Making Room

There’s been one ongoing debate amongst my friends since 2016 that I’d love to pose to you today, in hopes of learning together. But first, please know that I have already acted. I’m not looking to find the answer. I do not and will not regret the things I’ve done, because I know I have done them for others and at least attempted to create space for newer, much needed voices. That’s, I hope, not a bad thing.

First things first: white privilege and how I benefit from it has always been evident to me. The fact that I was Filipino was something I learned later, not something made abundantly clear via socialization, as it is for visible people of color.

Second, I also benefit from being a dependent on my parents’ very stable income. We’re frugal people and certainly not “old money,” so I don’t personally feel I was blinded or sheltered from the realities of middle- and lower-class life in America. I owe a lot of that to my friends, who are patient and gracious in helping me know where I stand and appreciate what I took for granted.

When I was a high school senior applying to college, scholarships were a constant topic and worry. I understood that for the majority of my friends, scholarships meant the difference between attending college and escaping the poverty cycle, or being stuck right where they were. I also knew that sometimes, need-based aid didn’t quite cover every expense they had. That’s where merit scholarships came in.

Surely, I qualified. I was your classic all-As honors/AP student, I studied Shakespearean theater for fun, swept the regional writing awards, and had at least a mildly intriguing backstory as a military kid. Maybe I wasn’t Harvard-bound, but I could have won a little something. And didn’t I deserve it, after all the hard work I put in? All the group projects I led? The hours I spent working instead of being a kid? Let’s not forget that I was apparently so smart, the gifted teachers ran out of challenges for me and just sent me to 4th grade classes at age 8. I’ve got so much merit it’s coming out of my goddamn ears.

So naturally, I did not apply for a single scholarship. Not one. No scholarships for Asian students, no scholarships for military kids, none. Not even the ones you’d win by default, just because nobody else bothered to write the essay.

Ooh, I can hear all the same people getting pissed at me again. I promise, this is not a moral judgment of you or your choices. This is simply how I justified mine:

First, it’s fine to view merit scholarships as an award, something you earn simply by doing the hard work. Everyone already does. But personally, I knew so many people counting on that money just to afford the flight. They were my friends, my peers, that one really smart kid in calculus who works nights just to afford the luxury of dreaming about college. It was really hard for me to write that essay, knowing there’s a chance I could win at someone else’s expense, and just because $4,000 would be really cool to have.

I’m willing to be really honest with all of you and say that my parents could’ve written a check and paid for the entire 4 years’ tuition at UT Austin. There was no universe in which I needed that money more than someone else, so I didn’t apply for it. (But I sure knew a lot of people, some whose parents made even more than mine did, who always seemed to end up as a finalist for the very same awards.)

Second, while I technically qualified for scholarships for Asian-American students and military students, those parts of myself never played a role in whether or not I received a good education and opportunities. While my family certainly experienced racism, it was never the kind that systemically prevented us from creating generational wealth. Even if I wanted to, I can’t answer the prompts about overcoming obstacles or succeeding in the face of racism. I have white privilege - I benefit from the same system that creates those obstacles.

This argument - over whether I should or shouldn’t have applied for scholarships - has followed me in college. MAIP and MPMS are two fantastic programs for diverse advertising students. I can’t tell you the incredible opportunities and connections my friends have gotten through these. And I struggled with both: did I “count”? Was this for me?

Spoiler alert: I didn’t apply to either. And my reasoning is the same. These programs uplift students who have historically been barred from participation. They provide resources and networking for those who couldn’t use nepotism to break into the industry. So I asked myself: what systemic barriers stand between me and the advertising field, based on the parts of me I cannot change? Again, what “obstacles'' have I faced? Well, still none. I can’t answer the prompt. Not applicable. 

So many people encouraged me to apply, most fervently my friends of color. They were adamant that I can’t pass up an opportunity like this. That it could make all the difference. And I cherish that support, I really do. I’m so grateful that when my friends look at me, they see potential. 

But everytime I read a phrase like “making room for unheard voices,” or “creating space for minority students,” it occurred to me that I’ve never felt unheard, as someone who is functionally and publicly a white woman from a stable, upper-middle class home. I felt applying to these programs meant potentially taking up that valuable space instead. 

Yes, I’ve got merit. I’ve got a fresh perspective and I have things to say. I have potential. But I only know that because people have always seen that in me. The teachers who saw value in me, who fought for me to get an education I was worthy of, may have undervalued the same traits in students of color, many without knowing it. How many kids just like me were ignored by parents, teachers, and authority figures?

My voice is heard. People make room for me. I am not who is being overlooked. I know that, partly due to my brain and also the fact that I look like your stereotypical “smart girl,” I won’t have too much trouble finding people who see potential in me. Making room also means learning when to step back and let others shine. It means supporting my friends who may not have had all the same resources or attention that I was. It means showing them the love and care that my teachers and parents showed me. It means I’m the essay editor, the videographer, the coach, and the editor who helps them break ceilings and kick down doors.

I know that people think I’ve wasted my potential with this approach. I can’t tell you how disappointed my parents were every time I said, “I’m not applying for this. It’s not for me.” I understand. I agree that it’s not something everyone should do. I truly enjoy hearing everyone’s opinion on this, because it depends so heavily on our definitions of success, competition, and how much we account for all the other people in the world who live and work with us. 

But I do think more people should consider it if they’re in a similar position as me: the white or white-passing, relatively affluent types. Sometimes, you’re not the main character. You’re the one who holds open the door. Maybe you’re the one who walks in the conference room full of people who look and think the same, and tells them to make some fucking room for once, change is coming and she’s not making exceptions for you. 

I think it’s important to know when to get out of her way.