“They just set us back 10 years.”

This would be an appropriate response to when Kanye West said slavery was “a choice” or when watching Christian Walker on TikTok. This is a phrase some Black folks use when we feel someone has embarrassed or humiliated the Black community. It may also be used in more casual situations, like if a Black person dances poorly in public or makes a joke that doesn’t land.

In their actions, all the progress Black people have made over the years, cleaning up our reputation, was lost. I have often used this phrase jokingly, but in light of recent news I have realized the weight it holds.

This month, three graduate students filed a lawsuit against Harvard for ignoring reported sexual assault claims about Professor John L. Comaroff over multiple years, including both physical and verbal harassment. He was put on paid administrative leave back in 2020, and more recently was placed on unpaid leave and can no longer advise any new graduate students. Shortly before the students’ lawsuit, 38 Harvard faculty members voiced their support of Comaroff in an open letter, challenging the University’s sanctions.

Many of these faculty signatories were Black professors, some hailing from the African and African American Studies Department. Seeing names of Black professors in support of Comaroff brought me no other emotions but disgust and shame. But my conclusions regarding this situation were much more complex.

Due to lack of representation, each of our individual actions are broadcasted to the rest of the greater Harvard community. Every action we do, every move we make, represents the Black community. Despite our minority status, I appreciate that we have created strong Black spaces and claimed Black professors as our mentors in order to preserve as much of our culture and seek comfort as much we can. Whenever I walk through the Harvard campus and see other Black faculty or students we always give each other a nod of solidarity or a smile, knowing the experience we share.

However, I assumed that all of us on campus share most of the same morals and ideals — but obviously I was wrong.

Sexual assault is a very serious problem on college campuses but I have always felt very safe in Black spaces. The Black professors who signed that open letter broke that safe space. I cannot imagine what it felt like for Black students to lose their mentor or their role model. To see Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Jamaica Kincaid on that list was painful to many, regardless if one was taught by them or not.

The white students who saw their favorite white mentors or professors on this list have a multitude of others to choose from. For many of these students, their first thought probably wasn’t “they just set us back 10 years” or even considered that the professor was white. It was just some professor that did something wrong.

These high expectations we have to meet to satisfy our own community — but also not to disappoint others — is unfair. I should not be afraid to make a mistake due to the impact it might have on the Black community. I should not have to worry about the secondhand embarrassment or shame from my peers’ mistakes. This monolith is dangerous and toxic and needs to be discarded.

Yet, I also am not condoning the actions of the professors that supported Comaroff in the midst of his multiple sexual assault allegations. I am not giving Black people a free pass to commit horrific acts. Letting go of the idea that Black people are a monolith is not meant to shelter wrongdoers, but hopefully to help Black students realize the unfortunate reality that we cannot always rely on each other simply on the basis of race.

Seventy-three professors condemned their colleagues and supported the women who were brave enough to speak out against Comaroff. Black professors were also represented on this list; it’s refreshing to see that exemplary leaders and role models still exist for Black students at Harvard.

Most professors later revoked their support of Comaroff, including both Gates and Kincaid. This seems ingenuine and reactionary, however, and we should still condemn these professors for originally supporting Comaroff. Neither group represents the entirety of the Black community; we should not feel like Camroff’s supporters tainted our name nor should we feel like his critics were our saving grace.

Black people deserve the autonomy to represent themselves. In efforts to protect my peers from the pain and shame like this again, we need to be cognizant of the drawbacks of the Black monolith.

Angie Gabeau ’25, a Crimson Editorial Editor, lives in Pennypacker.

This piece is a part of a focus on Black authors and experiences for Black History Month.

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