At Garcia’s last week, a friend said to me, “You are killing the student leadership game.” Laughing, I thought of replying, “The student leadership game is killing me,” but I figured that was perhaps too dark a thing to say on Taco Tuesday. Instead I told him that I planned to resign my position as vice president in student government tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, in a rare act of self-love.

“Veronica, what are you doing to take care of yourself?” my counselor’s always asking me. “Veronica, be good to yourself,” my counselor’s always telling me. And, of course, my counselor’s always right.

I’ve always cringed under titles denoting “student leadership.” It manifests as a title of entitlement, provides a false degree of separation between “us” and the “common student,” and–in the ecstasy of self-importance–is an effective disguise for exploitation; a student leader is a student worker, one who can’t see when they’ve been worked too hard and can’t be convinced to open their eyes.

In the creation-machine of student leadership, I’ve watched what enters as passion transform into arrogance, plans of unity curdle into structured elitism and humbleness sour into condescension. And, of course, not all student leadership roles are created equal. Some positions–such as our Resident Assistants or executive members within our Multicultural Student Council organizations–are not always given the equivalent respect received by others–such as our FOCUS orientation leaders or student government members–despite doing just as much (or arguably more) for the campus. I don’t know how to break down or explain the hierarchy in detail, but I know it’s there. I feel it.

Being in some of those positions of privilege, I was grateful for the work I got to do. I loved the first-years I met during orientation, I loved the resources I had in student government. I was grateful for the chances I was given along with the free meals I ate at banquets. Turns out there was a cost and the stress killed my appetite anyway.

As a predominantly white institution, those positions of privilege also lacked physical and cultural variety and, in my own vanity and naivety, I thought I’d be able to represent some issues marginalized students faced by bringing them to “The Table.” After all, I’d gotten a seat, and wasn’t that all you needed?

However, what so many of my peers figured out before I could was that you had to be heard at The Table. You had to prove you had something worthy to say, otherwise you were just another placeholder with an empty plate.

Though I’d like to think there were moments where I was taken seriously or made a measurable impact, I always left meetings feeling frivolous or hysterical. I only felt valued for my pageantry skills. Palatable enough for the photographs, charming enough for the dinner banquets and, most importantly, insecure enough to disregard. I swallowed cups of salt-water thinking that would keep from drowning, forgetting that drinking ocean water is poisonous in large amounts.

Needless to say, these feelings were contributing to my rapidly deteriorating mental health. Last year, I left the middle of nearly every banquet to sob for twenty minutes; last semester, I began to feel physically sick to my stomach before and during every senate meeting; this morning, the sound of an outlook email alert threw me in a state of panic. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have waited this long to remove one of the main catalysts of my suffering, but my ego prevented it. Though I’d like to think working in our school’s dining services kept me grounded and skeptical (you never forget how your peers treat you when you directly serve them), I wasn’t immune to self-importance. I didn’t think I drank the kool-aid, but I still sipped at it.

I fell in love with being valued. As much harm as it arguably did to my psyche, a piece of me needed to feel necessary. I offered my perspective, my opinions–only it ended up being me on the offering table, eaten alive. That wasn’t exactly the “seat” I had intended it to be. I felt unable to bow out. I knew how important it was for someone of color to be in easily accessible positions. I also knew about optics. Afraid to be cast as the “angry black woman,” I didn’t want to ruin an opportunity for someone else who looked like me, who was probably stronger and more qualified. I still am afraid of that. I still am afraid of seeming ungrateful.

And I am grateful. Though I doubt I’ve made any real progress in the large scope of things (don’t pretend otherwise; I know the truth,) I’ve learned more about myself than I ever hoped to learn. I’ve learned what to avoid. I’ve learned what I can’t handle. I’ve learned not to say yes to every “opportunity.” I’ve learned that my biggest point of pride–that I am unable to do anything half-heartedly–was also my biggest weakness (along with lacking organization and delegation skills, of course). I poured myself into everything I did, but I never did enough to refill that chalice once it emptied. I never sang as much as I wanted to. I never wrote as much as I needed to. I neglected the things and people who meant the most to me, sacrificing them for things and people who I meant nothing to. I do not recommend.

Pictured above is the correspondence sent to the SGA advisor, February 14, 2018.

My senior quote in high school was Richard Nixon’s “I resign,” and I’m hoping to repeat it. Everything comes full circle, after all. My counselor is always right.

    Happy President’s Day,

-Written by Veronica Faison, former SGA Vice President