Is Academia Toxic for Black Women?

Too many Black women faculty and administrators are dying in higher education. Something has to change.

Are academic spaces inherently toxic for Black female faculty and administrators? I’m grappling with that question today in the aftermath of the death of Antoinette “Bonnie” Candia-Bailey. The vice president of student affairs at Lincoln University, Dr. Candia-Bailey committed suicide on January 8 following claims of being harassed at bullied by John Moseley, the White male president of the historically Black institution. She was 49.

I did not know Dr. Candia-Bailey, but I know several people who did. Her death is one of several recent sudden and premature deaths of Black women administrators in academic spaces. In September, two African American female college presidents died suddenly within the span of a week. Temple University president JoAnne A. Epps died a few hours after collapsing onstage at a university event. She was 72. A few days later, Dr. Orinthia T. Montague, the president of Volunteer State Community College, passed away at age 56.

In the US, educational and occupational privilege are typically associated with improved physical and mental health and longer life spans. But the health and well-being of Black women in higher education seem not to evidence the impact of our education, incomes, and access to health insurance. Neither Dr. Epps nor Dr. Montague nor Dr. Candia-Bailey reached the 2021 average life expectancy of 74.8 years for Black women. The same is true for many of the womanist theology colleagues whose passings I have mourned: Lynne St. Clair Darden, Katie Geneva Cannon, and Gay L. Byron. The weight of the grief is higher still when I consider the Black women clergy, activists, and writers who have been sources of inspiration to so many of us and whose lives ended far too soon. It’s why I’m often overjoyed when my colleagues retire while they still have the health to enjoy retirement. It’s also why I continuously preach the gospel of self-care to Black women.

For the past two weeks, I have been teaching my January intensive course, “Mindfulness and Self-Care in the Helping Professions.” On the first day of class, I introduce the concept of sudden ministry death syndrome, the term I’ve coined to refer to the the sudden, unexpected, and premature deaths of people in ordained or lay ministry, whether from the result of known or unknown health conditions, suicide, and in some cases, ministry-related accidents. My hope is that the course will reduce my students’ risk of burnout, poor health, and premature death. I want them to enter ministry positions aware of the risks to their well-being and prepared to mitigate those risks by engaging in good self-care practices. I want them to establish self-care patterns that will carry them throughout their careers.

But I’m also teaching this course for myself. I wish that I had this type of training in my doctoral program or in the new faculty orientation programs that I’ve sat through. More than I needed to know how to use online teaching tools or find the library archives, I needed to know how to:

• Reject imposter syndrome and the temptation to overextend myself to prove my worth to others.

• Gauge my load-bearing limits and set reasonable expectations of myself, my students, and my colleagues.

• Be attentive to my body and its signals, rather than repressing them in order to get more work done.

• Establish teaching and research portfolios that invigorate me while also advancing institutional priorities.

• Maintain the closeness of family and social relationships rather than sacrificing them for the sake of academic discipline.

• Recognize how the myth of the StrongBlackWoman creates a sense of survivor guilt among educated Black women that compels us to sacrifice our well-being in an effort to help others who don’t have the same advantages.

• Gain clarity about my own needs and priorities, and learn how to leverage institutional resources to meet those needs.

• Recognize that being a unicorn in academic spaces means that I will have an abundance of invitations and opportunities, that not every opportunity is a gift from God that I must accept, and that I have the power to choose for myself.

• Say no much more than I say yes.

• Set boundaries in ways that protect my energy and time.

• Establish collaborative and supportive relationships with other minoritized scholars to collectively respond to racial and gender micro aggressions from students, staff, faculty, and donors.

• Advocate for institutional policies and practices that promote faculty health and well-being.

• Distinguish between what is desired of me and what is required among the many demands that others place upon me.

• Recognize my worth, and know that it is not contingent upon acceptance by White and/or male power structures.

• Recognize when it is time to leave and have the courage to do so.

• Not sweat the overabundance of small stuff.

• Extend grace to myself and release my perfectionism.

And still I wonder: if I had known and done all that from the beginning of my career, would it have been enough to mitigate the harmfulness of academic institutions that thrive off our relentless striving and self-sacrifice? Is it enough even now? Or am I hastening my own demise with every year I spend in higher education?

Academic leaders have to grapple with this. But to do that, they have to care. They have to not see Black women as expendable workhorses whose value is determined by how much sacrifice ourselves for our students, our colleagues, and our institutions.

First, though, we have to not see ourselves in that way.

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Deadline for Mystic Activist Retreat is January 29

Apply now for the 5th Writing for Mystic Activists retreat, held July 10-16, 2024, at the Collegeville Institute in Collegeville Minnesota. Co-sponsored by the Writing for Mystic Activists is an invitation to join me and Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove for a week of attention to writing as a contemplative practice for activists and clergy. It is an opportunity to connect with a long tradition of resistance writers, develop your craft, and build community with others who experience a similar vocation. The Collegeville Institute covers all workshop fees, housing, meals, and travel expenses within the continental United States. Applications are due on Monday, January 29, 2024.