Last year, some of the black members of the Class of 2022 hosted a Black Senior Cry. The name was misleading, as junior students were also invited. Obviously, all participants were black. There, a then-senior girl said something that I’ve kept in my mind for the entirety of my senior year: “This place wasn’t made for us.”

What did that mean? When Deerfield was founded in 1797, our country was a mere 21 years of age—just old enough to buy a drink. Slavery was a staple of our society, black people and women were property, homosexuality was abhorred and outlawed—in short, the promises of the “Land of the Free” were only accessible for those that happened to be white, heterosexual, male, and wealthy—qualities found in amplitude for the first generations of Deerfield Academy students. Our elite boarding school, similar to Andover, Exeter, and St. Paul’s, was founded to serve as a safe haven for the American aristocratic youth, places where they’d meet and connect with those of a similar pedigree. 

However, things have changed. 225 years later, Deerfield students now come from all walks of life. We’re Black, White, Hispanic, Asian, rich, poor, gay, straight, domestic, and international. On the outside, it seems that we’ve finally become the truly diverse, inclusive community that our website promotes. Yet, this is not entirely accurate. It’s hard to provide an accurate commentary about Deerfield without having experienced these Days of Glory firsthand. My own Deerfield journey will conclude in two weeks, and I’m grateful to be able to share a fraction of my experience over the past four years.

In general, from my perspectives, I believe it’s fair to say the experiences of a minority student are harder than those of a white student at Deerfield. All students, regardless of identity markers, are bound to the rigid schedule of class, lunch, class, co-curricular, dinner, homework, hang out, sleep, repeat. Coupled with extracurriculars, test prep, and pursuit of non-academic endeavors, the life of Deerfield students is often overwhelming. However, a Deerfield education transcends the classroom—it’s pervasive. The lessons I’ve learned sitting in the MSB, Arms, Kendall, and Koch pale in comparison to the knowledge I’ve accumulated during riv days, sitting in the Greer, late nights in Barton, or even hiking to the Rock. 

I’ve received a holistic, world-class education over the past four years; however, I believe I’ve imparted some lessons to the community as well. In January, I delivered my Deerfield Story, which centered on the proper, phonetic pronunciation of my name (Uh-Say-Geh), and the frequency in which black men at Deerfield are mistaken for one another. Students and faculty alike approached me in the following days and commended me for sharing my story and bringing something often overlooked to the light. 

I’m not special for sharing that Deerfield Story. I simply did my part, fulfilling the unspoken obligation that myself and many minority students on this campus are bound to: educating our peers about minority experiences on the campus. 

Over the past four years, I’ve observed that the onus of dispelling ignorance and, in rarer cases, addressing and condemning instances of microaggressions and racism, is a burden that minority students often bear. 

You may be thinking, “Wait—addressing instances of microaggressions and racism—isn’t that what the Office of Inclusion and Community Life (OICL) should do?” Yes, reader, you would be correct—that is what they should do.

However, I only will remember the OICL by its numerous celebratory cultural events—and its frequent mishandling of MLK Day events and debilitating passivity to issues of pertinence. It has approved alliances such as the Deerfield Academy Women’s Alliance (DAWA) which seems to serve as a redundant, unpolished copy of the Feminism Club. It has created the position of “OICL Ambassadors,” whose impact on the community, barring a singular school meeting appearance, seems virtually non-existent. It has used MLK Day as the one opportunity per year where issues of race, racism, and inequity are discussed—but it has also diluted the importance of the day by centering the events around a nebulous, in-correlated term such as “dignity,” by promoting salsa dancing lessons as an MLK Day event. What does salsa dancing have to do with MLK? 

This may read harshly. I do not mean to discard the importance of cultural celebration or competency. OICL provides strong support to alliance groups with finances and resources, but that’s often it. I’ve served as a Chairperson for the Deerfield Men of Color Alliance (DMOC) for the past two years, along with my good friend Songa Rwamcuyo ’23. Our grievances with Deerfield often center on ignorance within the community and the futility of addressing the issues.

I’ll elaborate. Through my years at Deerfield, I recall numerous instances when I heard, or was made aware of, white students saying the n-word. Whether it occurred on campus, in Palm Beach, or Harbor Island, when made aware of such instances, I was compelled to seek those people out and converse with them about their usage of the word. For most, its usage was intended for comedic effect, to garner attention and a few laughs for unexpectedly breaking a taboo. I see it as a manifestation of privileged ignorance. 

I’ve never felt comfortable reporting these instances to the OICL, and neither have many of my peers, for a few reasons. Firstly, the students in question are often held in high-regard in the community. They’re often Cheerleaders, Varsity athletes and captains, and Proctors. Deerfield’s student-propagated “anti-snitch culture,” comes into play here, as it deters students from approaching the Administration for any transgression out of fear of social ostracization. These stakes become higher when the figures in question are often people highly revered in the community: many people would find your claims dubious due to the stature of the alleged, and villainize you for attempting to get such a “great person” in “needless trouble” for a “silly mistake” that’s “not that deep.” 

This segues to the general perception of the OICL—that a majority of their work is performative, and they fail to make any real impact. Reporting a student for a bigoted act would lead to anxiety-inducing, prolonged “he-said, she-said” deliberations, risk social suicide, and will likely ultimately be made in vain. The OICL doesn’t make students feel comfortable coming forward and reporting such hurtful issues. Their frequent engagement with diluted, widely-palatable, performative forms of diversity, equity, and inclusion work undermine their credibility when it comes to the important issues, and deters students from approaching them about said issues. OICL work is a nitty-gritty job. Deerfield seems to veer away from that aspect and paint a picture of a community that is completely devoid of bigotry. 

More than anything, it’s frustrating to feel as if the people hired for a singular purpose fail to fulfill that purpose. OICL does not seem to provide important education about bigotry, make the student body comfortable approaching them to report issues, or properly address existing issues, however big or small. So how impactful are they really on Deerfield’s campus?

I acknowledge that I do not know the ins-and-outs of the OICL, every account of bigotry that has occurred over the past four years and whether or not it was reported, or even the views of every minority student on this campus. However, based on my experience, and conversations with other minority students, this is a part of Deerfield life that we’ve come to accept. It’s up to us, Alliance leaders and members, and students from historically marginalized communities, to educate the greater student body about our experiences and ensure that we feel heard and supported. Hopefully this changes in the future. But for now, we are the real OICL.