Lorelle Cortés Sang
Human in STEM ‘J21
For Building a Basis
January 19, 2021
Dear Human,
The idea for these letters stems from a watershed moment. In the fall of this past year I finished my major requirements at Amherst and I broke down, but perhaps in the best way possible. I want to emphasize here that this moment is not supposed to be a big deal. After seven completed semesters of college, it is expected that a student would at least be close to finished with their major requirements. I always saw this moment coming. So why then was I so overwhelmed?
I felt a weight that had been bearing on me for many years suddenly lighten.
My relationship with academia has been plagued with self-doubt, and this began well before my time at Amherst. Getting into Amherst, I thought, would alleviate this — I had so many doubts about whether or not I had a place in academia, and here was this fancy, elite institution giving me a spot. I was wrong. Amherst, while making strides to promote inclusion, is not yet free from the systems of power that feed imposter syndrome and self-doubt, so of course, mine persisted.
I have loved science forever, so the decision for me to pursue science at Amherst was a given. Science, however, has not always loved me. Or, perhaps, this is the false narrative I have held as truth for too long. In my career at Amherst I have not acknowledged the ways in which systems of power interact with how we learn and teach STEM, and despite my love for it, I have often wondered if it is “too hard for me.” Fears of not belonging and of failure have gotten me in my own way countless times, and in this moment I came to the realization that they were simply wrong. All of the meanest things I have heard or said about myself could never have been true. Science was never “too hard for me,” because even while balancing my coursework and the invisible labor of not belonging, I will earn my degree.
Putting my own personal experiences in conversation now with current literature, it becomes evident that imposter syndrome and feelings of inadequacy are a somewhat universal experience, particularly among students from marginalized communities. Why then, does it feel so personal? I invite you to consider this excerpt from a Radiolab podcast entitled The Liberation of RNA in which evolutionary biologist Brandon Ogbunu remarks, while contemplating his own relationship with science and, more specifically, James Watson — known for discovering the structure of DNA, less known for his notoriously blatant racist comments and behavior:
“… the connection between me and James Watson is about more than the profession. And the connection between all of us and James Watson is about more than science… James Watson is why you feel unwelcome in your job. James Watson makes you feel like an impostor.“
My point here is to say that while issues of exclusion in academia are systemic — the result of a long history of gatekeeping and intolerance, it does not feel like a system of power at work when I struggle with test anxiety, or am too afraid to participate in class, or go to office hours. It feels like inaptitude. It feels like maybe I’m just not smart enough to “get it.” These letters are thus intended to combat this tendency to internalize exclusionary practices in higher education, and thereby treat them as personal flaws.
My hope is that writing a letter will provide a means of structured reflection that is cathartic, and offers healing to those who have had to bear the weight of not belonging. In the midst of my realization I wished I could go back to those moments where I struggled most with imposter syndrome, and told myself to be kinder. While I can’t do that, I believe there still exist productive ways to give the grace I should have given myself. My next hope is that this is one way: that these letters, written together by members of the Amherst College community, will fall into the hands of those struggling to bear this weight. These letters will hopefully develop into a body of anecdotal knowledge that details how imposter syndrome can fester, and how it can be overcome. My final hope is that “Dear Human” not just be punny nomenclature for writing these letters, but a signal of inclusion. These letters are addressed to whomever they resonate with. They can and should be interacted with, replied to, perhaps rebutted.
My hope is not that these letters be thought of as a solution to the systems of power that generate these feelings of self-doubt, but rather, a way to care for ourselves as we find those solutions, knowing that there is still work to be done.
Signed,
Lorelle Cortés Sang
Human in STEM ‘J21
For When You Are Hurt
January 24, 2021
Dear Human,
I think the term microaggression can be misleading. Maybe someone’s words weren’t intended to cause harm. Maybe they still do not know that they have caused harm. Nonetheless, there are some offhand comments that follow me to this day. I often feel the desire to hide that fact because it’s not very flattering to be someone who “holds a grudge,” or takes things too personally, or to be too sensitive. I now question who it is serving when I choose to hide the fact that these comments have been hurtful. It certainly has not served me. I’m not implying that we should overstate the intended harm behind an offhand comment, but I seek to call into question how we understate their impact.
One literature review reveals the extent to which we, within STEM fields, have been understating this harm. In Latino STEM Scholars, Barriers, and Mental Health: A Review of the Literature, Muñoz and Villanueva detail how Latinx faculty members who persist in STEM fields in spite of the discrimination they face exhibit “diminishing returns” such that an increase in socioeconomic status is correlated with a decrease in mental and physical health. This review was painful and daunting for me to read, and yet, incredibly validating. The hurt associated with discrimination, exclusionary practices, and yes, microaggressions is quantifiably real. It is not just me making a big deal out of nothing. By the same logic, you are not making a big deal out of anything. This is a big deal.
The moments that follow me most are the ones that feel like a betrayal. If you have ever had someone you have trusted make you question your value, or whether or not you belong, perhaps you know what I am referring to. Having been reared in a system that does not always value my contributions, that chooses to ignore aspects of who I am until it is convenient, being able to lean on those I trust for support has been vital to my persistence in this field. To then have my worst thoughts about myself reinforced by those I trust causes me to wonder who is really looking to support me, and under what circumstances? Worse, if this person claims to know me well, could they be right?
As exhausting as it is to have to make room for myself in places where room is granted inherently for others, I went into neuroscience because I see the people I love in this field. I’m pursuing medical school because I want to care for the people I love. I do not owe anyone who seeks to disavow my place in STEM this explanation, but I owe it to myself to bear in mind that my reasons for being here are as legitimate as anyone else’s. So too is the lens through which I view what I study. This lens is not, however, exactly the same as anyone else’s, and the additional perspective that I hope to bring is something to be celebrated.
I aspire to one day not have to rely on external support networks as much: to be able to disregard comments that I know to be false. Before I can get there, I have to first shed the moments that continue to follow me. Persisting in spite of them was a helpful starting point, but it was not enough. Persisting in spite of them left me with the anger and sadness that these moments incited. Persisting in spite of them does not feel like success, but a burden. To take here from Mary Oliver’s poem: instead of just persisting, I think it is time that I start learning to find and embrace the joy I know I can have when pursuing the things I care about without worrying about whether or not I am entitled to it. Joy is resistance, especially when felt in plenty.
Signed,
Lorelle Cortés Sang
Human in STEM ‘J21
For Building a Basis (pt.2)
January 22, 2021
Dear Human,
I wish I were a poet. I’m not. I invite anyone to consider these words from Mary Oliver, as introduced to my HSTEM cohort by Dr. J. I found these meaningful for reflecting on my experiences in a positive and productive way. I hope they might offer someone else the same.
Signed,
Lorelle Cortés Sang
Human in STEM ‘J21
Don’t Hesitate
If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
Evidence (excerpt)
And, where are you, with your ears bagged down
as if with packets of sand? Listen. We all
have much more listening to do. Tear the sand
away. and listen. The river is singing.
What blackboard could ever be invented that
could hold all the zeros of eternity?
Let me put it this way- if you disdain the
cobbler may I assume you walk barefoot?
For When You Are Afraid of Failing
January 27, 2021
Dear Human,
I think fear of failure never really goes away. Having failed many times, I know logically speaking that the world goes on afterwards. Failing at something does not mean that you will never be successful. That said, sometimes getting a B on a big test still leaves me with a pit in my stomach. The most unfortunate part about that is that a B is so far from failure. When I consider how much I may have struggled with that material before the exam, and look at how hard I worked, how much time went into developing my understanding, a B might even be something to celebrate. Yet, I have never once celebrated a B. I think it’s time, now, to reconsider how I have defined failure, as its actuality is so far from my perception of it.
At a place like Amherst there is pressure to be exceptional. To get here you had to be exceptional, and once you are here it feels like you have something to prove. I believe that pressure is even greater when you maintain an understanding that you weren’t supposed to be here, or when there is rhetoric tossed around about the reasons why you might be here, with none of those reasons having to do with your intellect, unique perspective, or general value as a human being. In reality, this rhetoric is the only thing actually failing. It fails all of us by leading one to believe that getting a B means admissions made a mistake, or financial aid spent too much money on them, or their family and friends are less proud, or they weren’t grateful enough to work harder, or not naturally intelligent enough to just get a better grade. All the while, that very same person is in good academic standing and worked hard to be where they are.
Being this afraid of failing made it so much harder to celebrate my successes. Actually failing was never a considerable option because I was so preoccupied with how much of a failure I would be if I wasn’t exceptional. Oftentimes, getting a “good grade” or whatever not failing looked like in that instance did not thereafter feel like a success. It felt like a relief. Yes, this is an internal problem, and something I need to work through, but it would be a disservice to myself not to acknowledge how the pressure to be exceptional is also constantly reinforced by higher education. Take for example, a statistic presented in a Nature journal article (entitled Does Gender Matter?) that found that “women applying for a research grant needed to be 2.5 times more productive than men in order to be considered equally competent.” It is not just that I have this internalized need to be exceptional running rampant in my brain. This need to be exceptional is thrown at me directly from the fields I aspire to be a part of. It is not just rhetoric that needs to be battled, but real disparities in terms of who gets to hold prestigious positions, whose work gets published and in which journals, and who wins the fancy grants.
I say all of this in no way trying to invoke pessimism (although I may have a tendency for it). I say this instead to convince, at least, myself that there is enough pressure coming from external forces. There is no need to add to that with a cruel internal dialogue. My professors can attest, I have gotten Bs and lived. I can attest, I have gotten Bs and built beautiful relationships with those I love, and been hired by employers, and life really does go on.
I think it would hypocritical to not acknowledge that I almost did not take HSTEM, the reason any of these letters have been written, because I was afraid that with all the craziness of life in a pandemic, and having to figure out life post-Amherst, I did not think I could do it and get all of my work done on time and I would not get a good grade (incredibly ironic in hindsight). I almost allowed myself to privilege grades over an experience that has resulted in real personal growth. It is painfully ironic how often we may be failing ourselves as people because of how much we fear failure as arguably arbitrarily defined by some academy that wasn’t even made to fit our best interests.
I thought the worst-case scenario for this course was a B. The worst-case scenario was really taking the information I have been given and not growing from it. I think it’s time that we re-evaluate what our worst-case scenarios are.
Signed,
Lorelle Cortés Sang
Human in STEM ‘J21