This Is Our Villages’ Degree: Reflections and Advice From Black First-Generation Doctoral Students

ABSTRACT

While less than 6% of Black or African Americans earned doctoral degrees in 2021, Black first-generation students are graduating from doctoral programs nationwide. Although facing a series of challenges, we are creating space in the academy where little exists. Amplifying the voices of three Black first-generation scholars, this article highlights the capital and support systems we used to navigate our journey to doctoral degrees in higher education. Using song titles, we provide reflections and advice for other first-generation scholars navigating doctoral education. Although our positionalities are varied across our minoritized identities and life experiences, we contend that our collective narratives can help Black, first-generation doctoral students across any discipline, along with researchers and professionals who wish to further understand the assets and supports needed for Black, first-generation students broadly, and Black first-generation doctoral students specifically.

KEYWORDS:

• Black first-generation students
• community cultural wealth
• doctoral students

So, check it; scholars often begin articles like this one with extensive statistical data to underscore the importance of the topic to readers. While contextualizing problems is a common practice in academic research, as Black, first-generation scholars in academia, there is a certain irony in proving why our stories matter. You see, much of the literature highlights the challenges first-generation and Black students face in higher education, and though it is important for actors within academia to better understand how the academy creates obstacles for students, much of this research exists through a deficit or noncritical lens (Harper, 2010). A deficit, or noncritical, lens is one through which institutions place blame on students for inequalities, instead of acknowledging their own institutional and systemic shortcomings (Harper, 2010). Rather than introduce deficit perspectives, in this paper, we center the asset-based stories of three Black, first-generation doctoral students and include our mechanisms for success.

Why Black, first-generation doctoral students?

According to the National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics' (2021) Survey of Earned Doctorates, Black or African Americans earn 5.5% of doctoral degrees. While these statistics are startling, we emphatically proclaim that Black, first-generation students are ever-present and graduate from doctoral programs across the nation (Wallace, 2022). Amid the many challenges we face — including feelings of isolation, racial stereotypes, as well as subtle and overt racism — Black, first-generation students are creating space in the academy where little exists (Wallace, 2022; Wallace & Ford, 2021). This act of space-making and village-creating deserves recognition and, perhaps, provides a guide to other Black, first-generation students in the trenches of their academic journeys.

As authors, we spearheaded this work for three main reasons. First, research regarding the varied experiences of first-generation undergraduate students has increased in the literature over the last decade (Baldwin et al., 2021). Although we appreciate scholarship that urges institutions to create the necessary resources to support those who are the first in their families to obtain a college degree, more work is needed, particularly regarding first-generation students with multiple minoritized identities. While scholarship on first-generation undergraduates continues to expand, a paucity of literature focuses on first-generation graduate students, broadly (Gardner & Holley, 2011), or Black, first-generation doctoral students,¹ specifically. Second, researchers often fail to recognize Black, first-generation student achievements in doctoral programs by ignoring students’ social and community networks and reinforcing deficit-oriented narratives. Instead of centering deficit narratives, this paper emphasizes unrecognized capital that Black, first-generation doctoral students bring to graduate school along with the value of our collective villages (e.g., supportive partners, friends, cohort-mates, family members, support staff, and faculty). Third, to contribute to the current body of literature, we provide reflections from three Black, first-generation doctoral students in higher education and student affairs. Although each of our stories is different, based on our minoritized identities and life experiences, we believe our collective narratives can help Black, first-generation doctoral students, across any discipline, along with researchers and professionals who wish to further understand the assets and supports needed for Black doctoral students.

From presentation to publication: Sharing our stories

Collectively, all three authors have decades of experience in higher education and student affairs (e.g., Greek Life, Diversity Programs, Residential Life, Leadership Programs, TRIO Programs, etc.). Roshaunda and Lamar met in 2008 while working at the University of Georgia (UGA). Roshaunda was a graduate student at the African American Cultural Center, and Lamar worked in the Greek Life Office. Understanding the importance of creating Black community, we supported one another on our journeys to and through student affairs, staying connected during the years, thereafter, through social media. Reconnecting again during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, both Roshaunda and Lamar held each other accountable for finishing our dissertations. Connecting via Instagram, we sent each other encouraging messages and resources (e.g., websites, articles, and podcasts) for their journeys.

Conversely, Roshaunda and Jason met in 2018 while working and attending graduate school at UGA. Jason was an experienced graduate student and professional in Multicultural Services and Programs and was pivotal in helping Roshaunda transition to doctoral life. Jason taught Roshaunda the “game,” or the hidden curriculum (De Lissovoy, 2012) around graduate studies, which uncovered the rules regarding crafting a curriculum vitae, presenting at conferences, and preparing for dissertation defenses. We also shared a graduate assistant office where we laughed most days, to keep from crying, and connected across our shared love of Beyoncé Knowles Carter. Knowing that Jason and Lamar shared many similarities, including fraternity membership and student affairs leadership, Roshaunda connected the two, and the rest is history.

Once we all graduated (e.g., Dr. Wallace in 2020, Drs. Breeden and Bryant in 2021), we sought to motivate and encourage other Black, first-generation doctoral students. While Jason’s research agenda already included first-generation doctoral students, we wanted to propose a workshop at the Southern Association for College Student Affairs (SACSA) conference in November of 2022. To prepare for our session, we used narrative artistic expression rooted in narrative inquiry (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000) to describe how we navigated the doctoral journey. Although narrative work (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000) can take many forms, we used photographs, reflective exercises, journal entries, and songs to best capture how we persisted through our doctoral programs as Black, first-generation doctoral students. Before the conference, we self-reflected on our journeys and later presented our detailed stories at SACSA that year. To our surprise, our collective stories had many interconnected pieces, and we received amazing feedback from session participants. After much success and good synergy across our working group, we agreed to transform our presentation into an article to encourage more Black, first-generation doctoral students.

Theoretical framework

To ground this paper, our team used Yosso’s (2005) Community Cultural Wealth Model as our theoretical framework (see Table 1). Using Critical Race Theory, Community Cultural Wealth explicitly shifts deficit views of communities of color to strengths-based perspectives. For example, instead of focusing on what Black, first-generation doctoral students lack during their doctoral journeys, an asset-based perspective asks, what knowledge, skills, abilities, and contacts do Black, first-generation scholars bring with them to succeed in doctoral programs?

Table 1. Community Cultural Wealth theory; Yosso (2005).

Capitals	Description of Capitals
Aspirational	Maintaining hopes and dreams in the face of barriers (Yosso, 2005)
Familial	Cultural knowledge developed through family including immediate, extended, or chosen family (Breeden et al., 2023; Wallace, 2022)
Linguistic	Intellectual and social skills attained through communication in more than one language including using arts, performance, music, and comedy (Breeden et al., 2023; Yosso, 2005)
Navigational	Skill used and learned to maneuver through colleges or universities (Breeden et al., 2023; Yosso, 2005)
Resistant	Knowledge and skills developed through challenging inequity (Breeden et al., 2023; Yosso, 2005)
Social	Networks within your community that can provide resources and support (Yosso, 2005)
Spirituality/Faith	“A commitment to an espoused faith to preserve though challenging times” (Rendón et al., 2014; Wallace, 2022, p. 538)
Confidence	“Ability to maintain confidence and self-assurance in one’s abilities despite deficit messages” (Wallace, 2022, p. 537).

While Yosso’s (2005) work argues that students of color possess cultural knowledge, skills, and abilities using six types of capital: aspirational, familial, linguistic, social, navigational, and resistant, we use Wallace’s (2022) work to identify other forms of capital, such as spiritual, faith-based, and confidence capital (see Table 1). Positioning Community Cultural Wealth as a theoretical framework, we sought to understand and uncover the mechanisms that nurtured our successes as Black students in doctoral programs. While much of the literature on Community Cultural Wealth includes the perspectives of Black students, few articles include the experiences of Black doctoral students told using our own voices (Wallace, 2022).

Songs are life: Crafting this article

When deciding to transform our presentation into a paper, we were inspired by narrative artistic expression to use song titles and lyrics to describe our journeys throughout the doctoral process. As a team, we decided that using song titles would not only help amplify our voices as Black scholars — centering rhythm, spirit, pain, and joy, but using songs also create a counter-hegemonic practice in higher education scholarship, disrupting many of the norms in academia (Grimes et al., 2023). Therefore, through our narratives, we used songs to outline our individual stories and make meaning of our successes. As you read this chapter, we invite you to share space with us, engage with our stories, listen to our songs, and learn from our experiences. We encourage you to consider how to succeed on your own doctoral journey. Lastly, we invite those who work with Black, first-generation doctoral students to discover how you might disrupt dominant narratives about Black, first-generation students and reimagine their success on your campus. With those details in mind, allow us to introduce ourselves.

Meet Roshaunda — “the one who always has advice”

What’s up, good people! I am Dr. Breeden (she/her), an educator, researcher, student affairs professional, and professor. Long before getting my doctoral degree, I grew up in a poor and working-class southern family, in which I was taught to love Jesus just as much as I loved school, music, and soul food! Raised by a strict single Black mother, who did not play any games, I was told that education was the ticket to get me out of the “hood” and into the life of my dreams. Therefore, while my mom did not have a college degree, she ensured that I could access every college preparatory program (e.g., Upward Bound, Black Achievers, Crosby Scholars) within a 30-mile radius of our hometown. My momma wanted her baby girl to be successful and did everything she could to ensure I would be. Due to her persistence, I landed two hours away from home at North Carolina State University, a Historically white² Institution (HWI) with few Black students. I was utterly lost during my first year, but I worked hard to create the space I needed to survive my HWI. I majored in Africana Studies to ensure I had small classes and built-in Black faculty mentors, and I joined every club that had “Black” in the name or mission. Due to my leadership skills, mentors recruited me to attend graduate school and enter the field of higher education and student affairs. After graduate school, I worked for over a decade in higher education at Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) and HWIs in areas such as residential life, academic advising, and TRIO programs. After a decade of working, I desired more from my career, and I was curious about research, so I applied to doctoral programs even though I was petrified. I was fearful because I had previously applied to programs and was denied admission. When asked for feedback, I was told that my GRE scores were too low or that my application could be strengthened. These rejections tricked me into believing I was not good enough to get an advanced degree. In addition to being denied multiple times, I was also scared because none of my family had navigated the doctoral process, and once again, I was left to blaze new trails.

The final time I applied to doctoral programs in 2017, I faced one denial and some acceptances. After speaking with mentors about program options and financial aid packages, I attended UGA. While I navigated the rough transition to UGA, including quitting my “good job,” moving, and starting over, I learned valuable lessons on maneuvering through my doctoral program as a fat, Black, generationally poor woman and first-generation college student. My minoritized identities and the Community Cultural Wealth (Yosso, 2005) I brought from home taught me to always make a way out of no way. So, here is the advice I will give you!

“You Are Not Alone, Even If It Feels Like It.”

My first piece of advice to Black, first-generation doctoral students is to remember that you are not alone. I know it is easy to think you are alone in these academic streets, but let me assure you that you have people to count on. Gospel and R&B aunties, Houston and Winans (1995), have a great song called “Count on Me,” which reminds me of the social capital you will need during your doctoral program. In the song, Houston and Winans share the importance of learning on a friend or community as support.

From this song and its lyrics, I found success as a Black, first-generation scholar by using my social capital (Yosso, 2005) and finding my village of people to count on as I navigated the doctoral process. Immediately upon arrival at UGA, I started building my network to help my transition; I introduced myself to Black faculty, students (e.g., Shout out to Drs. Lamesha Brown, Joan Collier, Niah Grimes, Marvette Lacy, TJ Stewart, Jason Wallace, Melvin Whitehead, Brit Williams), and staff in my program who helped me navigate my journey. My assistantship supervisor, Dr. Marian Higgins and my chair, Dr. Darris Means, supported me and had my back — ensuring I had access to scholarships, research opportunities, and conferences. Aside from faculty connections, I was included in several of my programs’ group chats (e.g., Black CSAA-D), where I could ask questions without judgment. Specifically, the Black students in my program took care of me. Not only did they check in to see how I was progressing, they also invited me to writing retreats, added me to their preplanned conference proposals and presentations, and even after they graduated, they sent me care packages, books, and goodies that reminded me that I could run on. Lastly, aside from faculty and students, there were custodial and support staff members in the College of Education and one person in the parking deck, three incredible Black women, Ms. Terrie, Ms. Tammy, and Ms. Timisha, who checked in on me, helped me if I was sick, and reminded me to take care of myself. Without these women, I might never have found a local therapist, loctician, nail shop, or church home. These Black women ensured I had everything I needed on and off campus. Lastly, I must shout out my amazing husband, Melvin Breeden, Jr., who quit his job, moved to Georgia, kept me fed on late nights, and encouraged me to keep going. Without his support, I would not have finished our degree (I use “our” because he put in the work with me). Between the Black faculty, staff, students, and my partner, I sincerely had a village to help me succeed. These individuals were, indeed, people I could count on.

“It’s Bigger Than You.”

In times of despair during the doctoral process, when I felt overwhelmed by my research or dissertation edits, I remembered that getting this degree was bigger than me and my individual goals. I was completing this degree for myself and my enslaved ancestors and family members who came before me, those who longed to finish high school, let alone college. I imagined how they would feel about their descendant receiving her doctorate, which encouraged me to keep writing. Aside from my family, I also thought about the legacy after me. How would my nieces, nephews, and future children feel about me finishing this degree? How would my success in this doctoral program encourage them to pursue their own goals? Considering familial capital and legacy, I often listened to Beyonce’s song “Bigger,” during which she sings that, as individuals, we are a crucial part of a larger whole (Knowles-Carter, 2019). Notably, as Black people with a triumphant stories, we are part of a collective known as the African diaspora and should never play small.

Beyonce’s words remind me that my doctoral work and journey here on earth are bigger than I can imagine. My ancestors and family survived the transatlantic slave trade, maneuvered southern plantations, and navigated the Jim Crow South so I could become a doctor! While my experience in the doctoral program was challenging, it could not compare to what they experienced, and if they could survive, I could become a doctor. Their fortitude and resilience were all I needed on tough days to stop complaining and get back to work. I encourage you to think about what your family, past and present, gave you to help you navigate your journey.

“Celebrate Every Step”

Lastly, I invite you to celebrate every step of the journey. As an overachieving Black woman and first-generation scholar, sometimes I become so preoccupied with crossing off tasks on my to-do list that I forget to celebrate my accomplishments. Many times as a doctoral student, I was guilty of engaging in white supremacy culture as defined by Tema Okun (2021), during which I felt like I had to produce to be successful. Early in the doctoral process, I believed value could only be defined through quantifiable ways, including awards, conference acceptances, and published articles. I reached the point during which I was privileging quantity (e.g., the number of tasks) over the quality of my work (Okun, 2021), and this “grind” to achieve made me feel empty. To push back against white supremacy culture, which only celebrates quantifiable success, I tapped into my resistance capital, remembering past instances when I pushed back against oppression, redefined success, and celebrated everything. After this shift, I would honor highly successful days with the same enthusiasm as my rest days, and in doing that, I felt whole in the process. I felt free.

To those reading this article, I invite you to celebrate everything — getting into the doctoral program, presenting at your first conference, building up the confidence to e-mail your academic crush, getting out of bed, or staying in bed. Whatever it is, I invite you to celebrate that sh*t. This journey is arduous, and any win is important. In the spirit of celebration, I hold fast to Teyana Taylor’s (2020) song “Made It.” This song not only makes me twerk a little bit but also reminds me of what it means to persist and keep going until I make it. Go listen to it right now!

Meet Jason — “the one who made it in spite of”

Hey Siri, play Kirk Franklin’s Roadtrip (Franklin, 2016b)

I never thought receiving a doctoral degree would be easy. In fact, the dominant narrative I received about pursuing a doctorate centered around trauma, misery, and regret. I was well aware when I began the doctoral journey that this process would likely not be enjoyable. Luckily, I was surprisingly incorrect.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a bit traumatizing, sometimes miserable, and there were certainly days I regretted my decision to pursue the degree. However, what I did not expect was to meet a version of myself who I had not met previously. I did not expect my colleagues, friends, and my village to remind me of who I am in order to complete the journey. I am a Black, queer, cisgender man, and a first-generation college graduate from a working-class background. Having spent my formative years in the COGIC church (#iykyk), I also identify as Christian, though I am currently more spiritual than religious. Scholarship details, and my lived experience can attest to the fact, that the founders of higher education did not intend on people like me enrolling (Cole, 2020; Wallace et al., 2020; Wilder, 2013). As a result, I frequently doubted my abilities given everything around me communicated that I was not enough (Wallace, 2021). I was not intelligent enough. I was not rich enough. I was not straight enough. I was not white enough. These messages echoed in my mind as a doctoral student. By year two, I purposely isolated myself from my faculty and cohort mates from fear of them realizing what I believed to be true — I was not supposed to be a doctor.

It was winter break during the middle of my second year in my program when I began to listen to Kirk Franklin’s (2016a) Losing My Religion album. Ironically, the album was released a few months prior to me starting my doctoral program, but I did not take the time to critically listen. I remember walking my dog when I discovered the fourth track on the album, called Road Trip (2016b), a song that would encourage and sustain me throughout my doctoral journey. The song reminded me that no journey is easy, that I would have doubts, and that everything would be alright. God spoke to me on that walk — a feeling that I had not experienced with that level of intensity. I felt so much comfort knowing that despite the systemic, institutional, and individual instances of oppression and discrimination that sought to destroy me, they would only work in my favor.

Despite the elitism embedded within academia, Drs. Lamesha Brown, Raven Cokley, and I created a space for first-generation doctoral students to feel seen, @FirstGenDocs (Brown et al., 2021). @FirstGenDocs became a movement — a radical response to how actors within academia actively refused to make space for us. It was through this virtual community that I found encouragement and normalcy, which empowered me to be vocal about my needs as a first-generation student. Despite the elitism, I made it.

Despite the classism that sought to divide me from my kin, I made time to familiarize myself with staff members who administrators, faculty, and students ignored, daily. It was the warm smile of Ms. Terrie Elam, a Black woman who maintained the beauty and feel of my academic building, which encouraged me to keep going. Ms. Terrie reminded me of my family. She felt like home. Since I was a few states away from any of my family members, her smile and gentle words of encouragement meant the world to me. Then, there was Ms. Marie, who worked in the café in my academic building. Ms. Marie would reprimand me when she felt I had too many 5-hour energy drinks and not enough water. Ms. Marie not only sustained me through my doctoral journey, but she likely also saved me from an overconsumption of caffeine. Despite classism, we found each other. Despite classism, I made it.

Despite the racism, I endured in my full-time job, and I continued to fight. When white supervisors, legislators, and other academic leaders who were not invested in the full liberation of Black people, worked collectively to silence BIPOC voices, I still pushed. Refusing to exist in environments within which I could not grow or be fully seen as human, I made the difficult decision to quit my full-time job, which paid for my education, without having secured anything else. I was scared, discouraged, and severely fractured but not broken. I chose me. I redirected my energy to my studies where I made space for myself in an academy that could not love me, refusing to let anyone stifle my voice ever again. Despite racism, I made it.

Despite homophobia and homoantagonism, I embraced my queerness and the uncertainties. thereof. I gave myself permission to love and to be loved. I engaged in a loving relationship with a partner who, I believe, God placed into my life right when I needed him most. Though we are no longer in community in that way, I am forever grateful for how he loved me. Most of all, I am grateful for the ways I intentionally chose myself and my happiness despite the homophobic environment within which I existed. Despite homophobia and homoantagonism, I made it.

Despite the academy being the academy, I made it through. While I recognize that many of the ways I successfully navigated the doctoral journey was due to my own capital cultivated by myself, my family, friends, and community (Yosso, 2005), I also recognize that it took a village for me to get through. It required a supportive Black doctoral community which we affectionately called Black CSAA (a nod to the name of our program, College Student Affairs Administration), that provided me the encouragement and confidence I desired — particularly from people that look like me. It was my brilliant advisor, Dr. Darris R. Means — a fellow Black, first-generation graduate, who served as an inspiration to me. Despite the violence within the academy, I made it.

This article serves as a testimony for my Black kin in the academy, for my queer kin in the academy, for first-generation, working-class students in the academy, and for those whose identities lie at the intersection of systemic oppression. While I do not discount the immense privilege I experience due to my dominant identities, I also acknowledge that it was the community I intentionally fostered with Black, queer, working class, and first-generation folks that propelled me to the finish line. We cannot do this alone and we do not have to. I am forever indebted to my community for their love, grace, and support. I leave Black, first-generation readers with this line from Kirk Franklin’s (2016b) Road Trip, “good news, your destination is determined, it’s selected and predestined.” You were already enough when your institution admitted you. You can and you will make it through.

Meet Lamar — “the one who has been beating the odds his entire life”

Greetings everyone! Embodying the rap GOAT, Jay-Z’s energy in his song Public Service Announcement (Carter, 2003), allow me to introduce myself. I still remember how it felt to write a similar caption on a social media post the night I successfully defended my dissertation. To say I felt proud and accomplished is a gross understatement. I still cannot quite put into words exactly how I felt that night. To help you understand just how much this accomplishment means to me, I would be remiss if I didn’t go back to the beginning and provide some important context regarding who I am and from where I came. Still now, when great things happen to me, I often find myself using the statement, “lil ole me? I’m just a dude from a small town in Louisiana.” While the statement may seem like a deflection to some, or a self-deprecating perspective to others, its sentiment precisely illustrates my reality. I constantly grapple with the fact that I, by the grace of God, made it.

The fact that I am alive and well is nothing short of a miracle. I am the youngest of three children, and after my second sibling was born, my mother was told she could no longer have children. Moreover, due to her medical history, getting pregnant was deemed virtually impossible. As a believer, this is an appropriate time to say, “but God!” Imagine the emotions my mother experienced when she went to the doctor for a checkup and found out she was expecting her third child. Because of this miracle, my birth story is the foundation of my resilient spirit, and my mother is my “why.”

As a single-parent, I knew my mother didn’t have a lot of money, but I honestly never felt like we “struggled,” because as a child, my mother always made sure we had what we needed. In retrospect, I know it had to have been extremely difficult for her being the sole parent and provider for three children, while working two jobs, and managing her health challenges. Unfortunately, my mother passed away when I was sixteen years old, due to complications associated with her lupus diagnosis. However, before she passed, my mother made her desires for me clear. One of those desires was for me to “get as much education as possible,” and, like most things my mother said, I took it seriously and was determined to make it happen.

As a first-generation college student, my academic journey was consistently anxiety-inducing. I battled imposter syndrome long before I knew what to call it. More specifically, I often felt like I was figuring things out as I went along and cautiously hoped things would work out in my favor. I also lacked confidence, so I never felt “good enough.” However, as I reflect on my entire academic journey, my doctoral experience was both the most daunting and the most rewarding. I often still wonder how I made it, and as I recall my experiences, I often reflect on Marvin Sapp’s Never Would Have Made It lyrics: I often still wonder how I made it, and as I recall my experiences, I often reflect on Marvin Sapp's Never Would Have Made It, where he mentions the ways that God brought him through his challenges. Like Sapp, my faith is a central part of my existence, and it has been that way my entire life. Additionally, several other factors enabled me to persist and, ultimately, complete my doctoral journey. As I share my thoughts, I hope you find the information helpful, and, more importantly, I encourage you to take the advice that resonates with you most. Everyone’s doctoral journey is unique, and because you and I are not the same person, you will likely have different intellectual, personal, and emotional experiences throughout your process. Always remember, at every stage of your doctoral journey, you must do what is best for you. Therefore, I encourage you to make a personal commitment to running your race and owning your respective journey.

“Own It, You are Dope and You are Capable!”

To keep it one hundred with y’all, imposter syndrome had me in a chokehold. There were many times I had to intentionally replace seeds of doubt, fear of failure, and the deficit narratives with biblical scriptures, positive affirmations, and legitimate counternarratives. Essentially, I spent the first two years of my doctoral journey trying to convince everyone, including myself, that I was worthy of the opportunity to pursue a doctorate. It was exhausting. Moreover, the excitement that I once felt about pursuing a doctoral degree quickly turned into dread and anxiety. I was a part-time doctoral student, and I had a full-time job at the institution where I was initially pursuing my doctorate; therefore, I utilized the tuition waiver program with the intention to maintain my full-time employment status.

However, as I worked to complete my coursework requirement, I was presented a lucrative offer of employment at a different institution. After much prayer and consideration, I accepted the new job offer, and I did what many folks advised me not to do. I paused my doctoral studies, with the intention to transfer and complete my doctoral journey elsewhere. Often, when I share this story, people are shocked, because most people don’t know doctoral students can transfer to a different institution to complete their studies. To be transparent, there are many important factors to consider when deciding whether transferring is a viable option for you; I strongly encourage you to do your due diligence, before you decide to transfer. I shared this piece of my story to assure people it can be done, and I did it because it was what I needed to do. One of my favorite songs is Optimistic (1991) by Sounds of Blackness. The lyrics to that song capture the essence of my mentality throughout my doctoral process. Those lyrics capture the essence of my mentality throughout my doctoral process. Failure was not an option for me, I had to win. Because I chose to prioritize my professional career, I was delayed in earning my Ph.D., but I was not denied. Ultimately, I finished it! Thus, more importantly, I serve as an inspiration to members of my family, friends, and mentors who are considering a doctorate. They know if I did it, they can do it too!

“Leverage the Village Mentality”

As I consider their goodness toward me, Brandy's song, Best Friend, comes to mind, specifically when she mentions that regardless of the situation, good or bad, she would not have succeeded without her best friend or village.

Don’t know what I’d ever do without you, from the beginning to the end, you’ve always been here right beside me, so, I’ll call you my best friend. Through the good times and the bad ones, whether I lose or if I win, I know one thing that never changes, and that’s you as my best friend. Whenever I’m down, and all that’s going on, it’s really going on, just one of those days and you, you say the right things, to keep me moving on, to keep me going strong, what else can I say? (1994)

Every time I wanted to throw in the towel, my village reminded me of my why and encouraged me to continue striving forward. An African proverb that I often heard growing up is “it takes a village to raise a child.” This well-known proverb highlights the importance of the community throughout your life journey. Unknowingly, I leveraged a similar village mentality throughout my doctoral journey. I am confident I would not have made it through my doctoral journey without the people (family, loved ones, friends, colleagues, as well as custodial and support staff) who poured into me in such meaningful ways. Ironically, some of them, most notably the custodial and support staff, didn’t realize how much they impacted me until I thanked them and told them how much their support meant to me. Also, my life partner’s unconditional love and support carried me. My wife understood the assignment placed on my life, so she pushed me and motivated me in ways that only she could. Pursuing a terminal degree requires a lot of sacrifice, from all parties involved, including those who choose to do life with you.

My advice to you is to effectively use your village, or form your village, if you don’t already have one. I realize this may not be everyone’s experience, but when I connected with members of my village, I felt like I had entered my personal version of Wakanda! I would often, if not always, leave those encounters feeling like I had the strength of the Black Panther. My village made me feel like I could take on whatever life and my doctoral program threw at me. Unquestionably, the most beautiful thing about my village was the people. My village comprised people from all walks of life, with varied levels of formalized education. Yet every person had a wealth of knowledge to share. My village was a wonderful mosaic. The one regret I have is that I didn’t thank them enough, because I assumed they knew how much I appreciated them. So, I encourage you to thank your village frequently, and be sure to do so authentically. In most cases, I assure you that your acknowledgment will mean more to them than you could ever imagine.

Closing thoughts: Thank you to our village!

As you read our respective stories and the advice offered, you may have noticed a few central themes. Though our individual journeys are nuanced and personal, given our unique lived experiences, there are some notable similarities we identified. Consistent with Yosso’s (2005) Community Cultural Wealth Model, as aspiring first-generation Black doctoral students, we leveraged various forms of capital to persist and graduate. A salient common aspect of our respective stories was our abilities to succeed, despite the barriers we faced along the way. More specifically, throughout our lives, including our doctoral journeys, we overcame various personal and academic obstacles. For example, one specific experience we all had to work through was feeling inadequate or unworthy of our successes (Rodriguez, 2023). Despite our many accomplishments, imposter syndrome and the manifestations of systemic oppression (e.g., poverty, racial discrimination, homophobia, and sexism) often took their toll on our mental health. Fortunately, we had God’s grace and our own fortitude, coupled with our great familial and social capital, by way of specific support systems that enabled us to thrive, respectively. Those support systems included but were not limited to friends, colleagues, faculty, affinity groups, loved ones, life partners, and support staff. Yes, you read that right, support staff. Our relationships with support staff (i.e., custodial and facilities staff) on campus were another salient theme that emerged from our stories (Guzmán et al., 2021). All three of us have multiple stories during which custodial staff or dining hall staff encouraged and uplifted us in significant ways. Unfortunately, in some cases, these staff members are often overlooked by most of our respective campuses; however, we saw them, and they saw us! There were moments throughout our dissertation journeys when we felt discouraged, yet their genuine encouragement and acknowledgment kept us going. Our relationships with these amazing individuals were mutually beneficial because, frankly, they appreciated us honoring their dignity and acknowledging their important contributions to the campus community. That is why we collectively and emphatically say these are our villages’ degrees. By using the language “our,” we publicly exclaim that we would not have finished without our strong villages of support (and our bomb dissertation playlists!)

As educators and practitioners, we want to leave readers some recommendations and action steps for Black, first-generation doctoral students and the faculty and staff who work with these groups. First, to faculty and staff, we ask that readers recognize the many strengths that Black, first-generation students bring to campus and try to craft orientations, classroom sessions, and graduate workshops with these assets in mind. Second, we ask, how might faculty and staff encourage Black students to craft villages inside and outside of departments? How might faculty and staff dismantle power dynamics regarding mentorship and advising to allow students to think creatively about multiple layers of support, both on and off campus? And lastly, if we know Black students, staff, and faculty will support and retain one another, how might campuses incentivize and reward Black students, faculty, and staff for their additional labor in helping with retention and graduation rates? Specifically, for support staff, we recommend honoring these staff members as community builders and working with their supervisors to retain them and their efforts.

For doctoral students, we highlight a key takeaway from our collective advice as first-generation scholars. As a Black, first-generation scholar, one of the most important things for you to do is to identify your community or villages, as soon as possible. Connecting to people who intentionally uplift and encourage you is critical to your success. You will need this support when fear tries to overwhelm you. As the African proverb tells us, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” Essentially, we are social beings who innately crave meaningful human connections. Fortunately, for first-generation doctoral students, various types of support are available to you, including communities specifically for first-generation Black doctoral students (e.g., @FirstGenDocs and @AsheGrads on X, formerly known as Twitter, along with @CohortSistas, @QualScholars on Instagram). It’s also worth noting that the concept of support systems is vast. In general, villages can be formal (e.g., conferences and mentoring programs like Southern Regional Education Board [SREB], n.d.) or informal networks (e.g., group chats, Sister Circles, and writing retreats), some will require a membership or association fee, and specific support systems may be affiliated with broader local, national, or international networks.

Lastly, we want to remind you that you need family and friends who could not care less about your dissertation work. Specifically, we mean a chosen family, those individuals in your life who affirm you and lift you up. Having a chosen family is a critical part of your village, because they can remind you of who you are outside of this academic bullshit. If possible, check in with your chosen family as often as possible. These folks will provide you those good hugs, can feed you really well, and make you laugh until you cry happy tears. Regardless of the formal and informal villages, circles, tribes, and cliches you create, we want to remind you that you cannot navigate this academic journey alone. Let our stories motivate you and your own Community Cultural Wealth guide you.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Notes

1. For the sake of this article, we identify Black first-generation doctoral students as those of Black/African descent who are the first in their immediate family to receive a bachelor’s degree and go on to enroll and complete doctoral programs.

2. In this article, the authors use a lowercase “w” when describing white or whiteness and capitalize Black when referencing Black people. The authors use lowercase for terms such as anti-blackness or anti-black. We lean on Dumas (2016), who shares, “white is not capitalized in my work because it is nothing but a social construct, and does not describe a group with a sense of common experiences or kinship outside of acts of colonization and terror … I write blackness and antiblackness in lower-case, because they refer not to Black people per se, but to a social construction of racial meaning, much as whiteness does (p. 13). By de-emphasizing the word white and capitalizing Black helped us to honor and humanize Black people.