The challenges faced by people of color and traditionally marginalized populations in academia aren’t just statistics; they’re personal experiences.
For years, Jasmine Harris, Ph.D., Africana Studies Department chair at Metropolitan State University of Denver, has navigated the complexities of higher education as a scholar and a Black woman. In her first book, “Black Women, Ivory Tower,” which came out in January 2024, she blends personal experience with rigorous research to examine exclusion, resilience and the fight for equity in academic spaces.
What inspired you to write “Black Women, Ivory Tower,” and what was the most challenging part of blending memoir with research?
Writing a book was never something I thought I’d do — I had always been more of an article writer. But in 2017, after venting to my mother about a racist incident at work, she casually suggested, “Maybe you should write a book about it.” At first, I brushed it off, but the idea stuck. Around the same time, I received a harsh review on an article about race in higher education, which made me realize the problem was bigger than me.
Initially, I didn’t plan to include personal experiences, but as I structured the book, I saw that my own life reflected the systemic issues I wanted to highlight. Blending memoir with institutional critique was challenging — I worried about how both white colleagues and Black women with similar backgrounds would react. The writing process was emotional and cathartic, forcing me to revisit painful experiences while connecting them to a broader history.
“The book took seven years to complete, and while it was difficult, the response has been overwhelmingly positive. Readers tell me they see themselves in my story, which is the opposite of what I feared. That validation has made all the challenges worth it.”
The title itself evokes a sense of exclusion — can you talk about how the “Ivory Tower” metaphor reflects your experience in academia?
The “ivory tower” has long been a symbol of elite, predominantly white academic spaces that often feel unwelcoming to marginalized groups. The book’s subtitle, “Revealing the Lies of White Supremacy in American Education,” encapsulates the central idea that higher education in America was fundamentally designed to serve a very specific group: wealthy white male Protestants.
I personally encountered the remnants of this system during my time at Vassar — my dorm room was next to another double room, but it wasn’t a typical double. One of the rooms was much larger, and when you walked through that room, there was a smaller room on the other side — about half the size of my office. The smaller room used to be the quarters for an enslaved person. No one ever explained this, and when I asked, many of my peers seemed uncomfortable acknowledging it. This reflects how higher education, while outwardly inclusive now, still carries the weight of its exclusionary origins.
Changemaker Jasmine L. Harris: ‘subjectivity is not bad’
Were there any statistics or research findings that particularly surprised you while writing the book?
In Chapter 6 of my book, titled “Bodywork,” I explore the physical impact of racism and sexism that Black women experience on college campuses. This chapter is deeply personal for me, as I share my own experiences with sexual assault, and the anxiety from these experiences led to physical symptoms like migraines and exterior reactions like cutting myself. I struggled with whether to include details about my assault but felt it was crucial to highlight the broader issue that many students, particularly women of color, face in higher education.
When I was doing research for my book, I looked at studies from Duke University ranging from 2009-15, which found that 40% of Black women on campus reported sexual assault, a rate more than three times higher than that of white women. Shockingly, fewer than 10% of Black women reported these assaults, compared to 60% of white women. This disparity reflects the complex, hyper-visible yet invisible identity that Black women navigate, where stereotypes of hypersexuality and victim-blaming are prevalent.
In what ways have anti-DEI efforts impacted higher-education institutions, and what does this mean for the experiences of people of color on campus?
Diversity, equity and inclusion initiatives, though relatively new on many campuses — some being only a few years old — have become targets of political attacks, stripping vital resources meant to create equity for students who need them most. So in institutions like the previous one I was teaching at, the Office of Inclusive Excellence was abruptly closed and crucial multicultural events, like Lavender and Black graduations, were taken away. These events meant a lot to students, especially those who had missed graduation due to the pandemic and had looked forward to these milestones.
This is emblematic of a larger issue where political rhetoric around DEI is often based on misconceptions. It’s not about taking away from white students but rather creating opportunities and resources that give students from traditionally marginalized backgrounds the extra support they need to level the playing field. The challenge isn’t just about maintaining DEI but ensuring that future generations have access to these vital resources in higher education, enabling them to be seen and heard and succeed both in the classroom and in their careers.
Photo by Aidan Rose
What role do historically Black colleges and universities play in countering some of these issues?
Historically Black colleges and universities play a crucial role in providing cultural and social support to Black students, but financial obstacles often make them out of reach for many. I was accepted to Spelman College, but the lack of sufficient financial aid led me to choose Vassar, where I received better funding and an academic scholarship. This situation is not unique to me — it reflects a broader issue of chronic underfunding of HBCUs by state and federal governments. For example, Florida has been found to have underfunded Florida A&M for over three decades, which is part of a larger national trend.
Additionally, the concept of legacy at HBCUs differs significantly from that at predominantly white institutions. While legacy at many white schools often refers to continuing a family tradition, at HBCUs it’s more about preserving Black educational history. Proper investment in these institutions could significantly improve educational access, making HBCUs a viable option for many more students and ultimately fostering greater educational equity for Black communities.
Looking ahead, how do you envision the conversation around race and gender in higher education evolving?
Without recognizing the distinct challenges faced by different groups, we cannot create truly inclusive environments.
Reflecting on my own journey through college and graduate school, I spent much of my time trying to fit in — not in the social sense but academically — fearing my professors would believe I cheated. While my white peers had the freedom to explore their identities and interests, I was preoccupied with making sure I didn’t stand out in a way that would make me seem like I didn’t belong.
The real challenge is to highlight how students who are nonwhite, nonstraight, nonrich or nonmale experience education so we can build an environment that allows all students to fully explore and grow. That’s what I hope my book can highlight: the importance of creating these much-needed spaces where everyone can fully explore their identities and experiences.
