CONTINUING ALBERTUS’ MERCURY AWARD-WINNING BLOG SERIES ON BLACK BRILLIANCE
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt that I’ve carried something bigger than me. Like all of us, it could have been my dreams, could have been my ambitions, or perhaps the prayers of generations of women before me. As a child growing up in bustling, loud, dusty Kampala, my identity was inextricably entwined with my family’s identity and all my pride was derived from knowing I was a part of this large African family. I was them and they were me. I was a proud Kabugujjo. That’s my mom’s maiden name. Every Kabugujjo could somehow be easily identified as such. This may have had something to do with the fact that most of the girls in the family attended the same boarding high school as our mothers did. Being a legacy student at my high school only solidified the identity I carried. I knew that as a Kabugujjo, there were things I couldn’t do at school. The teachers were always quick to remind me when I was acting up, that I was acting contrary to my identity. I cannot count the number of times I was told, “Patricia, aren’t you a Kabugujjo? How can you do that? Your sister, cousin, aunt, and mom were so amazing”. I was always reminded of who I was. That applied to the times I did something impressive as well. The teachers always applauded me by pointing out that I was as excellent as my cousin, aunt, and sister.
My identity as a Kabugujjo is both a privilege and a responsibility. It has kept me grounded, guided me, kept me out of trouble, opened doors to opportunities, and motivated me to be the best I can be simply because I know I come from greatness, and therefore I expect nothing less from myself. I stand as ten thousand because I’m always representing every Kabugujjo past and present. I also stand as ten thousand because I represent every Black person who has paved the way for me to occupy the spaces I do now. I have a responsibility to ensure their sacrifices were not made in vain and to pass on the legacy of love, faith, and excellence to future generations.
Whenever I feel tired and need a boost of energy, I remind myself of the story our mom told us of our grandfather selling his only means of transportation, his bicycle to pay off the overdue school fees for his daughters. It, therefore, comes as no surprise that my family values education and most of us are college educated. However, our mother had higher hopes for her children and wanted us to have more than she ever did. So while we attended her high school, she was dreaming of broadening our horizons by giving us the opportunity to travel the world.
To that end, financed by my mom, I first came to the U.S as an exchange college student working as a camp counselor at Camp Hazen in Chester Connecticut, and thereafter enrolled at Old Dominion University for a Master’s in Public Health degree despite being told by several programs that I couldn’t enroll in a graduate program with a three-year foreign bachelor’s degree. Faced with that obstacle, I channeled my family’s determination, stood firm in my identity, and assured the program director at ODU that not only would I excel in the program, but that the program would be enhanced by my presence. I was admitted on a provisional status that was changed to a full admission within a semester of my matriculation. I proceeded to exceed expectations and be the first in my family to earn a Ph.D. in Public Administration and Urban Policy. To excel in my studies, I had to overcome culture shock worsened by suddenly being thrust into a highly racialized society that I had minimal reference to, being far from my family,
and the stereotypical low expectations society often has of people of color. I had to remember the expectations of excellence that were tied to my identity as a member of my family and as a black woman. Whenever I sat in my graduate classes, often the only Black person in the room, I sat in there with pride, knowing that as I sat there so did generations of intelligent competent Black women and men who had been valued more for their physical strength than their intellect. People whose very humanity was denied. When I spoke up, I did so with the knowledge that I was the voice of my mom, my aunts, my grandparents, and my ancestors.
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave me,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
-Maya Angelou
At present in my role as Assistant professor and Program Director for the Masters of Public Administration program, I’m constantly reminded of and motivated by the immense sacrifices made by countless Black people at home and within these borders. That is one of the main reasons why I serve as Co-chair of the Inclusion Diversity Equity in Action (IDEA) committee and Faculty adviser for international students here at Albertus.
In addition to higher education, I have a passion for community organizations that endeavor to serve marginalized population groups and promote social, economic, and health equity. I have served in several capacities with organizations in Connecticut and Virginia. For example, prior to moving to New Haven, I volunteered with various non-profits in the Hampton Roads area, such as Physicians for Peace, Susan G. Komen for the Cure, Access Partnership, and the Norfolk Department of Public Health Community Health Improvement Plan (CHIP). Currently, I serve as a committee member on the Yale University Community-Engaged Research (CEnR) program, and on any given Saturday, you can find me reading with the kids at New Haven Reads or serving meals at the Downtown Soup Kitchen (DESK) in New Haven.
As an instructor, I endeavor to honor the stories of my students and remind them that the purpose of their education is greater than themselves. They have a duty to honor their ancestors with excellence and create a legacy of excellence for future generations. I encourage them to approach learning with unbridled exploration, a sense of connection, and the confidence and ability to use the knowledge gained in college to make positive changes in their communities. They too stand as ten thousand.