I knew when I accepted my first faculty job at a small, private liberal-arts college in Colorado Springs that I would have a hard time meeting other black people. Even though there are three other institutions (including a military academy) and three military bases, the city itself is so spread out that if you don’t live on or near one of the bases, you rarely see a person of color. In fact, when my dad came to visit for the first time, we didn’t see another black person for nearly three days.
I am originally from Washington, D.C., but moved to Charlotte, N.C., when I was 9. My father’s family is in Virginia; my mother’s family is in Maryland. I did my doctorate in Nashville. When I arrived at Colorado College, there were three other black women on the faculty (and one black male administrator), so I planned to use them as my entree into the black community. Looking back, I can honestly say that my ignorance really was bliss. Had I known the cascading effects of taking a position at a predominantly white institution in Colorado Springs, I probably would have declined the job offer.
In this special report, we look at diversity through a somewhat novel lens — that of geography. Our coverage examines how a college’s location affects its mission, its ability to recruit students and faculty members, and its campus culture.
But after seven years here, I have managed to build a satisfying life for myself. I initially stayed in Colorado Springs for professional reasons. I feel valued at my institution, where I teach about issues of educational equity to which my students may not otherwise be exposed. In recent years I’ve also found creative ways to meet my personal needs in a community where not many people look like me. Here are some of the obstacles I have had to overcome:
Housing: “The Springs” has an area of town in which people of color live, so I began my search for a home there. But the reality is, while the houses are affordable, the neighborhoods are run-down. There are no green spaces, the streets are riddled with potholes, the sidewalks are cracked, and there are no grocery stores. (There are, however, liquor stores, pawn shops, and check-cashing places.)
Some real-estate agents didn’t want to show me houses once they saw I was black, and one actually told me not to buy a house because there weren’t a lot of people “like you” in the neighborhood. As an education professor I know a lot about local school districts and their relationship to property values. Buying a house in a community of color meant buying a house in the worst school district with the lowest property values.
I had to make a choice that is all too familiar to faculty of color: to be with my community and sacrifice the value of my biggest asset, or to be a “sellout” who is too good to live with her own people. I took the middle road and bought a house four miles north of the black and Hispanic neighborhoods and four miles south of the upper-middle-class white neighborhoods.
Hair: When I moved to Colorado, I had an Angela Davis Afro. I’d already made the soul-crushing decision to straighten my hair for the faculty interview, so I wasn’t going to subject myself to that kind of personal torment again by relaxing my hair or wearing a straight weave. I found one natural-hair salon in Denver, which is about an hour and 20 minutes north of where I live. I made an appointment one Saturday to get my hair trimmed and colored. I left my 9 a.m. appointment almost five hours later with an Afro the same color and length it had been when I arrived. More important, I left enraged because the black stylist told me my hair was too coarse to do anything with. “If you had good natural hair, that’d be a different story,” she said. “You need a relaxer.” I refused to pay and obviously didn’t make another appointment. Unable to find another natural-hair salon within two hours of my home, I decided to cut my hair completely off.
Church: I was raised Black Catholic. That means that Mass can last one and a half to two hours, that lively music accounts for the longer time spent in church, that all representations of Jesus are black, that congregants from African nations wear traditional attire, and that we have a church basketball team, step team, and double-dutch team. When I was growing up, my family went to church every Sunday. My dad sang, and still sings, in multiple choirs. My brother played on the basketball team, my dad coached, and I was a cheerleader. The people at church are my “church family,” and even today, from across the country, they are immeasurably proud of me.
With no Black Catholic church in Colorado Springs, I went to the Catholic church within walking distance of my house. Before, during, and after the service, people — grown adults — stared at me. At the end of Mass, an older white woman came up to me and asked if the black woman who sang the hymns (there was no choir) was my sister.
I’ve not gone to church since. With no physical place of worship, I’ve learned how to maintain my faith in other ways, largely through music, meditation, and reading.
Dating: Perhaps the most difficult aspect of being a black female academic in Colorado Springs was my romantic life. I had men tell me to my face that they’d gone out with me only because they wanted to see what it was like to date a black girl, a professor, or a black professor. After using three different dating websites (two of which cost me monthly subscription fees) and failing to find someone, I hired a matchmaker and agreed to date men within 75 miles of Colorado Springs. I spent $1,200 to go on four dates, all at least 40 miles away, with white men who truly had no interest in dating someone who is black, smart, and Southern, or who was not into outdoor activities.
After two years of such experiences I stopped dating. I couldn’t find single men of color, so I redesigned my life to find other pathways to happiness. I started gardening, took my first international trip, and reconnected with college friends.
Three years ago, I started dating someone who’d recently been hired at my institution. Last year I sold the house I bought and moved in with him. We are building a home on 35 acres in rural Colorado, an hour from Colorado Springs. I take horseback-riding lessons, and my partner, who is black, is an apprentice falconer. We hope to raise chickens and goats, and maybe, one day, to start a vineyard.
People ask me why I am willing to live an hour from my job in a conservative rural town, surrounded by nothing but the outdoors. I tell them that moving away from another conservative city — where I’ve been called the N-word and worse, had my life threatened three times by white men, been discriminated against by real-estate agents, and been unable to get my hair done, and where I have no family — feels like the opportunity of a lifetime. At least in my new home, I will have the space to get away from those who would prefer I not be there. Many of my colleagues think that I will regret living “so far away” and being “alone.” I tell them that as a black woman in Colorado Springs, I am always alone.
Having 35 acres of refuge will allow me to continue to do the work I love, at an institution I love, while not always having to fight for my humanity as a black face in a white space.
Manya Whitaker is an assistant professor of education at Colorado College who writes regularly for The Chronicle about early-career issues in academe.
