Incidents of Racism at UC Berkeley: Testimony of Erika Williams

I first want to begin my testimony by posing a question that I want you all to think about. Why are our numbers so low? Just think about that while I give my testimony.

The number one public institution in the nation, second in the world, the faculty are internationally recognized, one of the leading intellectual centers in the world. These things that were said of Cal were the very things that were like beacons of shining hope for me as well as many other minority students out in the world looking for a way out of the sinking sands of stereotypes that trap us in place without hope, dreams, or aspirations. They spoke volumes for the type of people I would encounter, the learning that would be fostered here, the personal growth that one would expect in an institution of higher learning, yet these are the very things that have eluded me from the moment I stepped on this campus.

Nobel laureates, National Academy of Sciences members, and I quote "more NSF Young Investigators than any other university in the country." A young girl burgeoning on womanhood should count herself lucky that she is wanted at such a prestigious university. Those are the very things that drew me and the very few underrepresented minorities on this campus to Cal Berkeley. Where are they?

I remember the first time, I ever heard of the University of California, Berkeley. I was 7-years-old, looking at one of my elder cousin's sweatshirts. It was a pale gray with Bear Blue lettering. All it said was University of California Berkeley. From then on I knew that's where I wanted to be. That's what I wanted. From then on I bled blue and gold. No matter what obstacles got in my way, I knew that Cal was what would set me free. Cal would be the place to put me on the right path.

When I first got to Berkeley, there was a sense wonderment - a sense of excitement that swept over me. For a girl who moved almost continuously throughout her life, Cal was home. Home is where you lay your hat and my hat was here at Cal for good.

In the year and half that I've been here, that sense of wonderment has dissipated. I no longer feel the welcoming tug at my heart when I get up in the morning. The chiming of the campanile does echo in the deepest enclaves of soul. Cal and I have stopped being one and I dread leaving my house every morning to walk into those classrooms and lecture halls and defend once again my race, my gender, and most importantly my right to be here. I'll ask you again, why are our numbers so low?

It's not just being the only African-American woman in these classes that gets to me. I can handle being on my own and dancing to my own beat. What eats away at you is the constant struggle between choosing to defend your race and trying to prove that you aren't like the stereotypes. Silently seething at the blatant disregard for the truth, the perpetuation of stereotypes...feeling as if your hands are tied when the whole race and gender depends on each decision that you make. Should I educate these ignorant people, and deal with being seen as another hostile, black woman? Or should I put my head down, ignore it, be more submissive and fight the stereotypes that way make someone else bear the burden? Which choice is the stronger one? Which one will make it easier for those who follow me yet won't forsake those who came before me? Which will have the most impact?

I never said life was supposed to be fair, but why not?

Every time I go home for a break, it's a struggle to come back. I ask myself why should I have to endure this. The only answers I see are those found in my brother's eyes, my sister's eyes, my cousin's eyes. I never wanted to my negative experiences to be the example for those that follow me, but I know that the strong survive...and I will survive.

So, I go to my classes. Sometimes sitting for the whole period with my hand raised while the professors look past me, through me, around me, but never at me. Am I that invisible? I laugh it off, pretend sometimes that it doesn't happen just to get through the days. Only two months till winter break...only 6 days till spring break...only 15 minutes more to go. Then it's over. The best times of my life, right? The moments to cherish forever, right? It's education to last a lifetime alright...what a joke.

This semester has been my worst so far, and for only being here barely three...maybe I'm doing better than most. They say you never forget the face of your oppressor. I know I'll never forget mine.

September 28th, 2005. That's when it started. I was on my way to class, when I was accosted, discriminated against, belittled. Sitting at the bus stop smoking a cigarette, bolstering my nerves for another day of the endless battle. Mentally preparing myself, I finish my cigarette. 2 minutes...4 minutes...5 minutes go by and the bus is pulling up to the curb. As I get into the queue to board the bus. A tall, burly, red-faced man says to me, "Next time read the fucking sign." My first reaction was shock. What did I do that warranted such hostility. Glancing at the man, I lock eyes with him and tell him "Do not speak to me." It shouldn't have gone past that. He said what he had to say, but he had to say more. He had to make me feel as if I was the most insignificant THING in the world. "You're breaking the law BITCH!" I fought every instinct that was passed down to me through generations of strong, black women fighting the odds and persevering through turmoil. I said to him simply, "Are you going to give me a ticket you fat-assed fuck?! No, leave me alone." Again, it wasn't good enough for him, he had to push further and he said to me "Next time I'm just going to kick the shit out of you!" I had to go, there was no point in my staying at that bus stop alone with that man, should he decide to make good on his threat. I was here for school anyway, so I continued boarding the bus. As the bus pulled away, I could see him giving me the finger. This was my very first altercation in a strange place, where I hardly knew anyone. Who could I turn to assuage my fears. Who could I turn to that was nearby? I let it go as much as I could. Just like everything else. It didn't happen, I don't him. Just don't go to school when he's out there at the bus stop.

October 15th, 2005. My world nearly crumbled beneath me. My roommate, Helen Kim, and I were on our way to go shopping. I need to get some new sweaters for the rainy season. Being an adult can be exciting at times, feeling that I could look out for my well-being we left and I was smiling. As we were exiting the building, I walked out first. My attacker was walking towards the building. I wasn't alone though. I had Helen with me. She held the door open for him and he pushed past her and hit her with his bags. She said, "Excuse you." The first thing that would come to his mind, was something demeaning, demoralizing, belittling, discourage, confusing. He said, "No, it's not excuse me BITCH!" Helen and I both stood there, mouths gaping. I don't know what she was thinking, but I was thinking "Not again. Was it me? Did I put my roommate in harm's way?" Her response to his derogatory remark, "What did you say to me?" All he said was, "And you can ask your partner why!" I thought maybe if I were to be rational, he'd see the error of his ways. Before Helen could respond any further and be subjected to his displaced animosity towards me, I said to him "I didn't even say anything to you. That was uncalled for." His only response was, "Well, you had an attitude that day at the bus stop..." I cut off and told, "Had you said something to me before I put the cigarette out, I would have moved away, instead you waited until the cigarette was gone and you attacked me." He said assumingly, "Judging by your attitude you wouldn't have, you're a nigger." As he said this, he began moving towards his mailbox and began moving closer to the door.

As soon as the word left his lips I froze. It was like, it was reverberating in the air, on Dolby surround sound. Over and over and over. Nigger. Helen's face was the epitome of disgust. In her eyes, I saw the pain that I had yet to feel. I asked him, "What the fuck did you just say to me." He walked towards us, towering over us. Red-faced. Leering. Confident that he was justified, and said, "Oh you can call me a fat-assed fuck, but I can't call you a nigger." It was at that point that I found the badly needed courage that I was beginning to think was lost on me. I told him, "That's not even on the same playing field, you took it to a whole other level, you took it to the seventh power." Inside, I was screaming. Wishing that I had something that to make him see. To make him understand. I was slowly dying. I guess, he saw that his vicious attack had hit its mark because he said, "You can get on your little cell phone and call your little friends and have me beat up, I don't care you're just a nigger." All I could think to do was get pepper spray. How could I ever feel safe in my home again. How could I feel like going out again.

October 20th, 2005. Why can't it just be over. The past six days have been some of the hardest of my life. Sherman Boyson, had shaken the innermost parts of me. He attacked my gender, he attacked my race, my heritage, the two things that I could never change about myself. He made me feel ugly. He made feel like no matter what I did to prove that I was as good as anyone else, I was always going to be a nigger-bitch. I cried for the first time since my friend was murdered nearly seven years ago. An academic advisor, a person who wields so much power over my life at Cal, had a personal vendetta against me. He was out to get me. That morning Helen and I were running late to our Undergraduate Business Administration 10 Section, and going to the bus stop was a hurdle I had to overcome. He was there. I pretended that he wasn't, but he was. We boarded the 52L bus after he did. It was crowded, he had to be crazy to try anything. But something told me to watch his feet since we had to pass by him. He shifted his feet as if to trip me. In an instant, I prayed that it was a mistake. But glancing up at his face, I saw the smirk that told the truth.

My biggest fear, was being alone. Having to endure this trial alone. I don't want to be a martyr. I don't want to be a victim, I just want justice. In seeking that I went to Nancy Chu the compliance officer, here on campus. Should a man be permitted to hold the fate of every undergraduate student with hopes of declaring the Social Welfare major in his racist and sexist hands? I don't think so. Between Sherman Boyson, Nancy Chu, CeeCee_______ (the students' on-campus advocates), and Denise Oldham. I received nothing but the shirking of responsibility, fake compassion, attempted rationalizations of Sherman Boyson actions, reasons why I might be the pimple on society, and recommendations for a shrink and safe-house. Who do I turn to now? Who really will be an advocate for me? Who is really looking out for the interests of every student on campus.

Let me now tell you why our numbers are so low. They don't want us here. They are neither ashamed nor embarrassed to let us know that. The message that is being sent to not only the underrepresented minorities on campus, but also any minority that should think to apply to the University of California, Berkeley, in Denise Oldam's words, is "Frankly I don't care, how you feel." They just don't care. But I've been through hell and high water to be here today. I busted my ass to get where I am. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let the racism, the sexism, the differential treatment, the poor administration, the anti-anything that isn't white or republican push me out of my rightful place in society. I deserve to be here, I struggled to get here, and I will fight to stay here. And I will be victorious. That's just the stuff we're made of. That's why our numbers are so low. They know there's strength in numbers. That's why there's so many of them and so few of us.

From the Student Public Inquiry On Racism and Hostile Environment for Underrepresented Minority Students at UC-Berkeley, November 10, 2005