Brother Abele designed its architecture, my father waited its tables at the WaDuke and now, finally inside these walls, I once again must do my part in educating this University of its own hypocrisy.
From Sophie Cruz’s crayon-scrawled letter to the pope, to Jesus “Chuy” Huerta’s memory—his vigil march forged by injustice and tear gas—to the unsung women of color on this campus that sin ningua queja hold it down, to my primos luchando para estudiar en este país, to the newly born “anchor babies,” to the undocumented workers still unpaid to renovate the Marriot hotel downtown, to my Black herman@s still without sanctuary, to the obituaries and pantheons littering my tongue, yo dedico estas palabras a tí... Code-switching is as natural for me as a heartbeat, so let me first be perfectly clear: this university sterilizes my difference for the sake taste of (white) consumption.
