Two years ago, my art teacher asked the class to draw something for Black History Month, inspired by at least one of BLM’s guiding principles. For almost a week, I debated with myself over what to draw. I wanted to present something that was meaningful to me, something that remained true to my African roots; and, after much despair, the answer came in the form of la marimonda, an iconic symbol of my native Colombia created by African slaves and the poor working class in the nineteenth century. A mix between a primate and an elephant, la marimonda is an exaggeration of all human facial features — eyes, nose, mouth, and ears — meant to mock the white elite. It is a symbol of resistance and rebellion, of humanity’s obstinate resolve to revel in life even in the face of oppression.

When my teacher prompted me to explain my unconventional project, I replied that I had been inspired by BLM’s principles of diversity and globalism, by the movement’s determination to triumph over nationalism, to express what I consider to be the most essential characteristic of the Black community around the globe: resilience.

“There is nothing more admirable about the Black community,” I then said, “than its resilience.”

Lately, I find myself often reflecting upon this answer, ever since a dear friend called me emotionally resilient. I confess, the comment shocked me, drowned the outside world and its exuberance, the icy wind that had been biting at my ears and fingers. No longer was I sitting on a couch in a stranger’s backyard on a California winter night, surrounded by rock music and the carefree veil of youth; I was trapped within the confines of my disordered mind, thinking, Resilience: it is not a quality I would have attributed to myself.

I have, to be sure, survived my fair share of traumatic experiences, of which the most recent is my time at Carleton, this being the present subject of discussion.

Before I get any further, just so there is no confusion as regards my purpose, allow me to be clear now: this is a confession, a baring of my soul.

I attempted suicide on Monday, November 7 at my dorm in Watson Hall. Timely was I transported to the Northfield hospital, to its emergency department and later its intensive care unit. The nurses there had to plug me to two different IVs, one located on my left elbow pit, the other on my right wrist. 

Now, I will share a secret non-suicidal people do not always grasp: It takes an immense amount of pain and duress for someone to forgo self-preservation and see death as the only escape, as the only acceptable balm. It is nothing to be taken lightly; it is not just anything that has the power to shatter a person’s existence. There are few things quite as harmful as rejection and prejudice.

I came to Carleton hoping to be part of a community. After years of involuntary isolation, coupled with some good old racism and ableism at the beginning of high school, I left home for college thinking that I would finally be able to carve out a little pocket of the world for myself, that I would finally find a place where I belonged. Instead, I had to face the same prejudice that has persecuted me my whole life.

“You do not belong here.”

“You cannot thrive in Carleton’s community.”

“You are unsafe for campus and the other students.”

These are the words that Carolyn Livingston spoke to me on Friday, October 7, with my mother present in the room, the day after I was discharged from a psychiatric unit. I had been sent there because of my suicidal ideation, which worsened thanks to the numerous sleep disruptions provided by my then-roommate, and instead of offering support upon my return to campus, Livingston attempted to force me to withdraw from Carleton, for she believed that the college has no place for individuals like me, afflicted by depression and anxiety. My mother, sensing a repeat of high school, accused Livingston of discriminating against me because of my mental health and told Livingston she could not understand how an African American woman could be capable of discriminating against an immigrant family given African Americans’ long and arduous struggle for equal rights.

In response to my mother’s speech, Livingston assured my mother she knows what discrimination feels like, for she has experienced it. She then said she hoped that my mother could forget about the occurrence and that they could start anew with a payment of almost 3,000 dollars that Livingston authorized from the college to my mother to cover all of my mother’s expenses in Minnesota. My mother had to fly in from Los Angeles and rent a car to pick me up from the psych ward as Carleton never answered my calls to inform the college I was ready to be discharged.

For the following month (between my meeting with Livingston and my suicide attempt), the Dean’s Office continued to pressure me into withdrawing from the college, my request for accommodations based on my mental health was denied, and I was forced to face harrasment and intimidation from my then-roommate despite having been offered an “emergency room.” I can say that during this time of distress I received no genuine support from the Carleton representatives supposed to care for me as one of their students. Shall I, then, share Carleton’s response to my suicide attempt?

Well, while my mother kept vigil at my bedside at the ICU, she received an email from my class dean Trey Williams, supported by Sindy Fleming, asking my mother to pack my belongings in boxes, then “please put your shipping address on them and we will mail them on your behalf.” This email also contains a link to information about a leave of absence/withdrawal. With this I can say, the Dean’s Office never intended for me to return to campus, and, indeed, on December 27, the Dean’s Office placed me on an administrative withdrawal.

Currently, I inhabit a strange limbo where I am but am not a Carleton student, thus posed to lose a full-ride scholarship (the QuestBridge Match) that covers my tuition, housing, and meal plan. It is a scholarship I worked toward for four years, and I know my peers understand me when I say I spend many a sleepless night trying to ensure I would earn that good grade — secure my future.

I am the first person in twenty years at my high school to have won this scholarship. On my shoulders I carried the weight of my community’s hope — of my teachers, of my classmates, of my family — that there was something better out in the world beyond our streets. Right now, our hopes have been shattered.

My mother, a single mother, as so many before her, made us self-exiles in leaving Colombia and moving to the United States so that I and my little sister would not have to fear poverty or hunger, so that we could have an education and, through it, a shot at happiness.

Success, it has occurred to me of late, leads some people to forget their origins, but I assure you I have not. I have not forgotten about my ancestors, about their pain and toil. I have not forgotten how my grandmother was bought as a house servant in her tender childhood before being adopted, and I have not forgotten how her eldest sister, made a stranger by an early separation, has been violated multiple times, ever since she became a young woman. I think of her often, wonder about what she would think of me. Would she berate me for speaking up, tell me to lower my forehead, as my grandmother does, and that the shame of discrimination should be borne in silent suffering?

I fear she would tell me this, disapprove of me. But just like I remember her story, I remember my mother’s, how in quiet anguish she would leave my sister and I, her five and I twelve, alone until late at night. I barely saw my mother when I was a little child, with her always busy, always working, always producing.

Her hands — her fingers — have become lean now, her skin stretched painfully by deep calluses, and her nails break easily, made frail and weak from all the work to which she has applied them, though her countenance remains strong, her spirit fierce and alive. She urges me to speak up, to remember all her suffering and know that she has always only wanted me to be good, to be happy. She reminds me of how I am not the only one facing discrimination at Carleton, and I know as well as she does that although it is my story here now, it will not be the last if nothing is done.

So it is here, with the image of my mother’s calloused, stiffened hands vivid in my mind, that I leave Carleton’s community with a plea, that I beg of you, please, do not leave me alone, do not stay silent, do not be complicit.

Speak up, and be resilient.