A Litany for Black Legacy

Bringing another soul into what often feels like a cruel world is one of the most dangerous events for women — especially the Black ones. What emerges from the birth canal of the Black woman is not only the miracle of life, but also an extension of the psychic, emotional, and physical reflections of what it means to be breathing while Black. Alongside her suckling infant she gives birth to new-born fears for what will follow her innocent child everywhere — from the streets to the hospitals, to the classroom, to the jail cell, and beyond. And through mother’s milk passes not only stem cells and antibodies, but also an acute awareness of an actively anti-Black world.

Sometimes I lay awake at night and think of the things I will pass to my future Black child, and it is then that I am reminded that in conjunction with triumph, tragedy, and all things in between, one in three children that I might give life to from my Black uterus will likely get the opportunity to walk the paths of Harvard Yard as a college student someday. And while there are many a tragic legacy the world may attempt to impose onto my child’s life, it’s ironically safe to say that this is not one.

I guess what I’m saying is: I take no issue with the Harvard legacy that will come from my womb.

Legacy admissions at Harvard is in many respects an unjust practice that primarily serves the privileged. Plainly put, it is a symptom of the white supremacist undergirds of higher education — because in the practice of uplifting the privileged, those left at a disadvantage are often the ones who identify as part of minority, low-income, and first-generation populations.

This critical perspective on legacy admissions fundamentally — and rightfully — denounces the winners and weaves a narrative from the threads of seemingly clear-cut, progressive, equitable ideas. Nevertheless, it is a presentist, reductionist narrative with built-in erasure of some of the very same demographics we argue deserve more visibility. Because the reality is, histories and legacies are complex — and they warrant a nuanced perspective on the fact that although we must be aware of where tools of oppression are at work, for many, idealizing a disdain for legacy admissions is not quite so simple.

My future Black child will bring with them more than my (by then, decades-old) Harvard degree to a college application. That one in three chance at a “second-look” from a Harvard admissions counselor is accompanied by my daughter’s four in 10 chance of experiencing intimate partner violence, my son’s one in 1,000 chance at being killed at the hands of police, and my queer child’s at least four in five chance at facing negative physical, spiritual, and psychological effects on their wellbeing — odds not easily able to be written off as some unfair advantage at walking through the world. From conception, I’ll fear that my Black son cannot go for a run, my Black daughter cannot rest peacefully in her bed at home, and my Black, queer child may fall victim to a heinous hate crime. It is excruciatingly clear that some of the legacies that will follow my children are not the same as those of their white peers.

The truth is that the world at once robbed me of a safe and easy ignorance, thrusting me into a mode of consciousness that permeates everything in life, from walking down the street to choosing classes, friends, and future careers. And the unfortunate reality of the ongoing social dynamic in which we live is that by measures beyond my control, the world will likely rob the freeing simplicity of some things in life from my child too. To breathe while Black — to be while Black — is not simple. The politics of inheritance are not without complexity, and are certainly not lost on us. It is something Black people know all too well, and often not from the winning side.

So while Beyoncé gave her daughter a Grammy, I’ll settle for giving mine a one in three chance to study at one of the world’s premier institutions — because most stats already aren’t in her favor.

I will fight like hell to leave my children legacies of love and resistance to balance out all of what I unfortunately know will follow them throughout the course of their lives. I will dedicate my life to creating the most equitable and safe world to bring them into. At the very least, if I can’t flip this anti-Black world on its head in my lifetime, I know I can give them a 33 percent chance to not just get in the door at a place like Harvard, but to make sure they stay in the building with the lights on and bills paid after they’ve crossed the threshold — especially considering that we were barred from entering the College gates for longer than we’ve been allowed inside them. I’m giving them an added possibility — if they want it — to raise questions about society and why it can’t be what we dream it to be, to participate in the continued shaping of the community, to fight for a conscious pedagogical ambition, and to open more doors behind them after they go.

And hopefully some of the dreams occupying their nights need not reflect entirely the nightmares of my own.

Kyla N. Golding ’24, a Crimson Editorial editor, is a History of Science and Studies of Women, Gender, and Sexuality concentrator in Adams House.