I was 24 years old the first time I visited my tribal lands in Fort Yuma, Arizona. I have always had a strong connection to my heritage and a sense of identity as an American Indian, largely through my mother’s insistence that we do “Indian” things. Beyond the countless Pow Wows we attended over the years, Mom insisted we read books on our culture, and even (without much success) attempted to teach us some of our tribal language. For the record, my failure to grasp even the rudiment of Quechan proves that I do much better with numbers than languages.
Despite a strong sense of identity and appreciation for my culture, for much of my earlier life I didn’t really know what it felt like to actually be American Indian. There’s the obvious factor of me being half African American (my mom, who instilled all that Indian cultural appreciation in me, is Black). Being Black means that people, by and large, view you as Black and treat you as Black, and self-identity is in no small part influenced by the perceptions and actions of others. My lack of understanding was deeper than that, however. The connection between Indian identity and sense of place/space is a very real thing. Our history, our culture and our sense of being is very much ingrained in the land. The creation story for our tribe says the first two people in the world descended from the heavens from the top of Picacho Peak, a split top mountain rising from the desert valley. The name of our tribe, Quechan, translates to “those who descend,” and our nation’s flag is a visual representation of the importance ancestral land plays in our very sense of self.Dr. Torence Powell
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I was 24 years old the first time I visited my tribal lands in Fort Yuma, Arizona. I have always had a strong connection to my heritage and a sense of identity as an American Indian, largely through my mother’s insistence that we do “Indian” things. Beyond the countless Pow Wows we attended over the years, Mom insisted we read books on our culture, and even (without much success) attempted to teach us some of our tribal language. For the record, my failure to grasp even the rudiment of Quechan proves that I do much better with numbers than languages.
Despite a strong sense of identity and appreciation for my culture, for much of my earlier life I didn’t really know what it felt like to actually be American Indian. There’s the obvious factor of me being half African American (my mom, who instilled all that Indian cultural appreciation in me, is Black). Being Black means that people, by and large, view you as Black and treat you as Black, and self-identity is in no small part influenced by the perceptions and actions of others. My lack of understanding was deeper than that, however. The connection between Indian identity and sense of place/space is a very real thing. Our history, our culture and our sense of being is very much ingrained in the land. The creation story for our tribe says the first two people in the world descended from the heavens from the top of Picacho Peak, a split top mountain rising from the desert valley. The name of our tribe, Quechan, translates to “those who descend,” and our nation’s flag is a visual representation of the importance ancestral land plays in our very sense of self.Dr. Torence Powell
For these reasons, when I visited my tribe at 24 years old it was with high expectations and purpose. I was scheduled to present a proposal to my tribal council - I was seeking permission to bring a group of students from the University I worked at to the Rez for an annual cultural festival. As I sat in the boardroom waiting my turn to speak, the personal magnitude of the moment settled in. I was home.
As a mixed-race person, I’ve never fully felt at home anywhere in this country. To be both Black and American Indian is to live with the knowledge that, both historically and contemporarily, your people rank as the two ethnic/racial groups with the worst projected outcomes of all ethnic/racial groups in the United States in nearly every meaningful measure. Whether the metric be infant mortality, median household income, or life expectancy, Black and American Indian people are consistently at the bottom. This trend is present in higher education, as well – Black and American Indian student course success and persistence rates within the California Community College system are the lowest of all ethnic groups in nearly every category measured by the system’s Chancellor’s Office.
The work of eradicating achievement gaps for Black and American Indian students is personalized in a way that is perhaps different for others. Within this work, I feel a sense of internal alignment that I have not felt in other areas of life – a merging of dual identities around shared struggle and opportunity. While the cultural differences between my dual identities at times could not be more pronounced, the need for intentional and deliberate action to address persistent social inequity unites them. We all thrive in educational spaces when the conditions to enable success are meticulously crafted. For we community college leaders, this involves helping students develop ties to our campuses, to the physical and psychological spaces we create that engender a sense of safety and “home,” which in turn enables development of a sense of belonging and, ultimately, success.
Dr. Torence Powell is Superintendent/President of Napa Valley College in California.
Behind the Desk: Perspectives of Black Community College CEOs is a column edited by Drs. Tina M. King, Jamal A. Cooks and David M. Johnson.
Dr. Torence Powell
