Writing back while Black

The story of my PhD journey can be encapsulated in the following words of the towering author, intellectual and activist Maya Angelou: ‘Stand up straight and realise who you are, that you tower over your circumstances’ (Angelou, 2014).

I chose to write about my journey of completing my PhD in the hope that I can speak to those who are searching for suggestions on how to stay on course and endure the race to possibly become a Black academic in higher education. When I was planning to do a PhD, I had little knowledge as to how to navigate the rough terrain in accessing funding. I first researched the Economic Social Research Council funding options and soon realised that this highly competitive funding body did not accommodate women like me. After having three children I decided to teach in further education and pursue a PhD. I asked myself, could I realistically secure funding from such an elitist funding system? After weighing up the financial costs, the need to conduct my research became more imminent and I decided to self- fund my PhD. Fortunately, due to my teaching experience, I was employed as an associate lecturer while doing my PhD at the university. In retrospect, I realise how fortunate I was to complete my PhD on a full- time basis. In the current neoliberal climate, it has become exceedingly difficult and exceptionally competitive for Black students to gain PhD funding, as many undergraduates attend post- 92 universities as opposed to Russell Group universities. From my experience, a self- funded PhD requires self- discipline, tenacity and mental strength to keep going through the ebbs and flows of the PhD journey. Despite being frugal with my research budget, I was continually existing on an overdraft, but I did not let that deter me. Past studies have shown that many Black PhD students are forced to do their PhD part time and work numerous jobs as well as struggle with the burden of teaching.

Being an academic was something I wanted to be before I understood what it fully meant. I knew that I loved learning and I felt at home within educational settings. As a child, my performance in school reflected this, but there was something else that was reflected too – my love for expression. I was always the child in parents’ evening whose parents were told: ‘She performs exceptionally in her classes, but she talks too much.’ I laugh when I think about this because I now realise that, as well as an academic, I was a performing artist in the making. Social engagement for leisure was something I never sacrificed in early education, hence it is ironic that I now have a PhD place in Cognitive Neuroscience with a focus on social cognition and engagement. However, my initial inspirations did not come from a neuroscientific background; my interest in science stemmed from my love of performing arts, specifically theatre.

I stepped into secondary school with this love for theatre; however, it was there where I began to understand that the merging of science and arts was not straightforward. The curriculum prioritised ‘core subjects’ over ‘creative subjects’ and, therefore, having interdisciplinary subject interests as a high achieving student was not highly encouraged. I remember facing an immense conflict between the science and drama department's extracurricular clubs. It was then I knew that I would have to take the tailoring process of what I wanted my academic pathway to look like into my own hands because I did not want to sacrifice one field for the other.

One interesting factor to note as a Black student was that this conflict was not a racial one, as my drama and science teachers were all Black. I did not ponder this at the time. It was only upon recent reflection in conversations about early academia that I realised that my secondary school had good Black and Brown staff representation from the headteacher level down, and this diversity was seen across gender as well. Experiencing a diverse teaching staff was the norm for me but, of course, this pattern was not maintained in further or higher education.

The ‘weighted waiting’ encountered by Black students in pursuit of a PhD are thankfully not insurmountable, as demonstrated in these accounts. However, unnecessary institutional barriers leave many Black students traumatised from their higher education experiences, making the idea of continuation in the system an anathema. Despite these realities, the determination and courage of these students are to be admired, but not followed. These accounts highlight the very real need for greater institutional support for the Black undergraduate community. What institutional support structures are needed to remove the current barriers? How can institutions provide better training and transparency in their admission processes? We should not have to wait. Why are we waiting? Starting the process at a disadvantage makes the next stage more difficult to navigate as the accounts in the next part will outline.

The following set of chapters detail the powerful role that individuals and support systems within academia have played in the successful development and progression of Black PhD students. Having appropriate support while progressing through the various stages of academia is vital for the development of all scholars, as many rules and practices in these spaces are often unwritten, complex and require extensive training to traverse. Whether it be a supervisor, programme or the work of a department, positive guidance helps to ensure the success of all students. These support systems are even more critical for Black students who often navigate environments where they are in the minority. Their minoritisation can develop into a consuming feeling that wears them down, affecting their wellbeing and continuation through the academic pipeline. The correct support can therefore help counteract this isolation and marginalisation, which is all too common a feature of academic spaces in the UK.

Suitable academic support can take many forms but amounts to the same end product – the increased retention of students, who feel empowered, confident and are able to progress further. At the beginning of this part, Simone's chapter demonstrates the power of effective outreach, where an institution made a concerted effort to interface with underserved schools within London. This, in addition to the support she subsequently received from her academic mentor and her PhD supervisor after being diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, were critical for her continuation within academic research. Next, Angela gives her account of being uplifted after being worn down from a previous academic experience, and the deliberate decision she made to choose a supportive environment. This choice, often a strong consideration for many prospective Black students was vindicated by the confidence her supervisors instilled in her. In Peggy's chapter we see the assistance and support of multiple supervisors that allows for her creative research choices, which went against the status quo, to come to fruition. Her work has gone on to be screened publicly and celebrated nationally. Conversely, Rees’ account shows the importance of vital interventions by academics and a department when conflicts arise during supervision and the transformative effect that being proactive can have on a scholar's wellbeing and growth.

The collection of essays in this part speaks to the void created by the absence of established support networks existing within higher education institutions to empower and retain Black talent. This void has forced Black students and scholars to step in and create their own spaces of empowerment and encouragement. Black doctoral students, as seen in earlier essays, have already had to overcome great obstacles to reach the point of undertaking their research. Once they enter these hallowed halls they must now combat the experiences of isolation and segregation from both their academic peers and Black community – all against the backdrop of pursuing their passions.

It is hard to find a place where one has to undergo so much maltreatment for the simple pursuit of knowledge. Yet, as is expressed in most of the essays you are about to read, it is an inevitability as a Black person existing in academia.

Madina and De- Shaine's essays both speak to the experience of disillusionment at certain points in their educational journeys where they could no longer ignore the active discouragement and prejudicial treatment by senior White academics. It was this disillusionment that led them to seek out and create spaces where they could find community where there once was none.

The act of creating one's own community is a beautiful and often bittersweet circumstance. Beautiful, because there is nothing quite like being surrounded and empowered by a community of shared experiences; bittersweet, because this almost always comes at the cost of experiencing serious solitude and detachment. It has long been discoursed that individualism is not a native African ideology (Odimegwu, 2007). Take the African proverb ‘it takes a village’ as an example – widely used to impart the fact that community and togetherness are essential pillars of an effective society. This theme of community is seen in Paulette's essay, where she recounts how her mother's encouragement to maintain a connection to her culture and heritage was foundational to her starting the organisation Leading Routes.

As a Black Caribbean PhD student in the field of Earth Sciences, I know too well the feeling of isolation within academia. Earth Sciences is one of the least diverse STEM subjects; in the UK, Black students represent 1.6 per cent of Geology postgraduate researchers, while 3.8 per cent of 18– 24- year- olds are Black. This lack of representation has manifested itself in numerous ways over the years, from facing microaggressions from other students and faculty to piercing, obvious stares in rural Pembrokeshire on field trips. This feeling of isolation is a relatively recent addition to my emotional state if you consider my academic journey so far.

Growing up in the north- western suburbs of Birmingham, I had what many would call an idyllic upbringing. My secondary school was a diverse, all- girls’ grammar school where I faced little racism. While grammar schools and the concept of selective schools themselves are problematic (overt prestige was one of the first lessons I learned there), I gained a rigorous work ethic, self- confidence, and lifelong friends. I was never taught by a Black teacher – in hindsight, this was perhaps a forewarning of my future academic path. However, I always had a strong, Black, academic role model in my mum. A maths teacher at a nearby school, she nurtured my mathematical talents more so than my own maths teacher, pushing me to achieve my GCSE Maths a year earlier than my classmates. My love of maths grew, alongside my passion for understanding the planet – Geography was always my favourite subject in school. Combining these subjects, I decided to pursue a degree in Geophysics, which is the study of the physical processes and properties of the Earth. Up until now, my educational experience had been relatively smooth, with plenty of Black peers who understood what it was to be a Black woman growing up as a minority in British society. Nevertheless, when I arrived at the University of Leeds, it was a shock.

In this chapter I really grapple with how to challenge and confront institutional discrimination, while trying to use the processes and mechanisms of the same institution to obtain my PhD. Audre Lorde's words immediately spring to mind when I critically reflect on my experience: ‘the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change’ (Lorde, 1984 (emphasis in original)).

When I embarked upon my PhD three years ago, I was full of hope and excitement to begin this new academic chapter. I had received a studentship to begin my doctoral studies at a small postgraduate campus based in London (with the larger main campus elsewhere in the UK). At the time, our campus had 14 PhD students, all of whom, except me, were international. Going into it, I expected the PhD journey to be an intellectually demanding, intensely challenging, yet rewarding labour of love. What I did not anticipate, however, was to find myself within an oppressive working environment, which operated through a culture of fear and intimidation and the systematic bullying of its marginalised PhD students.

Within the first year of my studies, I witnessed serious issues with the way international students were treated at my institution. These ranged from students being denied access to work laptops, phones, office spaces, research training and, at times, being prevented from taking their legal entitlement to annual leave. These issues, while problematic and disruptive, were less severe in comparison to some of the major issues we faced, which included students being reported to their supervisors for raising issues about university practices, being threatened with being reported to immigration for taking leave, failing to process ethics form submissions, withholding information, and confidential emails being forwarded to other staff members. Outraged, I encouraged my PhD colleagues to raise issues through their supervisory teams and postgraduate researcher (PGR) representative (rep). However, as those further along in their studies explained, raising issues typically resulted in one of two things: being ignored or targeted victimisation. As I would witness, the impact of this victimisation was profound and had, unfortunately, already taken its toll on many students.

Twenty-seven personal accounts, 27 unique stories, 27 lessons to be learned. In the five preceding parts of this book, you have read the stories of Black academics across the UK, who have detailed their experiences of aspiring to and obtaining a PhD degree. From the perils and pitfalls of being Black and applying for a PhD in Part I, to the reflections at the completion of a PhD journey in Part V, the challenges and difficulties Black PhD scholars face have been outlined in their own words. These accounts speak to the resilience, determination and ingenuity that has led them to succeed in spite of their academic environments. The chapters have spoken of personal struggles for rights and recognition after entering white academic spaces (in Part II). They also detail the innovative Black support networks that have filled institutional voids, often at a great cost to already marginalised individuals (Part III). We have also seen instances in Part IV where supervisors, programmes and departments have provided exceptional support that has facilitated the success of Black students. These accounts, written between 2021 and 2023, stand as a collective testimony of the current state of UK academia for Black people undertaking doctoral research.

Consistent themes

From Part I of the book, focusing on students applying to study for a PhD, issues of access, lack of information, uncertainty, confidence and isolation consistently appear. From these accounts, we can see that the path to a PhD is often mystifying, inaccessible and prohibitively difficult to understand. Where do you find PhD places? Do you contact supervisors beforehand? Is joining a centre for doctoral training the best decision for me? The path to a PhD is not uniform and needs to be better explained to those looking to be admitted. More needs to be done to inform Black undergraduates and master's students about PhD research, in regards to the requirements for study, the opportunities available and the benefits that can be accrued. How can we expect Black students to undertake this qualification if there is no complete and definitive picture of what a PhD entails?

In Part I, ‘The “weighted” waiting game’, we encounter the honest reflections of students starting the process of embarking on the PhD journey. For all students there are several considerations, ranging from making the decision to undertake doctoral studies, the process of finding the right institution and supervisory team, and then attempting to secure funding. As these chapters will attest, the current arrangements disadvantage Black students. They on average wait longer for interviews, wait longer for decisions, must knock on more doors than others to get advice, and wait longer to get accepted on programmes. We describe this process as the ‘weighted waiting game’. In Sophie's chapter, as a curious young Black girl, stereotypical depictions of ‘a scientist’ failed to inspire her to imagine pursuing a PhD or a scientific career. Despite her academic ability, the rigorous entry procedure for an elite educational institution and the subsequent low admission rate of Black students served to reinforce the notion of not belonging in these spaces, invoking feelings of isolation, loneliness and self-doubt. The intersectional characteristics of being Black and a woman further underpin the feeling of being underrepresented and undervalued in her chosen field of Physics. This echoes the accounts of loneliness and sacrifice described in Nicola Rollock's 2019 exposition of 20 out of 25 Black female professors’ career journeys and the strategies employed for surviving within the higher education system (Rollock, 2019). For Katty this ‘weighted recognition’ manifests in the 50 applications and three years wait before securing a funded PhD. The emotional toll of receiving multiple rejections with no clear reason causes her to ask ‘Why am I doing this? Is it for the passion of the subject or to prove that I can?’ This is mirrored in Sigourney's powerful chapter outlining a seemingly never- ending cycle of applications, interviews and rejections, which undoubtedly weighs heavily on her and countless others who experience this process. For Esther, despite her known desires to pursue a PhD, barriers in securing funded positions, and previously encountered microaggressions necessitated a period to recover from these traumatising experiences before she could realise her full potential in higher education (waiting to recover).

It is clear that the journeys of Black PhD students are shaped by a huge number of factors within and beyond education. Accounts in this part have highlighted the many obstacles facing Black students, but also the areas for improvement, and the power of community action. As an educator, parent or any other community or institutional member, where do you think change can be made?

Many of us strive for equitable change and increased opportunities for Black students. However, in the meantime, students continue to enter a system that is hostile to them. How do we balance being honest with students about the struggles in progression and precarity in academia, without deterring them from potential opportunities? Are there any actions that are needed alongside these conversations?

Every two weeks, on a Saturday evening, I switch on my laptop, and join co- organisers from North America, West Africa and Europe to work on the non- profit organisation, Black In Immuno. Since its inception in 2020, we have created a platform to connect with, celebrate and support Black immunologists from across the world. Immunology is the study of the immune system, and understanding this system involves studying complex interactions, such as those between a virus and an infected cell, or between an antibody and its target. These fascinating interactions are what drew me towards the field of immunology, but it is also what motivates me to pour much of my spare time towards Black In Immuno. I am fueled to keep exploring and creating connections for Black scholars at the centre of this field. This need to build connections is very human, and for me it is rooted in the lack of Black scholars I have encountered in my educational journey.

The complex reasons for the underrepresentation of Black scholars were not something I understood during my undergraduate studies. I finished secondary school with no more than six other Black students in a year group of 200. This was not so different to the situation in my undergraduate course, where I was one of three Black students in a class of 150. I also saw very few Black researchers and faculty; however, this was not unusual for my educational experience. My prior years at school in south east England were largely absent of Black educators and I had grown accustomed to, although not entirely comfortable with, this reality. Although I saw little representation of Black scientists and educators at school, both my parents are university educated and trained in scientific disciplines. In fact, within my large extended family, my siblings and many of my cousins, aunts and uncles have been educated in the sciences. Being a Black scientist was, therefore, never something I doubted could be possible.

Counternarrative storytelling is an invaluable technique when centering overlooked voices and experiences of race and gender, as seen within theoretical frameworks such as Critical Race Theory and Black feminist epistemology. Additionally, the oral traditions of many African diasporic cultures necessitates storytelling as a crucial component of the sharing and passing down of practices, beliefs and teachings. Storytelling is an art form that can be used as entertainment, within music and in writing. To honour the power and beauty of this custom, I will utilise storytelling to describe what completing a PhD felt like to me.

Learning how to swim

Completing a PhD is akin to being a weak swimmer but being thrown into the deep end of a huge pool, having to learn, right there and then, how to keep yourself from drowning and to eventually be able to swim to the other end. You might have people on the sides of the pool in the stands, let us say friends or family members, who love you and are just as frightened as you, watching you struggle in the water. They will try to offer assistance by shouting out to you to ‘keep moving your arms and legs’, but they will never be able to understand how deep the water is or just how hard you are trying to keep moving your arms and legs!

Gaining a PhD denotes being part of a tiny group of 1.4 per cent of 25– 64- year- olds in the UK that have one (Coldron, 2019). Unfortunately, this tiny percentage has not been broken down further to illustrate what this looks like when accounting for specific characteristics like race, gender and/ or social class. But to gain an idea about how many Black British students progress to studying at PhD level, data from United Kingdom Research and Innovation (UKRI) is useful. According to UKRI data, between 2016 and 2019, ‘of the total 19,868 PhD funded studentships awarded by UKRI research councils collectively, 245 (1.2 per cent) were awarded to Black or Black Mixed students, with just 30 of those being from Black Caribbean backgrounds’ (Williams et al., 2019).

I knew I wanted to do a PhD when I was undergoing my undergraduate studies in Biomedical Science. From then on, I knew I wanted to be a research scientist. In my field, you are limited for chances in high positions without a doctoral degree, so it seemed like a no brainer to me. After my undergraduate degree I went on to pursue a master's and, on completing that, I decided to get a few months of work experience, while applying for PhD programmes. I started applying in 2017 and, by the time I had received offers, I had applied to almost 50 different projects over the course of three years. Now, I am a first- year Medical Science PhD student at a prestigious university, and the whole experience feels surreal.

There were many times I told myself that I was not going to continue applying and times when the thought of completing another application form would fill me with dread. Repeated rejections were a huge damper on my work and motivation to even pursue a PhD. I had convinced myself that I was not smart enough to be offered a PhD, which, of course, was not true. Some of the feedback I had received was that other candidates were stronger, or that I had a good knowledge of the project but my experience was lacking. Most times, I was told there were too many applicants to receive individual feedback. Even now that I have started, I am sometimes hit by a feeling of imposter syndrome when things do not work in my project or there are things I do not understand. The feeling of not being good enough to be in the programme still hits me.

During my many failed applications, I decided to continue gaining some work experience and train in my field of interest. Looking back, I am glad I had the chance to work and learn skills that have been extremely useful now that I am doing my PhD. One of the most important things I learned is that your journey is not going to be the same as everyone else’s, and it may not go the way you plan it either. In some cases, it may end up even better than you could imagine.

At the point of writing this, I am just four months into my PhD journey. Fresh- faced and a bit wet behind the ears, I look to older students for advice about what to expect over the next three years. They warn that I have a steep learning curve ahead; that a PhD is a marathon, not a sprint, and that I need to pace myself if I want to successfully overcome the hurdles I will face. Their advice is important and valued, but what I do not say is that, as a Black student, this is not just a marathon: this is my life. I have been running this race since I entered the education system and, while pursuing this PhD may be the biggest challenge yet, it is not my first.

It is difficult to untangle my experiences of the PhD and the application process without first considering how I got here. Not only am I a Black woman of mixed ethnicity, but I have spent most of my life living and learning in predominantly White spaces. For a long time, I did not consciously consider the impact this had on me. In fact, I have spent a lot of my life actively avoiding thinking about my ethnicity, because I was desperate to fit in and be ‘just like everyone else’. But as I have grown older and gained some distance from my childhood, I have been able to recognise that being one of the few among the many in educational settings has been detrimental – most significantly on my mental wellbeing.

Imagine this: you spend the first ten years of your life growing up in London. While you are not ignorant of racism (how can you be, when a friend says ‘My family don't like people who look like you’), you attend a school where half your classmates identify as non- White. Race is present but it does not dominate, and you take this for granted. Your family then move to a small, seaside city in southern England, and you start at a new school.

I will never forget the first time I read Ain't I a Woman by Audre Lorde. I was in the final year of a psychology bachelors’ degree, reading outside the syllabus for an essay question I had written myself. Prior to this, I had thought of Black feminism as an activist term, but bell hooks introduced it to me as an academic one; I had not realised that talking about the lives of Black women was a ‘proper’ academic subject, and especially not doing so using a first- person voice. I fell in love. I remember going to speak to my then advisor about it – an affable social psychologist of identity with a love of George Herbert Mead – and him telling me he was unable to recommend any readings as he was unfamiliar with the subject area. I had a response, deeply personal and emotional, that I found difficult to understand at the time, but I recognise now as the stomach- turning vertigo of walking face first into the steep walls of academia's ivory tower. This was a moment of alienating clarity in a long history of those responsible for my education being under- equipped to support my development as a Black feminist academic. I think of this moment now as the start of a journey, one that I am still working out how to navigate – how to be a woman of colour producing Black feminist research in the White spaces of academia.

Years later I was confronted with another moment of dissociating clarity when I began to think in earnest about finding a PhD supervisor. Having loved the intellectual and political environment of my master's course, it was my goal to return to that department as a doctoral candidate and as the time came to prepare my application, I began to think about who I might approach as a potential supervisor. Knowing I was lucky to have close mentorship relationships with several faculty members, I felt confident beginning my search; until, that is, I realised none of their research biographies listed critical race theory – let alone Blackness – as a specialism. I faltered, feeling the tower creeping ever- so- slowly higher.

When I was an undergraduate student at university in the mid- 1980s I often found myself being the only Black person in the midst of a sea of White faces at lectures. Having been brought up and raised in London surrounded by people from a wide range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds, it was very unnerving to inhabit a space of learning where I was a minority of one. In such an environment I was constantly second- guessing myself as to what to think, what to write, how to behave and how to relate to the people and processes that I believed would determine my academic destiny. Fast forward to the 2000s, I had successfully managed to navigate through undergraduate and postgraduate systems of learning and was now teaching and researching in a university. At the undergraduate level where I taught there existed large numbers of Black students, but at postgraduate level, especially at doctoral level, I was continually encountering isolated Black individual students, who were second- guessing themselves and suffering just as I was so many years ago. We were, and are as academics and higher- level students, existing in institutional spaces that regarded Black intellectual endeavour as marginal to the life and work of the university. It is out of this context that the African Diaspora Postgraduate Network (ADPN) was born and continues to operate. In this portrait I will outline how it was formed, the work it has undertaken, its impact and what its continuing existence reveals about the state of doctoral study in British universities today.

It was in 2012 that Professor Robert Beckford came up with the proposal that he and I, as two Black academics based in higher education institutions, should create a space for our respective doctoral students to come together in a supportive Black- led environment. He was based in Canterbury, Kent in the south of England at the time, but the overwhelming majority of his Black doctoral students were based in and around London and found the Canterbury academic environment very isolating. I was based in London and had access to classroom space, and so we came together.