conference. Not only were we in community by virtue of our research interest, but many of us were connected virtually. While the content of this conference, which I’ll get to I promise, was incredible, a large part of the joy I derived from this experience came from the opportunity to be in physical proximity with the people that provide me with a large amount of my academic support. What does it mean to make the digital physical?
Why Every Book Made for Our Black Girls Ain't a Good Book
In 2018, the fact of the matter is that being a Black girl is undeniably lit.
It’s true.
Our public image today spans age, wealth, profession and interests with icons such as Black-ish’s Yara Shahidi, Chicago’s own yoga and wellness guru Lauren Ash and straight-forward and no-nonsense Senator, Maxine Waters.
Even so, many parents raising Black girls do not rely on media to make an impression on their children. Multicultural books and literature are a common frontline approach for educators and families alike, to validate the lived experiences and cultures of non-white folks.
It’s true.
Our public image today spans age, wealth, profession and interests with icons such as Black-ish’s Yara Shahidi, Chicago’s own yoga and wellness guru Lauren Ash and straight-forward and no-nonsense Senator, Maxine Waters.
Even so, many parents raising Black girls do not rely on media to make an impression on their children. Multicultural books and literature are a common frontline approach for educators and families alike, to validate the lived experiences and cultures of non-white folks.
The PIece of our childhood we carry with us
There was a time in history long before we reached adulthood and bonded with each other through Twitter timelines and Facebook newsfeeds. A time where what we cherish now as adults and taught our kids morally came from the same relatable fables and short stories. Lessons from stories that were taught and passed down by our parents and their parents for centuries.
My Hidden Burden: Navigating Law School with Depression
Summer 2016. I was working in my new home of Philadelphia. I had left my job as a teacher of three years and had been on medication to treat my depression for about a year. I was talking to God daily and was feeling good about myself, so good that I stopped taking my medication regularly. Eventually I had a huge breakdown. Crying non-stop, yelling at God, asking him why he was letting me suffer, trembling, low blood pressure, the works! And I was supposed to be starting law school in a month?
HOW MINISTRY PREPARED ME FOR ACADEMIA
Ministry is much like academia. Nothing ends. Nothing ends and chaos is swirling about. Nothing ends, chaos is swirling about, tasks must be completed, and deadlines met. This is the life of ministry. This is the life of a pastor. There is rarely a beginning or end to the tasks and projects in the life of a church. I have found that my starting point, as the incoming pastor, may have been the end or middle of the previous pastor’s task or project.
How Much of Myself Do I Share?
Last summer, my father passed away suddenly. I and other people have written elsewhere about the mourning and grief while in graduate school. It’s a long and exhausting process that makes the demands of graduate school much more difficult. It was also a reminder of the strength of my community and the different resources that are (and aren’t) available to me as I move forward into a new reality. Last Fall, I got engaged. Our proposal was a complete surprise – I truly had no idea – and I was over the moon excited to come back from Thanksgiving break and tackle what was sure to be a really challenging end of the semester. I shared the news with my friends from school and from other chapters of my life. Once again, I was reminded of how dope my community is. I was lucky to be able to share my joy with the many wonderful people I’d grown close to over the years. However, during both of these hugely life-changing moments, I found myself asking the same question: who should I tell at school?
How Dance Hlped Prepare Me for the Rigors of Academia
I’ll never forget my first heartbreaking rejection. It came in the form of a thin envelope - a rejection letter from my dream dance company. I felt utterly defeated and found myself ruminating over what could have been, rather than celebrating the slew of acceptances that did come my way. I trudged around with my shoulders low as if the confidence I fought so hard to build was snatched away from me with one simple sentence, “We regret to inform you…” My mom neatly folded up the letter, put it back in its envelope and told me, “Something better is always on the horizon.”
I stopped Wearing Blazers to Class
The month leading up to my first teaching assignment was full of unsolicited, well-intentioned advice from older graduate students who stressed the importance of establishing authority in the classroom.
“You look young,” they said, “and you’re Black and a woman, so it’ll be harder for you.”
I was advised to dress up and assert myself. One friend even suggested I have students refer to me by my last name —Ms. Taylor. I tried saying it out loud to myself, and it sounded strange even to me. So with assurances from my godmother I quickly abandoned that piece of advice. “Hi, I’m Ebony.” I practiced it over and over. In the mirror, walking to the train, even in phone calls with my sister, and my anxiety around the question of authority grew.
“You look young,” they said, “and you’re Black and a woman, so it’ll be harder for you.”
I was advised to dress up and assert myself. One friend even suggested I have students refer to me by my last name —Ms. Taylor. I tried saying it out loud to myself, and it sounded strange even to me. So with assurances from my godmother I quickly abandoned that piece of advice. “Hi, I’m Ebony.” I practiced it over and over. In the mirror, walking to the train, even in phone calls with my sister, and my anxiety around the question of authority grew.
