I have lied about my age twice in my life. The first time was in 2004, when I was 16 but often tried to look 21 by indulging in green-apple-flavored vodka and the occasional Dead Kennedys T-shirt. The second time was a few months ago. Before class, several students and I were discussing a recent movie’s racist portrayal of the main character’s sidekick. This led to a larger discussion of Disney films and our shared memories of watching The Lion King in an actual movie theater. This similarity in life experience must have shaken one of my students, as she turned to me, eyebrows furrowed, and asked, “Professor, how old are you?”
I didn’t think. I just lied and said, “Thirty.” I have revisited this moment many times since, wondering, Why did I lie? Why did I round my age up? Was I embarrassed to be only 28?
The answer is quite simple: After being in higher education for five years, I was so sure it was my age that led some colleagues to not take me seriously and others to see me as an amateur in need of Socrates-level mentoring. I didn’t want the same thing to happen with my students, so I lied. It was only after reading an essay by another youthful-looking academic who struggled to gain respect that I realized that changing my age would never drown out that nagging internal voice telling me that I didn’t belong at the faculty meeting.
In fact, our focus on age has only diluted larger issues of underrepresentation and misogyny in higher education. It’s one thing to judge a colleague because he or she appears young, but what if you’re judging a colleague who isn’t just young, but is also a woman and a person of color, as I am? What does it mean when I stand in front of a classroom, delivering a lecture, and an older white man who is so certain that I am a student waiting for the real instructor to arrive interrupts me, not bothering to ask if it’s OK to publicize a campus event? As a first-generation Punjabi-American woman in her 20s, have I been mislabeling a diversity problem as strictly ageism? The answer: Yes. But I hope that by reflecting on my own experiences, I can join others in feeling less fearful of admitting how problematic such incidents are.
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The first step in correcting this diversity problem is admitting that it exists. As one of four persons of color in my department, I live for moments when I am able to talk about my scholarly interest in Indian, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi literature centered around the Partition of 1947, and about my personal interest in cross-cultural, first-generation experiences. Recently a colleague asked me quite directly, “What’s your area of expertise?” I was beside myself with excitement. I cleared my throat and explained the Salman Rushdies of Partition literature, the relevant Bollywood and Hollywood films, the theoretical heavyweight scholars like Sara Ahmed and Jenny Sharpe — all of it. Her response was a half-smile and a “Hmm. ... It does seem that postcolonial studies is having a moment right now. And, you’re so young, I’m sure the students will love having someone like that as a professor.” It was subtle, but dismissive. In less than five seconds, my colleague had managed to sum up my value by saying: You’re trendy.
The thing is, she wasn’t just talking about my age. So many of the institutions I have worked for serve minority populations and explicitly say in their mission statements that they want to offer programming that “serves a diverse student population.” Such terms, along with “minority populations” or “high-needs population,” are often inadvertent codes for “problem populations.” The fact that I can identify with a student’s struggle to find her identity while still respecting her family’s wishes does not make me a “solution” for this “problem population.” Rather, it proves just how necessary diverse faculty and staff members are in enriching the college experience, not just fixing it. My value as a woman of color studying Partition literature doesn’t just come from the racial makeup of the students I am serving, or from temporary outside interest in my field, but from an inherent value in different perspectives.
In fact, postcolonial studies isn’t having a moment right now, just as the growing number of women and persons of color in higher education isn’t a trendy hashtag for all of us to deal with. It’s more complicated than the dismissal of a 28-year-old. I think of my younger colleagues who are interested in the Jack Londons and Jack Kerouacs of American literature. Is their scholarship relevant only now? Or, more likely, has it always been relevant?
And then there’s the fact that I am a young woman. I’ve lost count of how many meetings I’ve had with smart professionals that have turned into hourlong monologues on what they would do if they were me. Are the tips on keeping a balanced work life and home life given because I’m young? Is the email that says “I’ll just take care of it, it’s too complicated for you to understand” really from a kind mentor who sees my potential? Or could it be that my youth, compounded by the fact that I’m a woman, creates the narrative that I need help?
I’d also like to add here that real mentorship is truly valuable. It’s only challenging for me when it becomes a way to showcase one’s own robust experiences, emphasizing my own supposed lack of experience. I wonder how many others out there find themselves in the middle of a “This is what you should do” monologue.
Most recently, I was given an “Award of Excellence” for being a “hero” — someone who had helped empower students in some way. (Students can nominate instructors, advisers, or staff members for the award, and a committee makes the final choice.) It was a humbling reminder of the importance of teaching composition. Following this honor, one colleague wondered why she had never received such an acknowledgment. Another gently patted me on the back and noted how students are bound to love me because I am so close to their age. One wondered about the legitimacy of such an award.
In no way do I consider myself a hero. To me, heroes are people who put their lives on the line. Still, I couldn’t help wondering: If I were 10 years older, two shades lighter, and a man, would the recognition have made more sense to everyone?
And that’s the searing question I’m left with now. In what ways are institutions talking about the importance of diversity, yet ignoring it when it appears, wide-eyed and eager to do meaningful work? In between lively discussions with my students about the common themes in Train to Pakistan, a work of Partition literature, and Kendrick Lamar’s recent hip-hop album, “To Pimp a Butterfly,” and hours alone in my office, I wonder how much colleges have done to promote diversity beyond the images on our webpages and brochures. Sure, I was welcomed with open arms and wide smiles into every college job I’ve had, whether part-time or full-time. But it takes no more than a few weeks full of curious glances, unsolicited words of advice, and compliments on the cuteness of my ideas for me to see that the enthusiasm stalls there.
But the truth is, I’m not looking for enthusiasm, just as the colleague who shares his interest in James Baldwin’s criticism of Richard Wright’s Native Son is not looking to recruit me into a Baldwin fan club. What I can offer him, though, is scholarly curiosity, attempts to connect his work to my own, and a genuine appreciation for having a colleague who knows something I know so little about. That’s what I want. I want to talk about my life experiences and scholarly pursuits and not get words of advice on how to make it better. Rather, I want others to feel enriched for having known a colleague who is Punjabi-American and studies Partition literature. In other words, we can’t accept a discourse that believes diversity is something that must be tolerated. I’m not a weakness that others must accept.
If I could go back to that student to whom I lied about my age, I would tell her the truth: I’m a 28-year-old Punjabi-American woman. I’d tell her that students like her have given me much encouragement because they value my perspective, not despite my age, race, and gender, but because of it.
Dhipinder Walia is a full-time lecturer in the English department at Lehman College, part of the City University of New York.
