In 2008, Maya Angelou published “Letters to My Daughter”, a collection of wisdom gathered from her extraordinary life. One chapter recounts how she came to teach at Wake Forest University. In it, Angelou cites a local phrase describing North Carolina as “The Valley of Humility, towered over by two mountains of conceit.”

As a North Carolina native, I remember being startled by that description. But with time, I’ve come to understand it. The things I love most about this state — and about Wake Forest — are the same: the warmth of the people, the culture of hard work and the wealth of opportunities to grow. These places have molded me. I claim them both proudly.

Still, Angelou’s words carry a warning. She reminds us that “blethering ignorance” — the loud, insistent kind of prejudice — can be found anywhere.

That truth revealed itself on Nov. 3, 2025. As I walked down the stairs between the third and second floors of Benson Student Center, I saw a table promoting an organization whose history speaks for itself — one that has endangered the safety and dignity of marginalized communities, whether they admit it or not.

I won’t give the group the publicity it seeks. What matters far more were the faces of the Black students who passed that table: faces marked by fear, anger and disappointment.

This letter is for them.

We’ve been here before

Moments like these can shake you, not just because of what they reveal about others, but because of what they demand from you. They remind us that racism and white supremacy are not new. They are among the oldest institutions in this country, sustained not by originality but by repetition.

And yet, generation after generation, Black people have met those institutions with endurance, creativity and faith. The instructions for surviving such moments were written long before we arrived at Wake Forest, and they will continue to guide those who come after us.

We have been asked to achieve excellence in spaces that were not designed with us in mind — to earn degrees and distinctions while carrying the daily weight of microaggressions, isolation and expectation. And still, we do it.

We become scholars, campus leaders, homecoming queens and student body presidents. We excel, even when the terms of success are uneven. That, in itself, is worth celebrating.

As the poet Lucille Clifton once said, “Come celebrate with me that every day something has tried to kill me and has failed.”

What to do with the hurt

I know it’s hard. I know the mixture of emotions that moments like this bring — the betrayal, the surprise and the anger. I have felt them all too. It’s natural to feel disheartened, to wonder if this place will ever fully see us.

But I have learned to use that pain as motivation — not to become hardened, but to become grounded. It reminds me that our presence here is powerful, that our progress matters and that we must keep moving forward despite those who wish we wouldn’t.

And while resilience is important, so is rest. I encourage you to take time for silence, to check in with yourself and to protect your peace. Rest is not retreat. It’s a strategy — a way of ensuring that when you return, you do so replenished and ready.

Most importantly, communicate. Reach out to one another. Speak honestly about what you’re feeling. You do not have to navigate this campus, or this pain, alone.

Choosing where to look

Toni Morrison encouraged us to consider racism a distraction. Its purpose is to pull our attention away from our work, our joy and our collective progress. We must refuse to be distracted.

Let us not grant power to those who thrive on spectacle. Let us continue to build and nurture community — to laugh louder, love harder and learn together. Our unity, our brilliance and our capacity for joy have always been our strongest forms of resistance.

Be not dismayed. We have been here before. And every time, we have risen higher.