In 2016, I was 11 years old and just trying to get through middle school. I wasn’t paying nearly as much attention to the outcome of a presidential election as I was to what I would wear to school the next day. I went to bed peacefully, confused by the anxious looks on my parents’ faces as they watched results come in on TV. I didn’t understand all the factors at play, but a woman president made all the sense in the world to me. Barbie did it, so surely Hillary Clinton could… right?
The look on my mom’s face the next morning is forever burned in my memory. With tears in her eyes, she gently woke me up and hugged me tight. Over the next four years, I would grow to regularly dive into the news cycle and engage in activist movements across New York City, including those for Black Lives Matter, reproductive rights and Ukrainian liberation.
My peers could count on me to bombard them with social media posts analyzing current events. On Election Day in 2020, I didn’t leave my bed. On November 6, 2024, I cried in the Annenberg lobby as I watched election results. I put a note on my social media reminding my friends to take care of themselves, that they weren’t alone and that we would find a path forward. I texted every woman in my life and told them I loved them.
For my mom, I simultaneously mourned and rejoiced. She taught me to stand up for what I believe in, to know my power and worth, and always lead with kindness. I knew that, because of her, we would make it out okay. I also knew that everything she had sacrificed for me was in jeopardy.
As a child of immigrants and a woman of color, with notable privilege owing to my family’s socioeconomic status and the level of education I am able to receive, my “freedom” truly does come from the opportunities this country has afforded to my parents. They have spent their lives working to make sure my brother and I have every opportunity available to us.
Still, they’re scared. They don’t want me to publish pieces that criticize those in power. They don’t want me to risk all they’ve worked to give me.
They try to convince me to keep my head down and get my degree. I tell them that the freedom they fought to give me includes the ability to question, and I need to continue to fight if others who look like me face injustice. They strove for me to live a safe and full life, raising me to be a hard worker who cares about the world around me. I feel empowered to question because of their success in doing so.
A little over a month ago, I published an article criticizing USC’s lack of adherence to their six unifying values. While a newly created “Culture Commission” had absorbed the Office of Inclusion and Diversity, “Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion” still remained in our unifying values.
Until now, that is.
In a March 27 letter, USC administrative officials announced that the value of “Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion” would be changed to “Community,” writing:
“The term ‘DEI’ has evolved to encompass so many interpretations as it has increasingly become embroiled in broader cultural and political disagreements. The value we place on ‘Community’ very clearly underscores our commitment to maintaining a campus culture in which every Trojan is valued, respected, and supported.”
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: “Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion” exists for a reason. By removing this language and admitting the reason for doing so to be tension in the broader political climate, USC is telling us that we are not worth fighting for.
The letter continues: “Recent evolving federal legal guidance further reinforces that our language and actions must be both precise and unambiguous.”
How is “community” unambiguous? What about “equity” is imprecise?
It’s moments like these when it becomes clear which institutions have done the work to make DEI part of their mission and structure, and those that did so because everyone told them they should.
As much as I argue with my parents who want me to avoid conflict, I also don’t blame them.
“All we want is for you to be safe. We need to know that you are safe,” my mom said to me on a phone call that had both of us in tears. They worry for my safety because they know what it took to give me any sense of security in the first place.
My family chose this country because they believed in its possibilities. I still do. I criticize America because I know it can be better. I feel anger at USC’s capitulation because I know that this is not the school I chose, and I know we can be better.
I will never abandon my parents’ dream. I will never abandon all that they have worked for. I will never abandon the girl who believed Barbie could be president.
Nearly a decade later, I’m 20 years old and just trying to get through college. Now, however, I often do not go to sleep peacefully. But I know I’ll wake up the next morning and feel my mom’s hug protecting me — and I’m reminded to keep fighting.