Challenging Nostalgia and Confronting Racism at Elite Schools
A student at a prestigious, New England boarding school reflects on his time there; the role nostalgia plays at elite, predominantly white schools; and the paths we can take to making our communities more inclusive and just.
“St. Paul’s School has a storied past. More importantly, it has an unwritten future ahead of us that we are now tasked to determine.”
Now in my third and final year at St. Paul’s School, I find myself in a constant oscillation between loving and resenting this place and its role in my life. This is my reflection:
Each and every one of us applied to and enrolled into this school for a reason. While we’re here, it is to take away an unparalleled education, interact with beautiful grounds, and meet people from various pockets of the world. Once we leave, it is to leave this place with an abundance of social and cultural capital that comes with an elite education like ours. In addition to the connections, the diploma, and the clout, we depart St. Paul’s School but take its cinematic nostalgia with us.
I have come to realize, however, that for marginalized people at schools like this, the holistic experience looks more like tipping scales. On one side, the “beauty,” the overwhelmingly positive takeaways that I just listed: Social and cultural capital, opportunities like no other, and preparation for what any college could possibly throw our way. On the other, the “pain,” is where there is room for greater variability. Perhaps the “pain” side of the scale is weighed down by homesickness or an inability to find one’s niche. Perhaps, and what I wish to focus on in my chapel talk today, that side of the scale is weighed down by constant microaggressions, discrimination, harassment, and a feeling of being “other.” The propensity for this side to prevail — weighed down by trauma — is much greater for marginalized students and faculty at this school.
It is in this metaphor, of tipping scales, that we can see the difference between the experiences of privileged and disadvantaged folks at SPS. In these last 12 months, with the increased attention on racial and sexual inequities on campus, our school has faced its most pronounced reckoning with these two sides of the scale. Last summer, I had the unique privilege of aiding and taking a back seat to two Black friends and classmates on Black@SPS as a graphic designer and policy-writer. Of the many things I gained from this experience was an opportunity to hear and amplify the voices of fellow students, alumni, and former faculty who, simply put, no longer hold a desire to be associated with our school.
Hearing them describe their experiences was incredibly difficult to sit with. They had explained to me that, whereas their form-mates experienced a cinematic nostalgia when they think of Millville, these alumni can only think about the trauma and pain of attending the same predominantly white school which continues to face problems with racism. In other words, the “pain” side of their scale ultimately held the most weight.
As a student of color here, I understand, share, and empathize with what they feel. For me, personally, attending SPS has given me much to be grateful for: incredible friends, many dedicated faculty who care about me, and access to tremendous growth. For these, I will always love my home of three years.
Simultaneously, however, I know that SPS is liable for much of my racial trauma as it is for others’, too. Before SPS, I grew up in a comfortable New Hampshire household surrounded by many other Indian Americans. Though I attended predominantly white schools, having affinity at home allowed me to pay little attention to my race. There, I was unburdened by the notion of feeling “other.” When I moved to Concord, that changed. My first encounters with microaggressions, for example, were at SPS. For the first time, I had difficulty finding belonging. I witnessed hostility, ignorance, and violence not only from my peers but also from adults in positions of power. When I voiced my opinions on issues that impact me and those like me, I was called unappreciative or polarizing.
When I think about my own tipping scales at SPS, I find a constant push and pull between “beauty” and “pain.” On some days, I fixate on how beautiful this campus is and how grateful I am to be here. On others, I lose hope that the nostalgia and opportunity will hold enough weight by the time I graduate. On those days, my feelings gravitate towards resentment for poor treatment and the burdens I bear here. Balancing these two truths is a juggling act that is uniquely ours, and it is a feat that is exhausting. Talking to friends, we’ve realized that we have grown so much here, but it is the kind of growth born out of unnecessary difficulty.
Stories like this are why last summer was so important for SPS. Black@SPS played a crucial role in making our community more aware that there was, in fact, a possibility for those scales to not favor nostalgia. More importantly, it showed us all that, especially for Black alumni and other alumni of color, this is far too common.
Today, I want us all to consider the reasons why the Black@ movement — within a larger, nationwide fight for Black Lives — was so effective. Was it because it operated alongside a nationwide dialogue on racial injustices and police brutality? Was it simply because — as an online platform with thousands of followers and press inquiry from the New York Times and NHPR — this was bad for our reputation? Was it because the idea of Black and other students of color being in pain did not sit right with our school? All of these are possible, and I don’t think we can reduce it to just one answer.
What I will do, however, is propose a theory for this account’s success: Black@SPS posed a threat to the most crucial aspect of this institution’s business model: selling unfiltered, pure nostalgia.
Nostalgia and community within the alumni body is central to schools like ours. Additionally, a key part of our annual revenue stream is, of course, alumni relations. When alumni donate their funds to their alma mater, it is to keep their school as beautiful as it was when they attended. In other words, they want to preserve the nostalgia they feel when they think of our beautiful campus. In the name of preserving nostalgia, schools like St. Paul’s amass millions of dollars in donations annually.
So what happens when these alumni and benefactors realize that their beautiful experiences here happened parallel to other alumni’s trauma — does this tarnish their nostalgia and does it, in turn, not want to preserve (monetarily or otherwise) a broken SPS?
An exchange that rings in my mind as I consider this is a comment thread from Black@SPS. An alumnus from the 1990s, whose nostalgia was challenged, commented, “That is not the SPS I went to” punctuated with several question marks. In response, a younger alumna wrote, “This may not have been your experience, but it is definitely the SPS you went to.”
As Black@SPS identified and broadcast problems in the very fabric of our school, it catalyzed people’s own processes of challenging their notions of picturesque nostalgia as it did for the alumnus from the 90s who commented. When this nostalgia falters, such does the camaraderie built upon and its corresponding revenue.
It is my personal fear that schools like ours — in the name of preserving nostalgia and revenue — may veer away from the vital processes of self reflection and self criticism that are required to heal and grow. There exists a certain stubbornness and adamance that prevents us from identifying these flaws that are deeply woven into our fabric and the way we have been complicit in flaws woven into our nation’s fabric, too.
Today, our reluctance inhibits our abilities to identify real problems like the rape culture which burdens young women here, racist systems which burden BIPoC students, the culture which forces faculty of color to leave year after year, and other exclusionary practices and structures. To mitigate and repair, we must first identify.
I guarantee that a reluctance to admit our faults will result in far more damage to our community than any harm our reputation may endure. In order to move forward, we need to wholeheartedly recognize and embrace these flaws such we can heal from them and rebuild this place in a way that we can all call it home without caveats.
As I stand here, I recall being an inspired fourth former as I watched then sixth-formers give their parting words through chapel talks. In my best attempts to emulate the wisdom they shared, I will leave you all with the following advice:
Today’s opening sentence is by James Baldwin, who, in his “Talk to Teachers,” told educators the importance of teaching students to be aware and critical of their surroundings. He said:
“The paradox of education is precisely this — that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which [they are] educated. ” — James Baldwin
I encourage our community — of students, of faculty, of administrators — to take the time to love this place enough to criticize it. As we walk down the red bricks paths and past picturesque scenery, find the little things and the big things that we can change. In front of us lies a collection of fragments and parts of the intricate machine we live in — we are now tasked to pick which pieces we want to keep, which ones we want to discard, and which structures we want to amend. All of us have the power, capacity and the responsibility to celebrate what works, fix what doesn’t, and leave this place better than we initially found it.
St. Paul’s School has a storied past. More importantly, it has an unwritten future ahead of us that we are now tasked to determine.
