This week we present two stories from people who were faced with barriers to their education.
Part 1: Eager to succeed in her Physical Chemistry class, Shaniece Mosley is thrown off by a professor's attempt at a compliment.
Shaniece Mosley has been a teacher for eight years, and currently teaches chemistry, AP Chemistry, and science research at Midwood High School in Brooklyn. After attending Northeastern University and SUNYAlbany, where she received a B.S. in Chemistry, she attended Pace University where she earned an M.S. in Secondary Science Education. A former New York City Teaching Fellow, Shaniece is now an MƒA Master Teacher. She enjoys spending free time with her husband Dan and their 2 year old son Greyson.
Part 2: Lelemia Irvine struggles to get through his PhD program as he's constantly told that his identity as a Native Hawaiian is incompatible with academia.
Lelemia Irvine, PhD, EIT, is kupukaaina, a lineal descendant from the aboriginal families that sprouted out of the land of Waiʻanae, Oʻahu. Dr. Irvine is an Assistant Professor of Physics at the University of Hawaiʻi at West Oʻahu. He is now at his dream job as a professor but the road to get there was not a breeze. Dr. Irvine is the first Kāne Kanaka ʻŌiwi (Native Hawaiian male) to earn a PhD in Civil and Environmental Engineering program at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa in 2019. In his doctoral research, he studied the physics of stormwater within a bioswale using predictive and computational approaches. As far as we know, presently there are less than 10 Native Hawaiians with a PhD in any engineering discipline in the world. Dr. Irvine is a self-described Rain Farmer, a term he coined, when his father, who has dementia, ask him “boy, what you studying in school?”. As a rain farmer, he seeks to connect sky to aquifer thru the physics of fluids and indigenous engineering ways of knowing. Dr. Irvine shares his personal journey as an empowerment tool for others to co-navigate and constellate the village of higher education systems.
Episode Transcript
Part 1: Shaniece Mosley
The first day of school I enter my classroom and I’m so excited to see all of the new faces. I scan the 34 or so, new AP Chemistry students that sit in front of me and I see two black faces. Two. In their faces I see me.
In 1998, I was a student at P.S. 30 in the south side of Jamaica, Queens. I grew up in Rochdale Village. And if you've ever flown out of JFK, you have definitely seen it. It’s the 20 or so brick buildings that sort of shoot out into the skyline.
I attended P.S. 30 from the time I was in pre-K and it was a very close-knit community. I knew everyone I went to school with, even the teachers. They lived in our community. So it wasn’t a rare sight to see teachers shopping at Key Food or even doing laundry in the basement of our building.
Entering the fourth grade, changed the trajectory of my entire life. Up until this point, I had only been taught by teachers who look like me, and I mean that in every sense. From pre-K until third grade, I had only been taught by black women. So it makes sense that when Ms. Rahman entered our school in the fourth grade, we were all fascinated.
Everything she did and said amazed us. I mean her clothes, imagine pantsuits, and her handwriting, perfect cursive, everything she did just fascinated us. We were astounded. So even though we all hit her with a huh-face when she announced we would be participating in a science fair, we all obliged.
I go home and I tell my grandmother that I need to do a science fair project to which she says, “What’s that?”
And I say, “You know, like a volcano.”
To which she replies, “You ain’t making no volcano in my house.”
So I set out to find a different project and I honestly don’t know how I landed on salt crystals. I keep thinking what did we do before Google, and I’m still drawing a blank. My grandmother gives me $10 to go get materials and then I discover that most of the stuff that I needed we already had in the house, so salt crystals it was. That was my science fair project.
I know you guys are wondering what did I do with that $10. I spent it on candy, okay. Sorry, grandma. She still doesn’t know.
So we had a few weeks to do our experiments and put together our boards. Then one day we had an all-morning fair. The teachers and school staff came around and asked us questions about our experiments and then later that day they announced the winners.
So I know you guys are wondering, on the edge of your seats. You're thinking I won first place. I didn’t. I won second place.
Shaniece Mosley shares her story with the Story Collider audience as part of a show with Math for America at Caveat in New York City in May 2019. Photo by Zhen Qin.
And I cried. I mean I boo-hoo cried. I Kim Kardashian-ugly cried. I was just so happy. I’m thinking now, I thought my project was so simple. It was just salt and water. It was cheap. It wasn’t complicated. I really didn’t think that what I did was science. Ten years old, I don’t think that scientists look like me. They don’t come from the south side of Jamaica, Queens.
So fast forward to 2007. I had just transferred from Northeastern University to SUNY, Albany. I enrolled in a P-Chem course or physical chemistry. And the chair of the department was actually our lab teacher. Sorry, our lab professor. They don’t like using that ‘teacher’ word.
We spent our first lab session going over expectations. We made our lab groups. And then most of us were coming to grips with the fact that no matter what we did for our first paper, it would be underwhelming to him. In his own words, “No one gets an A the first time around.”
So two weeks later, he's handing back our papers and he's calling us in one by one into the back office to go over what needs to be improved for our next paper. My last name is M, so of course I wasn’t first, but name after name is called before me and so my heart is pounding. It’s pounding so hard I can hear it drumming in my ears.
And then I start thinking maybe he forgot me. That’s the first thing. And then after more time goes on, I’m thinking like, “Shit, my paper is really that bad.”
So, finally he calls me into the office and I sit down across from him and he hands me my paper. And there is an A-minus circled in red on top. Thank you. So, of course I’m feeling like, yeah. you know? All right, all right. Okay.
So he starts talking to me and he starts asking me questions. He wants to know a little bit more about me. He starts commenting on how well-written my paper was, how shocked he is about how well-written my paper was.
Then he starts asking more questions. So the first question he asks is, “Where did you go to school?”
Shaniece Mosley shares her story with the Story Collider audience as part of a show with Math for America at Caveat in New York City in May 2019. Photo by Zhen Qin.
And I say, “Well, I went to school in New York City.”
And then he says, “Private school?”
And I say, “No, I went to public school, Manhattan Center.” Big Ups! Woo woo! - I just did that because you're sitting there.
“No, I went to public school. I didn’t go to private school.”
“Well, you just write so well. I’m so impressed. I’m just shocked.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Do you have a tutor?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m just... you write so well.”
“Okay.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be Haitian, would you?”
“No, I’m not Haitian.”
“Well, the reason why I ask is because my son is doing charity work down with the Haitians and it would be really nice if I could tell him I met one here.”
“Okay.”
And that was it. That was our conversation. I got up and I left.
I go back to my dorm room and I remember talking to my mom. I just transferred schools. I went from Northeastern to SUNY, Albany so it’s a really big deal. This was my first big paper. And I was excited. A-minus. I was very happy. I was very proud of what I did.
My mom, however, was not as proud. She was not as happy. I told her the whole exchange and she says immediately, “What did he say to you?” And then I tell her.
I’m like, “You know, he complimented how well I wrote. He thought I went to private school. He thought I had a tutor.”
And she said, “You know, he said this to your face. Are you serious?”
And I’m like, “Oh, my God. Let’s not do this, mom. You just don’t get it. You don’t understand. It’s the chair of the department and he gave me an A-minus. He thinks my writing is good. Like you just don’t understand.”
And I'll never forget that she said to me, “No. You don’t understand.”
And that was one of the most difficult conversations that my mother and I ever had. I really didn’t get it. How could a compliment be an insult? I mean, he’d given me an A, right? I should be proud. I should be happy. Wouldn’t it have made more sense if he failed me?
It wasn’t until much later that I was confronted with some of the soft bigotry from my own colleagues that I look back on this exchange and I see it for exactly what it was. His surprise was rooted in this idea that someone who looks like me shouldn’t write like this. That if I were able to perform to a certain caliber there had to be a reason why. Like what help did I have to get here?
I think about this exchange when I look out on my classroom and I see two black students sitting in front of me in my AP Chem class because that kind of thinking magnified sets the stage for there to be two black students sitting in my AP Chem classroom.
Okay. I said I wasn’t going to get emotional. These two stories from my life, almost a decade apart, are not unique. People who look like me have and continue to break down barriers and challenge assumptions about what a scientist, what a chemist looks like. And every single year, day after day, I sit in front of my students and I hope, I hope that when I look at my black students, when they see me, they see themselves. Thank you.
Part 2: Lelemia Irvine
Aloha! O wau o Lelemia. No Waianae mai au. Eia la kuu mele. This is my story. This is my song.
[hums a tune] Do you know that song? What is that song? “Bruddah Iz!!”. Israel Kamakawiwoole and it’s Somewhere over the Rainbow. That’s one of my life anthems since I was a child.
When I go and approach a meeting, I think of a song, I play a song. I think of the words of my family or I meditate on the olelo noeau or I think of a story. I try to center myself. And so, before entering my meeting to my new PhD advisor my first week of school, this is probably the song that I would be playing.
And why would I play that? Well, rainbows are promises. Rainbows are completion. It’s towards something.
So I grab my CV, I go to this meeting all stoked and ready. What am I going to do? What am I going to do in my PhD? This is like a really important conversation with my new advisor.
So I meet my advisor at that person’s office. We shake hands. “Hi, how’s it going,” dadadada. I just sit down and I ease in nicely into a not-so-comfortable chair. And he eases into his nice-and-cozy chair and says, “Well, Lelemia, the only reason that you are in this program or got in is because you’re Hawaiian. The only reason you got into this program, Lelemia, is because you're Hawaiian.”
“Fuck you,” inside voice. Outside voice, “Well, as you can see, I just gave you my CV. I think I got in for the merit of my work. You see, I just got back on Sunday from Taiwan for a National Science Foundation experience. I’m doing,” yada, yada, yada. “I’m doing my science.”
The meeting carried on but his countenance didn’t change. And I left that meeting heavier. I left that meeting heavier. I left that meeting questioning, “Are you a scientist? Are you an engineer? Do I belong?”
No ku’u lahui e hā’awi pau a i ola mau. Kū ha’aheo. Stand tall, my Hawai’i. Stand tall, my Hawai’i.
In the time of my great-grandparents and the time of my grandparents, we’re saying about 1900s to about the 1940s, they were told a narrative, “Eh, if you like get ahead in life, don’t be Hawaiian.” “Eh, you like get ahead in life, be American.”
In the time of my parents’ generation, some... this is not representative of all Hawaiians. From the 1940s to the 1960s, “No, you can’t go college. You can’t be a doctor.”
“Why?”
“Hawaiians don’t go to college.”
Lelemia Irvine shares his story with the Story Collider audience at the Waiwai Colliective in Honolulu, HI in November 2019. Photo by Taylor Asao.
In the time of my ninth grade year, I got into a nice school and every lab report that I turn in, every lab report I would write back, getting back, get the pepa back. You look at the pepa, “If you continue to write like this, you'll never be a scientist.” “If you continue to be like this, you'll never be a scientist. You can’t cut it. Your grades aren’t good enough.”
I was fortunate. Go on to University of Hawai’i at Manoa. I was studying bioengineering. And then I’m in a meeting. I get into this prestigious summer internship and one of the white females, participants, we’re having lunch and then goes to say, “The only reason you got into this program is because you’re Hawaiian.”
Fast forward to the end of my undergraduate program. I sit down with a respected scholar in my field that’s a professor and offers me, “Eh, what are you going to do next?”
“I want to do a PhD program.”
“Oh, okay. You should work for me.”
“Oh, cool. What can you offer me?”
“Oh, see, I don't have money.”
“Really?”
And then that person goes, “Wait, are you Hawaiian?”
I was like, “Yeah.”
“Oh, you can get your own money. Hawaiians get their own money. Hawaiians get their own scholarships. But work for me for free.”
I get into my PhD program and I had an advisor once tell me, “I didn’t hire you because I believed you. You. You can’t do the math.”
What? That’s… I already had two publications.
And even to the present day, January 2019, I give a presentation, I give an oli to welcome the space at this physics conference for educators from all over Hawai’i. And this person from the Department of Education goes up to me after the talk.
“Excuse me, where are you from?”
I turn my head, “I’m from here.”
“No, no, no. Where are you really from?”
“I’m Hawaiian, why?”
“No, no, no, no, no, no. You said you got a PhD.”
I said, “Yeah.”
“Are you getting your PhD in engineering?”
I said, “Yeah.”
“See, Hawaiians can’t get PhDs in engineering.” This is present day.
Mamaka kaua o ku’u ‘āina Band of warriors come together. You see, when I grew up with my family, we practice a practice called moʻokūʻauhau. Say that. moʻo-kūʻ-au-hauIt means genealogy. We have our alelo, our tongue, to olelo, to speak a moolelo, a story of our mooolelo, of our history of our mookuauhau of our genealogy.
We have these books, we have these posters, we have all these things about documents, documenting our time, our place here in Hawaii. And in those stories I hear my auntie saying, “Eh, you know what, boy, you come from great navigators. We sailed here from the stars, from the elements because, you know what, we studied that.”
“Eh, boy, we create, make great systems of loi kalo taro patches and to divert the water without diminishing the water’s quality and without diminishing its effects on the ecology of this aina. So not only feed yourselves but we then return it to feed the aina itself.”
I descend from great warriors. I descend from great scientists. That’s who I am. That’s what I listen to.
You know, I come from a place called Waianae. Everyone, say that. If you know where that is, I come from the west side of this island and there's stereotypes that say that we’re a different type of people. We get third degree, and eh I’m proud of that. Why? Because we get the gift of gab.
We get all these gifts. Because we know how to survive. We know how to thrive on this aina. And that’s a beautiful story that we weave into our mookuauhau, our puke mookuauhau [09:22], our genealogy books. But that is my papaku, my foundation in which I stand.
‘O ke ehu kakahiaka o nā ‘ōiwi o Hawai’i nei. A new dawn is arriving to my native people of Hawai’i. During my PhD program, I switched advisors four times. Four times. Four changes.
I had one advisor tell me, “You know, Lelemia, you know Lelemia, you know you're studying right if you're going a little bit cuckoo. You know you're not studying right, even though if you're studying 12 hours a day, if you're not going cuckoo. Oh, you must be partying every Friday and drinking.”
The moment I was told that, I quit drinking for three years. Fuck you. Why? I know who I am.
I had another advisor tell me one time, many times actually, more than one time. “You know, Lelemia, if you're not willing to kill yourself for this PhD, you're not doing it right.” “If you're not willing to kill yourself for this PhD, you're not doing it right.”
Spin. Spin. Shoooo. Shoooo. Everything turns upside down.
I had a hard time sleeping. I was fortunate to live in the dorms on the 12th floor penthouse, I call it, (takes a deep breath) but it spun. I start to close myself to the world (sniffles). I closed myself off to my family. I cut hula for 10 months in my life. I cut the joys of my life. I would wake up crying uncontrollably.
One time, my sister is like, “What the fuck? He aha la? What’s happening?”
“I don't know. I don't know. These fucking...,” dadadada, “you know what...,” dadadadada.
I can’t control myself. I couldn’t control myself. I live on the 12th floor, yea, so you can see right over the edge.
Lelemia Irvine shares his story with the Story Collider audience at the Waiwai Colliective in Honolulu, HI in November 2019. Photo by Taylor Asao.
I have eight journals. And it came to a point I don't want to... for this PhD. I wrote, “I DON’T WANT TO,” in caps, blank, “for this PhD.”
‘O ke ehu kakahiaka o nā ‘ōiwi o Hawai’i nei
No ku’u lahui e hā’awi pau a i ola mau
A new dawn has arrived for us, the native people of Hawaii. I give everything to my people so my legacy can live on. Boom, that was an Aha moment.
I sought out help. I went to a friend in a different type of services. I didn’t really have the mentorship within my circle of scientists or in my discipline of engineers. I had a bigger circle.
“Lelemia,” (slap hands together) on the... (slaps hands) she went, put this piece of paper on top of the table. “You see this number? Call this person. Six sessions on me, free.”
I go to the first session and it keeps going and she's seeing how I’m doing, and then point blank, “Lelemia, are you contemplating suicide? Are you thinking to kill yourself? Are you going to off yourself?”
(long pause of silence)
That’s my response. I got so puiwa I got really scared. Sweaty palms like, fuck. I don't want to be found out.
I thank her, close the meeting, got to go. I didn’t go to the next five sessions. I was about to defend. I was about to defend and I had fucking no time. But hoala it woke me up. It awakened something inside me.
If I off myself, what good is that for my people? If I off myself, I can’t show face to Waianae. I can’t show face to my ohana, six feet under. I chose.
My culture saved my life. I can’t off myself. I was given some gifts. I don’t have a successor. And I need to ensure that the successor lasts on for more than 1000 years.
My culture saved my life. During that time of about to defend, I applied for my dream job. I didn’t believe I could do it, but I applied anyway. Then in April of this year, April of 2019 I get a phone call on my mobile device.
“Aloha!”“Aloha. Is this Lelemia?”
“Yes, aloha. Who this?”
“Oh, I’m so-and-so. I’m from the University of Hawai’i-West O’ahu _____ [16:33].” because my position is at Manoa. “I just want to call you to congratulate you. You got the job. I just want to let you know you got the job for the merit of your work.”
You got the job for the ‘merit’ of your work. I got the dream job. I’m going home. Now, I can show face.
You see, I just learned at the SACNAS conference, apparently, I’m the first Native Hawaiian physics professor specializing in physics, not astronomy. And it’s my goal to indigenize the curriculum. I was told that was not even engineering. It’s why you couldn’t pursue it for my PhD, but that’s okay. I have a lifetime.
And what I want to do is to share and impart the knowledge of the ancestral knowledge that was passed down to me and that’s growing within all of us, to awaken not only the Hawaiian ways of knowing but your ancestral way of knowing and being within you, and make it your own.
So the next time when someone comes up to you, “Eh, you can’t be in engineer.” “Eh, you can’t be one physicist.” “Eh, you can’t be one scientist.” “Eh, you can’t be a mathematician.” or whatever it is you want to be. Or you know, they come up to you and say, “Eh, you know what? The only reason you got into this program or you got hired for this is because you're one diversity higher,” go like this. “So what? So what?”
Don’t give them your mana. Just give them. Be no ka oi, be the best. Just give them and only give them your best. Don’t give them any fucks. Just be you because know who you are, know the names of your ancestors, know the history of your people, know all of that, because that genius is inside you, that ancestral DNA is going to awaken.
And you know what? You give them the fire. You give them the water and you give them all the elements that created you, but not everything. Don’t give them your mana.
So, just give them. If you know the song Ku Haaheo let’s just sing it because that is another anchoring song that’s in my life now, because, you know what? This country of Hawaii is awakened and we’re lighting up. Light up yourself. Be you.
Kū ha’aheo e ku’u Hawai’i
Mamaka kaua o ku’u ‘āina
‘O ke ehu kakahiaka o nā ‘ōiwi o Hawai’i nei
No ku’u lahui e hā’awi pau a i ola mau
No ku’u lahui e hā’awi pau a i ola mau
My culture saved my life. Your culture will save your life. Our cultures will save this world. Ku kiai mauna!