Can I Sit at Your Table?

I have spent my entire life trying to fit in. I was born in a country that was not my mother’s land. I moved to another foreign country (the United States) when I was five years old. I began the process of assimilation in a kindergarten classroom. At the time, I didn’t know enough English to ask for a seat at the table. I still felt the sting of rejection - even when I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling. Over the years, the tables, settings, and individuals have changed. One thing remained consistent - I was always asking “can I sit at your table?”

I’m finally realizing that I’ve been trying to fit in spaces that weren’t built for me (or other BIPOC). All this time, I thought it was my fault. I kept telling myself, “if you tried harder” or “if you did more” or “if you just prove yourself,” you’ll fit in. I kept trying to make myself smaller and smaller to fit in, and it still didn’t work - it still doesn’t work. The more I reflect, the more I realize the importance and burden of representation. I didn’t have anyone else that looked like me, no clear path to follow, to learn how to belong. I’m tired of trying.

Representation burnout refers to the exhaustion and isolation that comes from being the only person of a particular identity in an environment.

When I talk about representation burnout, it will be specific to my own experience - in context to my work, or rather, the system I operate in because of my job. I cannot give the false pretense that my experience can speak for anyone else’s. Black, Indigenous, people of color are not a monolith - not all experiences are the same, even if some are shared.

For those that know me, you’ll know that I am deeply connected to my work. My passion and my values drove me to work in a specific field - towards a specific mission. I love my work, but I hate my job. I’ll say more. My values and my commitment to social justice fuel my passion for my work. My work demands a lot of me, but I don’t want to be in a field that would require less - my work is personal and I love it. My job, on the other hand, requires me to interact in a white dominant system. In said system, I represent a demographic that is often overlooked, while managing responsibilities with people who are older than me, have worked at the organization longer than me, and are mostly whiter than me.

I’ve sat at various tables throughout the course of my career. In most cases, I have been the youngest at the table. Sometimes, I have been the only woman at the table. More often than not, I have been the only person of color at the table. Sometimes, all of the above happen, and that’s what I like to call “an oppressive trifecta.” The worst part is, one thing remained consistent at every table - I spent all or most of my energy trying to prove (to myself and others) that I belonged there.

In order to prove that I belong, I’ve been sacrificing and compromising a lot of myself - always trying to prove my value, my worth. I put in extra hours, so people knew I was dedicated. I said yes to every project, so people knew I was committed. I learned to walk, talk and dress like they did. I let others take credit for my ideas or my work, so they knew I was a team player. I learned to laugh off microaggressions or rely on humor to hide my discomfort. I learned to cry on my way home, so no one could see how I felt at work. I learned that I couldn’t be my whole self and professional at the same time. There wasn’t anyone else to tell me any different. I learned to internalize my oppression.

With each day and each action, I chipped away at my self. Instead of being rewarded with a secure place at the table, I was met with more demands, more responsibilities, and less support. In some cases, I was offered a seat at the table, only to be paralyzed by fear that I would lose it.

I didn’t have anyone else to share the burden of representation. Despite what it seems, not all BIPOC experiences are the same. A person of color in leadership may not experience the same things I have, or they may be experiencing their own unique set of challenges. This is why diversity is not enough. Diversity without inclusion means that you’re bringing more people of color in oppressive and unsafe environments. The work does not start or end with diversity. Representation and inclusion are not synonymous.

I didn’t see anyone who looked like me, thriving in the system I was a part of. I didn’t have anyone who truly understood - anyone to fight the oppression with me. So, I took it on myself. After all, I didn’t have much to lose - I’d given all I had and still didn’t belong. I tried to advocate for myself and others. I called out biased behavior. I shared my experiences. I asked for respect. I tried to be patient - only to be ignored or dismissed. In all that trying, I was burning out. My work product wasn’t affected, so I don’t think anyone noticed or cared.

The more problems I brought to light, the more I felt like I was the problem. In fighting to be seen and heard, I was seen as “difficult to work with.” In all my years, the only thing I’ve dismantled is the desire to sit at a table that doesn’t want me. I’m exhausted. I’m burnt out. But, I’m still trying, I still go to bat - not just for me, but for every person that comes after me.

None of this is a criticism of my employer or the people I work with. I think I would have a similar experience in any white-dominated field. My representation burnout is the result of my interactions in a white dominant system, not the individual parts. We don’t live in a post-racial society, and don’t have anything to compare it to. There’s no perfect example of an inclusive and equitable system to model after - that doesn’t mean we get to stop trying.

I still love my work - I still love to work. The experiences I mentioned get in the way of the work I love so much. I wish I had an answer or solution to representation burnout (if you have one, let a girl know). I just have a coping mechanism and a constant fear that I’ll have to give up my work because I don’t fit in the space that wasn’t built with me (or people like me) in mind.