How being trapped in a powerful room changes you

As I started my academic career as a queer person of colour, exploring issues of diversity in professional education, I was eager to immerse myself in reading and research that I felt could have a real social change. Little did I know that I would have to navigate the complexities, bureaucracies and powerlessness that you often have to please and overcome as you consider a career in academia, particularly for Black, Asian and ethnic minority communities (Rollock, 2017).

Despite navigating higher education structures, there are moments of greatness during the academic path: for example, the success of publishing, getting a conference paper accepted and winning a research grant. However, the recognition and accolade of the academic title can serve as a double-edged sword with each edge linked to privilege and power (Bhopal, 2017). The academic pathway can be seen to be characterised by tenacity, burnout and hard work, but we see other industries across sectors that are also characterised by these workforce traits and cultures (Lin & Huang, 2014). This level of stress can enable lapses in professionalism, bullying and toxic cultures in higher education (Barratt-Pugh & Krestelica, 2019).

I, like most ethnic minority identifying individuals that have sought to enter the academy, have experienced both sides of this double-edged sword.

My story captures the issues described in one moment during my academic journey. I was drafting my first abstract proposal for a conference to talk about my research and learn from others’ expertise in this area. I had never submitted a proposal to a conference before and was not familiar with the etiquette this entails. The etiquette being that co-authors should be named as presenters, even if the co-authors would not be presenting the paper on the day. Being unaware of this, I followed my incorrect interpretation and included my name in the presenter entry field, and the authors on the abstract template file. I clicked submit. Soon after, I received an acceptance email stating that my abstract had been successful and was awarded a bursary to part-cover some of the costs of my attending. I was elated and shared the good news with colleagues. It felt that my research was validated by expert reviewers and that I was on the right track. It felt like a good milestone in my new ventures as an academic researcher.

There were kind comments from peers and colleagues. I shared the abstract with the co-authors who were pleased with the outcome, but less so by my acting on incorrect thinking about where co-author names should be placed. It was here I was invited to a meeting with two powerful and senior academics in one of their offices. I thought I was attending a meeting to discuss presentation hints and tips, as this was the first-ever academic conference I would be presenting at on my own. The atmosphere in the room was peculiar, and the first question that I was asked was:

“Do we have a problem?”

To set the scene, I was asked to sit down on a chair in the corner of their office, one senior academic was sat by their desk and the other academic stood in front of the door. There was no way I could have left. Even the windows were on a safety lock meaning I couldn’t jump if I had tried.

I asked for the individual to clarify what they meant by the problem.

The academic by the door explained that because I had not included their names as presenters of the abstract, they told me I was acting without integrity. I explained and apologised for my misinterpretation and explained I was unaware of this academic etiquette. I said that I would immediately contact the organisers to correct the fault I had mistakenly made. It was at this point I was chastised, shamed, humiliated and dehumanised by the senior academic standing over me and who I thought was there to support me. The academic said to me:

“whatever you produce or publish [from this research] will have our names on it”.

The second academic who was sat by their desk, was silent. I could sense their discomfort in the space, but they remained quiet and acted as a bystander.

I was trapped in that room for approximately 30 minutes. I was chastised for 30 minutes. I was shamed for 30 minutes. A lot can happen to an individual’s identities, belief system and values in 30 minutes. This transformed my thinking about how I was going to make it through my journey in the academy. I had a qualification to achieve and if I spoke truth to power, I was certain it would be taken away from me. 

I became silent. I didn’t speak nor did I speak up. If others outside of that office asked, I did not utter a word of the adversities I was experiencing. I became socially mute for those years. After the 30 minute event, and over several months and years, I was shouted at by the same towering academic over the phone during a research trip, I was told not to “be gay” for certain events, I was actively excluded by the bystander at a conference, and I was reprimanded and humiliated by regular provocative and anxiety triggering emails for over 5 years from yet another complicit and powerful senior academic.

The 6th year was when I achieved a sense of freedom. I attained what I needed to in becoming liberated from the constraints of the years of bullying and bystander behaviour I lived through. I liberated myself from the clutches of unprofessional preaching and reclaimed my voice, power and narrative as a researcher identifying as a queer person of colour.

This power enabled me to learn appreciation and gratefulness of those that were confidants. The conspirers who became allies and advocates in my journey who I recognise as critical to shaping my narrative.

Adversities, marginalisation and oppression continue to occur in the higher education system (EHRC, 2019). When the time is right for you, reclaim your voice, reclaim your narrative and reclaim your power. Identify conspirers that can help others hear your voice, listen to your narrative, and critically appreciate when you speak truth to power.