A Working Title

I am writing this piece to tell my story; there are no defamatory or cruel intentions, only events that I have lived in my time here at Marist. 

My name is Daniel Simpson and I am a 22 year old Black Hispanic. More people than I care to admit have mistaken my motherland for the U.S. state Minnesota, which is quite far from south Florida. I typically receive, “Oh you grew up in Miami? Everyone there is so loud and crazy!” when I tell people where I’m from. I still tell people I’m from Miami to save myself from the imminent interrogation that predictably ensues when I say I actually grew up in a city called Doral. If I were to explain it though, I would say something about its predominant Venezuelan population, where English is rarely spoken anywhere in public. This leads me to the more important reason that I don’t get into it often. In the past, everytime that I tell someone that I am from Doral, we go down the rabbit hole conversation about my racial identity. 

I didn’t begin to fully come to terms with my racial identity and realize the discrimination I had been subject to until deep into my final year of college. I think this is something that's difficult to articulate, namely because many people don't even realize when microaggressions occur. I’m telling my story not only with the hopes of educating, but as a starting point for further advocacy. I have never felt that Marist was a place where the student body goes out of their way to create rational discourse on uncomfortable subjects. This is naturally a precursor to taking action on serious matters that do not directly concern you. I didn’t understand the notion that if you surround yourself with people that care about your wellbeing, you don’t have to feel uncomfortable because those around you have predisposed racial biases.

As an IT nerd and (retired) member of the varsity swim team, I’m finally realizing the microaggressions I encountered in my years at Marist. After finishing a set at swim practice, I came up for breath to my head coach yelling at me. He was accusing me of having stolen his ring of pool keys. This was not only physically impossible because I was swimming while he had allegedly lost his keys, but it was a bit too coincidental that he accused the only Black person on the team of theft. I was still trying to catch my breath when one of my teammates gracefully diffused the situation by asking if he had checked the pool deck for his keys. Moments later, the head coach’s keys mysteriously appeared right next to his feet on the deck of the pool, just as my friend had told him. The head of the coaching staff conducting themself in this manner, as well as one of my ex-teammates calling somebody “a f**g nigg*r” at a swim meet, were only some of the environmental traumas I was exposed to during my time on the team. These were new levels of bigotry that I had only ever read about. Shortly thereafter, I stopped being on the swim team partly because I gained the self-respect to retire and partly because I wanted to study abroad in Japan.

I also don’t think many people can tout any memories of one of their college professors telling them that they would have “a more difficult time finding a job out of college because they were Black and Hispanic.” Comments like these are just one of the many examples from my time here that have unfortunately hardened me socially and increased my distrust in strangers. Just because someone goes to the same school or studies the same subject, it does not mean that they care about your existence as a human being.

Microaggressions chip away at your self-esteem over time in a subtle manner. Only recently had I realized the cumulative harm that the toll of being subjected to microaggressions had on my mental health. Tupac's The Rose that Grew from Concrete surmises my experience attending Marist: 

“Did you hear about the rose that grew from
a crack in the concrete?

Proving nature's law is wrong it

learned to walk without having feet.

Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,

it learned to breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete

when no one else ever cared.”.

Reading this work articulates what I was living and was the catalyst to begin loving myself again. It reminded me to remain steadfast in my pursuits, despite how debilitating external circumstances may be. 

Despite it all, I am thankful that I have lived my experience thus far. As difficult as it has been at certain moments, I am eternally grateful to all of the loved ones that have been through it all with me. My strength today is nothing but the sum of all of the efforts of those that have heard me out and given me advice over the years. Also, I would like to thank the most important woman in my life for all of her unconditional love. ¡Te quiero mucho mami!