Into the wildfire: campus racial climate and the Trump presidency

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INTO THE WILDFIRE: CAMPUS RACIAL CLIMATE AND THE TRUMP PRESIDENCY
by

Sy Stokes

A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE ROSSIER SCHOOL OF EDUCATION
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
URBAN EDUCATION POLICY

August 2020

Copyright 2020 Sy Stokes

ii
DEDICATION

For my cats, Speedy and Rozzy, who are my therapy in my darkest days.

iii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Mom—

You immigrated to this country at only eleven years old. In a foreign land, you defied all odds on
the road to your successes, and in the middle of your journey, you became my mother. As I
complete this stage of my life, I like to think that your resilience, ambition, and strength was
passed down through your blood and into mine. You instilled so many important values into my
life, most of which I didn’t even realize existed until I grew older. I used to argue with you
because I never understood the method to your madness—the thousands of Kumon packets, the
piano lessons that I cried through, the academic summer camps at ATDP, the college classes that
you enrolled me in while I was still in middle school, and the countless other opportunities that I
yelled and bickered through without understanding their true worth. I remember the stories you
used to tell me about how Grandma and Grandpa would be ten times more strict than you could
ever be (I will never forget when you made me iron my homework because you said it was too
wrinkled to turn in, which you told me was Grandpa’s idea). But as I tirelessly worked on this
nearly 700-page dissertation, each night I became more and more aware of all of the things you
taught me as a child. You taught me the value of hard work, the significance of time
management and self-motivation, and the importance of keeping myself grounded through it all.
You are the best mother I could ever have. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. One day
I hope I’ll be able to pay it all back. But until then, I hope I continue to make you proud. I love
you, Mom.

Dad—

Growing up as the son of a successful Black man is something I could never take for granted.
From the moment I was born, you served as the example of what I hoped to one day become. I
was born on Father’s Day, and from that day forward, all I ever wanted was to be the best
present you could ever receive. Every milestone I ever reached was an effort to become more
like you. But as I got older, I realized it was an impossible goal. Thus, if I turn out to be half the
man you are, I would consider it a life worth lived. I don’t think you ever realized how much I
looked up to you as a child (and to this day!). I watched you volunteer on your days off work to
give free dental care to the homeless. I watched you take care of our family in the most trying
times. I watched you in the stands at every single basketball game of mine (even the ones where
I got benched). I watched you tap your hand on your steering wheel as we listened to the same
16-song cassette tape every time you picked me up from school. I tried to follow your rhythm
just like I tried to follow your path in life. We sang along to Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Luther
Vandross, and the countless other artists who reminded us what it meant to be a Black man living
in America. In between songs, you would ask me how my day was. It was always the same
question, “What’s one thing you learned today?” to which I would stubbornly reply, “Nothing!”
But in all honesty, I learned more from those car rides with you than I ever did inside of a
classroom. You told me stories about your past, of MomMom and PopPop, of how it was being
an activist in the 60s during your short time at Howard University. I will always cherish those
moments we had together. They shaped me into the man I am today. I love you Dad, Always and
Forever (shoutout to Luther).

iv
Scott—

Who would’ve thought that those all-nighters watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and playing video games
would end up defining our sleep schedule/work schedule for the rest of our lives? Having you as
a brother is a constant reminder that I will always have something to prove. I don’t think you
understand how much you drive and inspire me every waking moment. Whether it was on the
court, in the classroom, or on your dining room table where I spent countless hours writing this
damn thing, you were always by my side, pushing me to be the best version of myself. I’ll never
forget the moment that—in my eyes—we became best friends. I came to visit you during your
freshman year at UW. You showed me around campus and introduced me to a life that could
only be reached through hard work and dedication. I cried on my way back to the airport because
I didn’t realize how much I would miss you when I went back home. You know what they say—
you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. And with you, I didn’t realize how much I needed
you in my life until you were hundreds of miles away. But from that moment forward, I never
took for granted our time together. Spending these past few months of quarantine with you in
your home was the best send-off I could ever ask for. We haven’t had this much time together
since we were kids, except this time, I made sure I wouldn’t take it for granted. Even if it was
staying up until you came home from work just so we could watch a couple episodes of a show, I
knew that it was time we could never get back. And to no surprise, those moments became
something I will cherish for the rest of my life. As I prepare to leave for Michigan, just know that
you will always be in my heart. I love you, fam. Forever my brother, forever my best
F.R.I.E.N.D.

Speedy and Rozzy—

You came into my life in one of my darkest moments. Every single day you give me a reason to
wake up. You give me a reason to live. You give me a reason to work hard so I can provide you
with the best environment possible (I’m sorry I made you live in that studio apartment in Los
Angeles for the first two years of your life, our new home in Michigan will give you plenty of
room to run around and play). Most people don’t even know that you’re my therapy animals.
Whenever my depression hits, you’re always there to comfort me until it’s over. You remind me
why I need to stick around. Even if I don’t take care of myself sometimes, you always remind me
that I have someone to take care of no matter what.

Kainoa—

You saved my life seven years ago. On my darkest day, you were the light that saved me. For
that, I am eternally grateful to you. You are my brother, my best man, and the best friend I could
ever have. We’ve been rockin’ together for almost 20 years now and I know the next 20 will be
even better. I can’t wait to see what’s in store for us both. I know that whatever happens, we’ll be
by each other’s side through it all. #S4L

Joe, Matt and Cole—

From childhood to manhood, we’ve grown together. From Asian league socials to late nights in
foreign lands, y’all have been my rocks through everything. Thank you.
v

Kristina—

You beautiful human being. I can’t believe how far we’ve come. Throughout this entire process,
you were there with me every step of the way. You are the most supportive partner I could ever
ask for. Long before I became “Dr. Stokes,” you had that as my name in your phone. You
believed in me from the moment we met. You believed in a version of me that didn’t even exist
yet. And every single day, I strive to become the man that you see me as. I love you, I love you, I
love you.

Alex, Chris, Natalie, and Marissa (aka TriiiPod & Friends)—

The best decision I ever made was applying for that job at Hedrick Hall. We created a family
behind that front desk. We travelled the world together, climbed rooftops and mountaintops
(literally), and shared our deepest and darkest secrets that we will hold dearly until the day we
die. I don’t know what I would do without you. I love you all, TriiiPod & Friends forever.

Kathreece—

You will always be my rock. You met me as a boy, and watched me grow into…an older boy.
Our friendship is something special. We have always been more like family than friends, and I
know that will never change for as long as we live.

Annelise—

My fellow cat lady, I absolutely adore our friendship. I honestly regret not becoming friends
earlier in our lives. Nonetheless, we’ve made up for the lost time in every way possible. Thank
you for always putting a smile on my face.

Oscar (aka Pretty O)—

From the moment you touched down in LA, I knew we would become best friends. There aren’t
that many people like you in this line of work, and I am the luckiest dude in the world to have
you as a friend during your short time here. It’s an absolute honor to grow with you, fam.
Without you, I don’t even know if I would have been able to last through those first couple years.
You were the reason I came to work, and the reason I stayed in this program. Keep doing you,
Pretty O.

Ricca (aka Sharicca)—

I will always cherish our friendship. It was something special ever since we met, but the fact that
we both became educators drew us even closer together. I can’t wait to see what amazing things
Ms. Sarmiento will accomplish. You are an inspiration.

Memo, David, Julius, Adam, and James—

vi
The Make It Nasty Crew made my time at UCLA the greatest. Memo brought us all together
during our freshmen year, and we stuck together ever since. Thank you for giving me the best
college years ever.

Jana Rae—

I came to you in a dark time. I was hesitant at first, mostly because I thought I was a lost cause.
But each week, you helped me heal from wounds I didn’t realize existed. You were the greatest
therapist I could ever ask for. Thank you.

Black Bruins—

We created something special. It’s amazing to see much we have accomplished since the video
released. We solidified ourselves into the history books.

Slaughterhouse—

I know we didn’t hang out much (I tend to avoid humans), but I can’t emphasize enough how
amazing it is to have a group of brilliant Black (and brilliantly Black) scholars to learn from and
grow with. I can’t wait to see what your futures entail. You are all bound for greatness.

Hazel, Vikki, DQ, and Diana—

You are beautiful, intelligent, ambitious, and absolute badasses. It is an honor to be your
mentor/big brother. It has been amazing to watch each of you grow into the incredible women
that you are. I will always be here for you.

Camille O.—

I met you when we were both hopeless romantic high school kids. But through the years, I
watched you become who you were always meant to be—a brilliant, intelligent, and strong
human being who could persevere through anything. When X passed, it shook us all to our core.
Nonetheless, you handled it with such grace and elegance. I know he is looking down on us both,
smiling from cheek to cheek, proud of what we have both become.

Nichole H.—

Thank you for our late nights drinking wine and watching Rick & Morty. You introduced Speedy
into my life, and I can’t thank you enough for what that did for me. Shoutout to the best step-
mom ever!

Mataio—

Lil bro, I am so incredibly proud of you. You always say that I’m an inspiration for you, but I
always believed it to be the opposite. You inspire me every single day. You take care of your
vii
family, your friends, and all of the kids that look up to you. You are bound for greatness. We are
all witnesses. UC Berkeley ain’t ready for you!

Alana K.—

My secret best friend and fellow cat lady. No one will know how incredible our friendship has
been since day one. I never could have imagined that first boba trip would turn into what we
have today. Thank you for always being there for me.

Nichole, Nathan, Justin, and Mike—

Y’all took me in as your pesky little brother during my time at Penn. I am forever grateful for
everything you taught me during our time together. You reminded me that I can still be myself
despite the academy trying to convince me otherwise.

Jessica (aka Ms. Cantiller)—

I’ll never forget when you first got into UCLA. Jette reached out to me and asked that I look out
after you, and I tried my best to uphold that promise ever since. Although we don’t talk as much
anymore, just know that you make me so incredibly proud to be your pseudo-big bro. You
inspire me more than you could ever imagine.

Sumi—

You helped me through the finish line when I was limping the last lap. Thank you for being my
work mama. I am so lucky to have you in my life.

REC Team—

Thank you for creating an affirming environment for me to learn and grow. The Center will
always have a special place in my heart (and a special shoutout to Lara and Brandi who provided
so much support for this dissertation!).

My Dissertation Committee (Shaun, Charles, Tyrone, and Ben)—

I am so lucky to have you in my life. Each of you met me in a different stage of my academic
career, and each of you helped me get through to the next one. I won’t write too much here
because I already spent the last 15 minutes of my dissertation defense crying about how much I
appreciate you all (lol). But thank you for everything, I am forever grateful.

Laura Romero—

Thank you for helping me through this program. You do so much for us all! When I told you I
was going to finish in three years, you didn’t scoff like everyone else, you just hopped on your
computer and said, “Well let’s see how we can make that happen.” Thank you for always
believing in me.
viii

Thank you to the USC Internal Research Grant for your financial support.

Thank you to the 163 participants in this study. Especially the students of color, y’all reminded
me of the importance of this work. I will continue to fight for us for as long as I live.

To my high school counselor who said I needed to consider more “realistic options”—You mad?

ix

Rest in peace, EZ.

Rest in peace, Xavier Echon.

Rest in peace, Cynthea Jackson.

Rest in peace, PopPop & Grandpa. This one is for you.

x
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION ................................................................................................................................ ii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ........................................................................................................... iii
LIST OF TABLES ....................................................................................................................... xiv
LIST OF FIGURES ...................................................................................................................... xv
ABSTRACT ................................................................................................................................. xvi
CHAPTER 1: BACKGROUND, PURPOSE AND OVERVIEW OF THE STUDY .................... 1
CHAPTER 2: REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE ....................................................................... 19
Historical Foundations of Racism in U.S. Higher Education ....................................................... 27
Contemporary Manifestations of Racism on College Campuses ................................................. 36
Campus Climate ...................................................................................................................................... 36
Campus Racial Climate ........................................................................................................................... 41
Historical dimension. .......................................................................................................................................... 44
Structural dimension. .......................................................................................................................................... 46
Organizational/structural diversity ........................................................................................................... 47
Perceptual dimension. ......................................................................................................................................... 48
Behavioral dimension. ........................................................................................................................................ 51
External forces of campus racial climate. ........................................................................................................... 52
Example 1. .................................................................................................................................................... 56
Example 2. .................................................................................................................................................... 64
Example 3. .................................................................................................................................................... 70
Methodological Trends for Studying Racism on College Campuses ........................................... 77
Analytical and Conceptual Frameworks for Studying the Influence of Presidential Rhetoric on
Campus Racial Climate................................................................................................................. 81
Presidential Rhetoric ............................................................................................................................... 81
Presidential rhetoric precedes governmental decision-making. ......................................................................... 86
Presidential rhetoric has the ability to persuade the American people. .............................................................. 88
Presidential rhetoric helps define an American national identity. ...................................................................... 89
Presidential rhetoric is consumed, understood, and debated through various mediums of communication. ..... 90
Critical Race Theory (CRT) .................................................................................................................... 93
Endemic racism. ................................................................................................................................................. 95
Intersectionality. ................................................................................................................................................. 95
Critiques of whiteness. ....................................................................................................................................... 96
Colorblindness. ................................................................................................................................................... 98
The utilization of interdisciplinary approaches. ................................................................................................. 99
Racializing Presidential Rhetoric .......................................................................................................... 101
CHAPTER 3: METHODOLOGICAL FRAMEWORK AND RESEARCH METHODS ......... 114
Bronfenbrenner’s Ecological Model ..................................................................................................... 115
Campus Ecology.................................................................................................................................... 122
Dimensions Redefined .......................................................................................................................... 126
The geospatial dimension: The intersecting elements of race and space ......................................................... 129
xi
The Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC)............ 133
Microsystem (Historical and Contemporary Institutional Context) ...................................................... 136
Mesosystem (System Context) .............................................................................................................. 141
Exosystem ............................................................................................................................................. 142
Macrosystem (Sociopolitical Context) .................................................................................................. 143
Chronosystem (Sociohistorical Context)............................................................................................... 145
Universal System (Theoretical Cosmology) ......................................................................................... 146
Three-Study Methodological Sequence for Examining the Influence of the Trump Presidency on
Campus Racial Climate............................................................................................................... 148
A: Analyzing a Dataset of Racist Incidents on College Campuses From 2013-2018: A Theory-
Based Data Analysis Approach to Exploring the Association Between the Trump Presidency and
Campus Racial Violence ............................................................................................................. 150
Limitations............................................................................................................................................. 154
B: A Phenomenological Study Examining the Relationship Between the Trump Presidency and
College Students’ Racialized Experiences.................................................................................. 156
Study Sites ............................................................................................................................................. 158
Participant Sample ................................................................................................................................. 160
Data Collection ...................................................................................................................................... 161
Data Analysis ........................................................................................................................................ 163
Limitations............................................................................................................................................. 167
C: An Instrumental Case Study Investigating the Relationship Between the Trump Presidency
and Campus Racial Climate at the University of Virginia (UVA) ............................................. 168
Study Site .............................................................................................................................................. 170
Participant Sample ................................................................................................................................. 171
Data Collection ...................................................................................................................................... 172
Data Analysis ........................................................................................................................................ 174
Limitations............................................................................................................................................. 174
Ethical Considerations, Trustworthiness and Validity................................................................ 175
Construct Validity ................................................................................................................................. 176
Internal Validity .................................................................................................................................... 177
External Validity ................................................................................................................................... 178
Reliability .............................................................................................................................................. 178
Role of the Researcher .......................................................................................................................... 178
Chapter 4: Analyzing a Dataset of Racist Incidents on College Campuses From 2013-2018: A
Theory-Based Data Analysis Approach to Exploring the Association Between the Trump
Presidency and Campus Racial Violence ................................................................................... 181
xii
Findings: General Codes (Institutional Characteristics) ............................................................. 185
Geographic Heat Map of Racist Incidents ............................................................................................ 185
Institutional Characteristics ................................................................................................................... 191
Perpetrators ............................................................................................................................................ 195
Findings: Specialized Coding ..................................................................................................... 196
Anti-Blackness on College Campuses .................................................................................................. 198
The “N-Word” on campus ................................................................................................................................ 199
Blackface on campus. ....................................................................................................................................... 202
Racism and Multimedia: Social Media, Text Messages, Emails, and Phone Calls .............................. 203
Racism and Anonymity: Vandalism, Flyers, Signs and Symbols ......................................................... 204
Racism Involving Faculty and Administration ..................................................................................... 206
Racism and President Donald J. Trump ................................................................................................ 207
Pre/Post-Launch of Presidential Campaign ...................................................................................................... 208
White supremacy/nationalism on college campuses ........................................................................................ 210
Discussion ................................................................................................................................... 214
General Code Analysis .......................................................................................................................... 214
Specialized Code Analysis .................................................................................................................... 218
The era of social media racism—white supremacy frontstage ......................................................................... 220
The Patriot Act and the Muslim Ban: The rationalization of Islamophobic violence on college campuses .... 228
The surge of anti-Semitism .............................................................................................................................. 235
Anti-Blackness and the Trump presidency ....................................................................................................... 247
Conclusion .................................................................................................................................. 254
Chapter 5: A Phenomenological Study Examining the Relationship Between the Trump
Presidency and College Students’ Racialized Experiences ........................................................ 257
Into the Wildfire: The Influence of Trump’s Presidential Rhetoric on College Campuses ........ 260
Fear and Safety: The Implications of Trump’s Executive Orders .............................................. 291
When Political Polarization Becomes Racial Polarization ......................................................... 319
Silenced and Under Attack: Conservative Student Perceptions of the Campus Racial Climate .......... 321
“I can’t believe we got Kanye”: Perspectives of conservative students of color ............................................. 327
Pushed into conservatism ................................................................................................................................. 331
Conservative students’ definitions of “American” ........................................................................................... 334
Subscriptions to Whiteness: Racist Nativism, Hegemonic Whiteness, White Fragility, and Colorblind
Nationalism ........................................................................................................................................... 342
“A Space That Wasn’t Built for Me”: Politically Liberal Student Perceptions of the Campus Racial
Climate .................................................................................................................................................. 355
Politically liberal students define “American” ................................................................................................. 360
Conclusion .................................................................................................................................. 370
Chapter 6: An Instrumental Case Study Investigating the Relationship Between the Trump
Presidency and Campus Racial Climate at the University of Virginia (UVA) ........................... 372
Parasite: UVA and the City of Charlottesville ............................................................................ 376
xiii
Fanning the Flames: President Trump and the “Unite the Right” Rally..................................... 403
The Resilient Survivor: Natalie Romero ............................................................................................... 411
The Wildfire: Trump’s Presidential Rhetoric, Free Speech, and Student Activism at UVA ................ 415
The Influence of Trump’s Presidential Rhetoric at UVA................................................................................. 424
Performative Equity: Student Labor and the Exploitation of Student Self-Governance ............ 430
Dirty T-Shirts: First-Generation Students at UVA................................................................................ 435
Legacy and Privilege: The Watch List .................................................................................................. 440
“The Memorial to Enslaved Laborers” and Student Self-Governance ................................................. 448
Mental Health: The Psychological Toll of Student Self-Governance ................................................... 456
Siloed Grounds: Finding Community Through “Racial Self-Segregation” ............................... 463
The (De)Basement of Color: The Multicultural Student Center (MSC) ............................................... 472
The Mansions on Madison Bowl: (White) Greek Life at UVA ............................................................ 482
Conclusion .................................................................................................................................. 497
Chapter 7: Summary, Implications and Recommendations ........................................................ 500
Chapter 4: Summary, Recommendations, and Implications ................................................................. 524
Implications for federal and state policy .......................................................................................................... 534
Implications for institutional policy ................................................................................................................. 539
Implications for practice ................................................................................................................................... 540
Implications for future research ........................................................................................................................ 544
Chapter 5: Summary, Implications and Recommendations .................................................................. 546
Implications for federal and state policy .......................................................................................................... 555
Implications for institutional policy ................................................................................................................. 556
Implications for practice ................................................................................................................................... 558
Implications for future research ........................................................................................................................ 559
Chapter 6: Summary, Implications and Recommendations .................................................................. 563
Implications for federal and state policy .......................................................................................................... 572
Implications for institutional policy ................................................................................................................. 572
Implications for practice ................................................................................................................................... 575
Implications for future research ........................................................................................................................ 579
Methodological Implications ................................................................................................................. 580
Implications for the Future: Clairvoyant Equity ................................................................................... 582
Conclusion .................................................................................................................................. 586
Closing ........................................................................................................................................ 588
References ................................................................................................................................... 592
Appendix A ................................................................................................................................. 668
Interview Protocol: A Phenomenological Study Examining the Relationship Between the Trump
Presidency and College Seniors’ College-Going Experiences .............................................................. 668
Interview Protocol: An Instrumental Case Study Investigating the Relationship Between the Trump
Presidency and Campus Racial Climate at the University of Virginia (UVA) ..................................... 672
STUDY PARTICIPANT CONSENT FORM ....................................................................................... 676
xiv
LIST OF TABLES

Table 1 Complete list of institutions within the sample of racist incidents (N=350) ................ 187

Table 2 Number of racist incidents per state for each individual year (2013-2018) (N-350) .... 216

Table 3 Cross-year analysis of general code categories (2013-2018) ........................................ 217

Table 4 University of Virginia Students’ Demands Post-August 11th and 12th ....................... 386

xv
LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1 Hurtado's (1994) four-factor model for assessing campus racial climate (with external
additions from Hurtado, Milem, Clayton-Pederson & Allen, 1998) ............................................ 44

Figure 2 Analytical/Conceptual Framework .............................................................................. 101

Figure 3 Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC) ... 136

Figure 4 Three-Study Methodological Sequence for Examining the Influence of the Trump
Presidency on Campus Racial Climate ....................................................................................... 149

Figure 5 Racist incidents that were reported each year between 2013-2018 (N=350) .............. 184

Figure 6 Geographic heat map of the total sample of racist incidents (N=350) ........................ 187

Figure 7 Institutional setting of racist incidents that were reported from 2013-2018 (N=350) . 191

Figure 8 Type of institution where racist incidents were reported from 2013-2018 (N=350)... 192

Figure 9 Student population of the institutions where racist incidents occurred (N=350) ........ 193

Figure 10 Percentage of Racist Incidents That Occurred at Predominantly White Institutions
(PWIs) ......................................................................................................................................... 195

Figure 11 Race of the perpetrators of racist incidents reported on college campuses from 2013-
2018............................................................................................................................................. 196

Figure 12 Thematic patterns of racist incidents that occurred on college campuses from 2013-
2018 (N=350) .............................................................................................................................. 197

Figure 13 Total number of incidents that occurred in each U.S. state from June 16, 2015-
December 31, 2018 (N=296) (Pre/Post launch of Trump campaign) ......................................... 209

Figure 14 Number of times that “white supremacy” was mentioned in the reports of racist
incidents before and after the launch of President Donald J. Trump’s campaign on June 16, 2015
..................................................................................................................................................... 211

xvi
ABSTRACT

Understanding the relationship between the larger sociopolitical environment and campus racial
climate is an integral component of creating and maintaining a safe, supportive, and
intellectually stimulating environment for college and university students. Students are
influenced by a variety of interpersonal and systemic factors that oftentimes traverse the
boundaries of their institutions. If researchers were to exclusively focus on the internal forces
impacting student lives, they would be ignoring a critical element of the college-going
experience. In this dissertation, I constructed a Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing
Campus Climate (NCEMACC) to engage in a three-study methodological sequence examining
the association between the sociopolitical environment and the organizational, geospatial,
perceptual, and behavioral dimensions of campus racial climate. To formulate my
analytical/conceptual framework, I used various tenets of Critical Race Theory (CRT) to serve as
the analytical framework to critically examine the racial elements of presidential rhetoric and
political decision-making. In the first study, I examined a dataset of reported racist incidents that
have occurred from 2013-2018 through a theory-based data analysis approach. In the second
study, I engaged in a phenomenological study at four colleges and universities in California to
explore how college students’ racialized experiences have been influenced by the Trump
presidency. Lastly, I employed an instrumental case study analysis at the University of Virginia
(UVA) to interrogate the relationship between the Trump presidency and campus racial climate.
This three-study sequence all contributed to answering a central research question. Implications
for future research and recommendations for improving campus racial climate are discussed in
the concluding chapter.
1
CHAPTER 1: BACKGROUND, PURPOSE AND OVERVIEW OF THE STUDY

In November of 2016, while I was a master’s student and resident assistant (RA) at the
University of Pennsylvania (UPenn), I gathered in the common room of my dorm room floor and
watched as the fluctuating percentages of the presidential election results flashed on the screen.
The television shared a wall with a corkboard that I had decorated the month before. Pictures
from pivotal moments of the Civil Rights Movement were spread across the wall in a
chronological fashion, each with a brief description of how the event changed the landscape of
our nation for the better. Every resident on my floor formed into a semi-circle around the room.
They had just experienced for the first time what it was like to cast a vote that could determine
the fate of the country. You could see it in their eyes, a shimmer of confidence and pride beamed
upon the television screen with the knowledge that the Pennsylvania voting results were shifted,
if only just slightly, by their hole-punched ballots. We must have sat there for hours, debating
how and why the race could be so close. Nevertheless, my residents seemed to have already
come to the conclusion that the election could only swing one way—Hillary Clinton was going
to win. I abstained from asking their political affiliations, as instructed by our resident director
(RD) the day before. We were to remain diplomatic, unbiased, and welcoming to any
perspectives and worldviews that our college freshmen students brought with them to campus.
Though, my silence appeared to have demanded their attention in some way, which I assumed
was due to their knowledge of my experience as an undergraduate student activist at UCLA.
They had watched my YouTube videos, read my Tweets, and, of course, noticed the giant
display of Civil Rights era pictures that I tacked onto the walls. They wanted to hear what I had
to say. So, against the orders of the RD, I gave in.
“He’s not going to win.”
2
I shrugged my shoulders and returned to my room. The truth was, I did not think he could
win, but I also knew I would not be surprised if he did. The painful reality about understanding
so much about this country’s history, and my ancestors’ place within it, is that hope has always
manifested in the form of an absconder whose presence has been more fleeting than within our
grasp. Regardless of the results, I knew I would still exist within a nation that has refused to
acknowledge its true history, and in the same breath, refused to acknowledge mine. I understand
this perspective may be perceived as pessimism. Though, for anyone who has developed a racial
consciousness as a means of their own survival, pessimism is often synonymous with realism. To
understand America so thoroughly—its patterns, its structure, its founding principles, its deepest
secrets—is a mechanism of protection from the original sin that I wear on my skin. Thus, the
pain of possessing this knowledge is also its cure. To understand this nation means to never be
surprised when it falters, and therefore, never unprepared for the ambush of repeated history. In
the aftermath of the destruction, this racial consciousness provides the tools to build anew, and
the appreciation for those who have done it before. My ancestors have always known this, and
even if I have never met them, my own existence is evidence of this truth.
The narrative of the presidential election was framed as a sociopolitical binary—good
versus evil, political versus politically incorrect, (white) feminism versus sexism, the
perpetuation of colorblindness versus the return of blatant racism. I never believed that this
binary actually existed. I have experienced what racism has felt like in its overt and covert forms,
thus, I know that the pain from one is often indistinguishable from the other. I knew that either
choice would not eliminate mass deportation, mass incarceration, police brutality, inequitable
education, or the dismantling of a flawed capitalist structure. Nonetheless, I also knew I did not
possess this knowledge as an 18 year-old college student. My residents wanted to believe that
3
their vote mattered, and I was not going to take that optimism away from them no matter how I
felt.
The news hosts on nearly every channel said that the election would go long into the
night, as it was too close of a race to call just yet. The group text message thread with my fellow
RAs was filled with descriptions of how tense some of their floors had become over the last few
hours. It did not appear that the views of my students differed much from one another, but
apparently this was not the case for the other floors. I returned to the common room a few hours
later to check the results of the election, except this time, I had entered into a despondent
atmosphere where my footsteps alone sent shockwaves into the moribund energy floating
through the air. Some students kept their eyes peeled to the screen with their palms shielding
their mouths. Others were locked into their cell phones, typing vigorously as they broadcasted
their emotions upon the cyberworld in hopes that someone would listen. Just minutes after the
official announcement, zealous exclamations from the Quad began echoing through the hallway.
A flurry of “Build that wall!” chants from one side were met with “Fuck Donald Trump!” chants
from the other. And thus, the scene was set. The polarization made too visible to ignore, as
students on both sides of a discordant political spectrum were forced to coexist within the
confines of 100-sqaure-foot dorm rooms.
When I awoke the next morning, my phone was filled with messages from the other RAs
about how apparently there was a swastika spray-painted onto the outer walls of the Quad. Most
of us were still recovering from the long night, spending hours after the announcement consoling
our residents who were searching for answers to questions we were not prepared for them to ask.
The international students expressed how afraid they were for the wellbeing of their families, the
women questioned how this would affect their safety, and the only Black student on my floor
4
was quickly forced to understand the reality of this fear in the coming days. On November 11,
2016, three days after the election, every Black freshman at UPenn was added to an en masse
chatroom through the GroupMe mobile app, titled, “Nigger Lynching” (Ozio, 2016; Svrluga,
2016). The message threads included graphic images of Black people being lynched, racial slurs
directed at specific students, and worst of all, a link to a “daily lynching” calendar that threatened
a weekly agenda of violent attacks against Black students.
The only Black student on my floor lived in a single-bed dorm room, which seemed to
serve as a personified visual representation of the isolation she was already experiencing on only
her third month away from home. Even if there existed no prior interest in politics, politics
appeared to have taken an interest in her. I stood in her doorway and asked her if there was
anything I could do. She told me it was the first time she had ever experienced a racist attack, let
alone one that threatened her life. I tried to console her in the best way I could. But in reality, I
knew there only so much I could do to shield her from the undeserving consequences that came
with her skin. I presume nearly every Black person has had an experience in their life when they
were called a “nigger” for the first time. And today, thousands of miles from home, in a
university where she could go an entire day without seeing someone who looks like her, she was
dehumanized by a word that does not seem to be anywhere near extinction. What has become
more and more evident recently is that mere words can become dangerous weapons in the hands
of the powerful. Thus, when racial slurs are used in the way that they were intended, they have
the ability to leave you questioning whether the moral compass of the nation has been
demagnetized, leaving us all without direction, lost in our journey to find a future of true
freedom. I couldn’t do anything to alter this reality in one night, but as a university staff member,
I had a job to do, and my student was depending on me.
5
The events that unfolded after the election reaffirmed to me that there were real life
implications for what happens outside of the institutional walls, despite the fact that it often felt
like we lived in a pocket of isolation. The issues of the broader political sphere have infiltrated
the confines of higher education institutions. Colleges and university administrators, staff, and
faculty have been tasked with the responsibility to not only provide a safe and supportive
institutional environment for their students, but to also shield them from the threats of external
forces. As I explain further, this responsibility is nothing contemporaneously unique for higher
education leaders. Colleges and universities have had to adapt to the shifts in the sociopolitical
environment of every era, but each period brings with it a set of distinct circumstances that
require nuanced attention.
This dissertation focuses on understanding the relationship between these shifts and the
subsequent implications for campus racial climate. More specifically, this study is situated within
the contemporary political era of the Trump presidency. I employed three separate
methodological approaches to answer one central research question: How might the influence of
the Trump presidency on college student experiences help us better understand the interrelated
relationship between the internal dimensions of campus racial climate and the larger
sociopolitical environment (external domains)? The three studies are as follows: (1) analyzing a
dataset of racist incidents on college campuses from 2013-2018, (2) a phenomenological study at
four colleges and universities in California, and (3) an instrumental case study analysis at the
University of Virginia (UVA). This chapter includes a statement of the problem that will be
addressed, the purpose and significance of the study, and the definitions of key concepts that are
central to the study. I then provide a brief overview of how I have structured the dissertation.

6
Statement of the Problem

Colleges and universities are not isolated environments; rather, they are situated within a
broader sociopolitical context that influences their climate, procedures and practices in various
ways (Hurtado, Milem, Clayton-Pederson & Allen, 1998). Scholars have explored how higher
education institutions have been affected by the implementation of financial aid policies
(Dynarksi & Scott-Clayton, 2013; Perna, 2015; Goldrick-Rab, Kelchen, Harris & Benson, 2016),
state and federal policies regarding affirmative action (Harris, 1993; Katznelson, 2005; Schmidt,
2007), Supreme Court decisions related to issues in education (O’Brien, 1949; Bell, 1980;
Austin, 2004; Tate, 2004; Ayoub & Beydoun, 2017), and events and issues within the external
political environment that increase students’ levels of political engagement (Hope, Keels &
Durkee, 2016; Logan, Lightfoot & Contreras, 2017; Davis & Morgan, 2019). This three-study
dissertation specifically explores the relationship between the contemporary sociopolitical
environment (through a concentrated analysis of presidential rhetoric and political decision-
making) and campus racial climate.
Over the last four years, the polarizing political climate has generated a wide variety of
issues for higher education institutions. In this section, I address three of these major issues in
higher education that substantiate the importance of the current study: (1) higher education
institutions have recently had to adapt to large-scale policy changes affecting their students in
racialized ways, (2) researchers have found an influx of racist incidents occurring on college
campuses since the 2016 presidential election, and (3) very limited research explores the
relationship between the larger sociopolitical environment and campus racial climate.

7
Higher Education Institutions Adapting to Large-Scale Policy Implementation
Higher education institutions have been required to adapt to the implementation of large-
scale policies throughout nearly every sociohistorical era. For example, after the Soviet Union
launched “Sputnik” (the first artificial satellite to successfully orbit the earth) in 1957, the event
provoked fear and anxiety amongst the American public that the Russians had supplanted the
U.S. in the race for economic, scientific, and technological superiority (Berube, 1991; Hess &
McGuinn, 2002; Markwardt, 2012). Higher education was consequently framed by politicians as
a “national security” issue, as the educational practices and procedures of colleges and
universities were blamed for the technological shortcomings of the nation (Markwardt, 2012). As
a response, the National Defense Education Act (NDEA) was passed, which was designed to
rapidly increase federal funding for educational programs in science, mathematics, and foreign
languages (NDEA, 1958). The legislation provided student loans for college students interested
in science, and incentivized people to pursue higher education through various fellowships and
grants. Nearly 750,000 students received federal aid support within a four-year span (Berube,
1991). However, researchers have argued that there were underlying racial implications of the
NDEA that were linked to the 1954 Supreme Court case, Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka
(Cohen, 1970; Tate, 2004; Martin, 2013). Due to the unwillingness of schools and public
institutions to integrate Black children, Black students were not able to take advantage of these
higher education opportunities to the same degree as white students (Martin, 2013). Thus, while
the improvements to higher education were noteworthy accomplishments, the benefits of this
legislation for students of color were scarce.
Researchers have also explored how President Barack Obama’s “post-racial” approach to
politics influenced higher education affirmative action policy. Nguyen & Ward (2017) explain
8
how the mythical assertion of a post-racial society that was inserted into the everyday discourse
after his election was exploited as a tool in race-conscious admissions debates. As a result,
scholars note that this has allowed white supremacy to go unchallenged in higher education
(Crenshaw, 2011; Utley & Heyse, 2014; Nguyen & Ward, 2017). This has been exemplified
through a series of Supreme Court cases where white students have made claims of “reverse
discrimination” after being rejected admission to the universities of their preferred choice
(Nguyen & Ward, 2017). One of the most prominent of these debates surrounded the Supreme
Court case, Fisher v. University of Texas (2013), where a white applicant, Abigail Fisher, sued
the University of Texas at Austin (UTA) for racial discrimination when she was rejected
admission. However, the Supreme Court eventually decided in favor of the university under the
same diversity rationale1 as Grutter v. Bollinger (2003). Similar cases have been entered the
political zeitgeist, including Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard University (2014) and
Students for Fair Admissions v. University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill (2014), where students
filed lawsuits against Harvard University and the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill after
claiming they were rejected admission because “less qualified” students from historically
disenfranchised racial groups were admitted in their place (Ellis, 2016). This series of legal
battles has generated polarizing debates, as each Supreme Court decision has the potential to
leave behind a judicial blueprint that can serve as precedence for future cases regarding
affirmative action policy in higher education.
Higher education institutions have also had to adapt to the large-scale policy changes
initiated by the current presidential administration. On January 27, 2017, President Donald
Trump exercised his Article II executive powers to pass into law Executive Order 13769, titled,

1 In the Grutter decision, the value of diversity in education was determined to be of “compelling government
interest” (Barnes et al., 2015).
9
“Protecting the Nation from Foreign Terrorist Entry into the United States,” also referred to as
the “Muslim Ban” (Ayoub & Beydoun, 2017). The order restricted entry of individuals from
Iran, Iraq, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Syria and Yemen—all Muslim-majority countries. One year
later, he implemented the “‘Zero Tolerance’ Immigration Enforcement Policy” which was
designed to prosecute all undocumented immigrants who were apprehended while crossing the
border illegally, with no exception for asylum seekers or those with children (Kandel, 2019).
Newman (2017) explores the implications for higher education institutions that these types of
policies present, specifically focusing on how colleges and universities have made an effort to
protect their undocumented students. Through a number of public demonstrations and protests,
the “sanctuary campus2” movement was launched by students and their supporters who “urged
their respective institutions of higher education to enact policies to protect undocumented
students from deportation” (Newman, 2017, p. 124). As a response, some institutions made a
public commitment to refuse to cooperate with the federal government in providing information
regarding the immigration status of their students for purposes of immigration enforcement
(Newman, 2017). Even so, undocumented students have feared for the well-being of their
families, friends, and themselves, and have been forced to adapt to living in a hyper-vulnerable
psychological and physical state (Ayoub & Beydoun, 2017; Rose-Redwood & Rose-Redwood,
2017).
These historical and contemporary examples shed light on a major issue facing higher
education. Each sociohistorical era introduces its own unique implications for higher education
policy. An abundance of research has explored the organizational implications of federal policy,
including how they affect programming, institutional procedures and practices, and the racial

2 The term “sanctuary campus” relates to the ongoing debate about “sanctuary cities,” where state localities defined
their level of cooperation with federal immigration enforcement in similar ways (Newman, 2017).
10
composition of higher education institutions (Harris, 1993; Hurtado, 1994; Chang, 2001; antonio,
Chang, Hakuta, Kenny, Levin & Milem, 2004; Crenshaw, 2011). However, what deserves more
attention in the current literature is an investigation into how these large-scale policies
specifically influence college students’ racialized experiences. Serving the needs of college and
university students should be the leading priority for higher education institutions, but this goal
cannot be sufficiently achieved if the main issues that students face are not accurately identified
and assessed.
Influx of Racist Incidents on College Campuses Since the 2016 Presidential Election
Jaschik (2016a) reported a series of incidents that occurred within the first three days
after the 2016 election, some of which included racist verbal attacks on social media, racial slurs
shouted at Black students on campus, multiple instances of racist graffiti and property damage,
students dressing in blackface, and students using Trump’s name as a slur toward Latinx and
Muslim students. Physical attacks against students of color have also been reported, and it has
been speculated that the attacks have been Trump-related as well (Gomez, 2016, Stickney,
2016). These incidents were associated with what has been referred to by scholars as “The
Trump Effect” (Costello & Cohen, 2016; Korostelina, 2017; Rogers, Franke, Yun, Ishimoto,
Diera, Geller, Berryman and Brenes, 2017). Rogers et al. (2017) found that K-12 students are
now experiencing heightened levels of stress and anxiety, expressing fear for their well-being
and the well-being of their families, and have been targets of racially derogatory remarks during
class. The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) released a similar report titled, The Trump
Effect: The Impact of the 2016 Presidential Election on our Nation’s Schools, revealing that the
2016 presidential election had a negative impact on students’ mood and behavior, and allegedly
influenced various incidents of bigotry and harassment (Costello & Cohen, 2016).
11
Each of these studies utilized large-scale surveys and datasets for their analysis. Thus, it is still
unclear how these incidents have specifically affected students’ college-going experiences outside of
what has been reported. It is important to gain insight into the perspectives and experiences of college
and university students so that higher education institutions can begin formulating strategic solutions for
addressing the major issues facing their campuses. In the next section, I argue that it is also the
obligation of higher education researchers to explore these issues in depth through various analytical
approaches. Peer reviewed empirical studies can validate the importance of examining the relationship
between the current sociopolitical environment and campus racial climate.
Limited Research Examining the Influence of the Sociopolitical Environment on Campus Racial
Climate
Hurtado (1994) and Hurtado, Milem, Clayton-Pederson, and Allen (1998) created a
model for assessing campus racial climate that includes both the internal dimensions
(institutional factors) and external domains (sociohistorical and sociopolitical factors) that
influence higher education institutions. The internal context of the campus environment consists
of the historical legacy of an institution (exclusionary procedures of the past continuing to
influence current practices), the structural properties (size, control, selectivity and racial
composition of the college), the psychological and perpetual elements (an individual’s view of
institutional responsiveness to diversity issues), and the behavioral aspects of race relations on
campus (the interpersonal interactions between students of different racial/ethnic groups)
(Hurtado, 1994). There is an abundance of research that focuses on each individual dimension of
the model; however, Hurtado et al. (1998) highlight that there is a scarcity of knowledge
regarding the influence of the sociohistorical and sociopolitical factors on campus racial climate.
12
Some scholars have studied aspects of this relationship in research related to the civic and
political engagement of college students (Bernstein, 2005; Hillygus, 2005; Kiesa, Orlowski,
Levine, Both, Kirby, Lopez & Marcelo, 2007; Hollander & Longo, 2008; Perez, Espinoza,
Ramos, Coronado & Cortez, 2010; Simmons & Lilly, 2010; Stroup, Bunting, Dodson, Horne &
Portilla, 2013), and student activism (D’Antonio, 1969; Ellsworth & Burns, 1970; Brax, 1981;
Joseph, 2003; Rogers, 2012; Morgan & Davis, 2019). This research examines politically
engaged students who have a vested interest in transforming internal and external systems.
However, not all students share this same interest, yet are still influenced by the sociopolitical
environment in various ways. Thus, more research is needed that explores how the sociopolitical
environment influences college student experiences, regardless of their level of investment in
politics.
Another limitation in the existing research is that there is an underutilization of
methodological approaches outside of large-scale survey analyses (Hurtado & Harper, 2007).
The majority of qualitative campus racial climate studies have examined large-scale quantitative
surveys and datasets, but have rarely engaged, for example, case study or phenomenological
approaches (Hurtado & Harper, 2007). While some scholars have conducted multiple-institution
studies using focus groups (Yosso et al., 2009), individual interviews (Cabrera, 2014; Museus &
Park, 2015), and written narratives (Patton & Catching, 2009), survey research has still remained
the most common qualitative methodological strategy (Hurtado & Harper, 2007). The utilization
of a broader range of methodologies could extend and enrich existing research.
In each of these examples, an identifiable link has been drawn between the internal
dimensions and external domains of campus racial climate. However, limited research explores
the possible influence of this link on students’ college-going experiences. More specifically,
13
there are racial elements within this apparent nexus that need to be examined further. In the next
section, I outline my three-study methodological approach to addressing each of these important
issues.
Purpose of the Study

As a response to the pressing issues described in the previous section, I explored how the
larger sociopolitical environment influences the internal dimensions of campus racial climate
(Hurtado et al., 1998). To help understand this relationship, I constructed the Nested Contexts
Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC) (Chapter 3), which was built
from Hurtado’s (1994) model for assessing campus racial climate, Hurtado et al. (1998) and
Hurtado et al.’s (2012) extension of the model, Bronfenbrenner’s (1976; 1977; 1979; 1994)
ecological systems model for human development, and Renn’s (2004) higher education
adaptation of the Bronfenbrenner’s model. This allowed me to comprehensively engage with
each ecological system (micro-, meso-, exo-, macro-, and chronosystem) to identify how the
Trump presidency has influenced campus racial climate. The three studies I employed are as
follows: (1) analyzing a dataset of racist incidents on college campuses from 2013-2018, (2) a
phenomenological study at four colleges and universities in California, and (3) an instrumental
case study analysis at the University of Virginia (UVA). The three separate studies each helped
answer a central research question: How might the influence of the Trump presidency on college
student experiences help us better understand the interrelated relationship between the internal
dimensions of campus racial climate and the larger sociopolitical environment (external
domains)? Each study also consisted of its own research sub-questions that helped provide a
more nuanced analysis of the research topic. I have provided an outline of the studies and their
individual sub-questions below:
14
• Analyzing a dataset of racist incidents on college campuses from 2013-2018: Is there
a focal relationship between the Trump presidency and the recent influx of reported racist
incidents occurring on college campuses since the launch of Trump’s presidential
campaign?
• Phenomenological study at four colleges and universities in California: What is the
relationship between the Trump presidency and students’ racialized experiences on
campus? How do students perceive and experience the influence of Trump’s presidential
rhetoric on campus? Does the Trump presidency affect student behavior? If so, how?
• Instrumental case study analysis at the University of Virginia (UVA): What is the
relationship between the Trump presidency and the campus racial climate at a four-year
institution in the South? How do students perceive and experience Trump’s presidential
rhetoric and political decision-making on campus? How do the geospatial and
organizational dimensions of the University of Virginia help us better understand student
perceptions, behaviors, and racialized experiences?
Each of these questions helped provide insight into the many possible ways that the
sociopolitical environment affects the systemic, institutional, and interpersonal dimensions of
campus racial climate. The three studies also helped fill a void in literature that deserves further
exploration.
Significance of the Study

Over twenty years ago, Hurtado et al. (1998) noticed that there was a scarcity of
knowledge regarding the level of influence that sociopolitical and sociohistorical factors have on
student experiences. As I highlight in the review of literature, this deficiency unfortunately still
exists today. While the research of many scholars has advanced our understanding of the various
15
elements of campus racial climate (Kotori & Malaney, 2003; Reid & Radhakrishnan, 2003;
antonio, Chang, Hakuta, Kenny, Levin & Milem, 2004; Brackett, Marcus, McKenzie, Mullins,
Tang & Allen, 2006; Harper & Hurtado, 2007; Sue, Capodilupo, Torino, Bucceri, Holder, Nadal
& Esquilin, 2007; Beckert & Stevens, 2011; Hurtado, Alvarez, Guillermo-Wann, Cuellar &
Arellano, 2012; Feagin, 2014), there is a noticeable dearth in literature that focuses on the
relationship between the external environment and college students’ racialized experiences.
This becomes particularly evident when the parameters of the term, “sociopolitical
environment,” are narrowed to the study of presidential rhetoric. Presidential rhetoric has been
widely studied across disciplines through a variety of methodological approaches (Ceaser,
Thurow, Tulis & Bessette, 1981; Read, Cesa, Jones & Collins, 1990; Windt, 1986; Murphy,
1997; Oliver, 1998; Ivie, 1999; Medhurst, 2000; Kassop, 2002; Lim, 2002; Finlayson, 2004;
Zarefsky, 2004; Krebs & Jackson, 2007; Aune & Medhurst, 2008; Rozina & Karapetjana, 2009;
Brooks, 2012); however, the discipline has rarely been situated within the context of higher
education. The current issues of the sociopolitical environment call for a more elaborate
investigation into how students are influenced by racialized presidential rhetoric, and
governmental policies disproportionately affecting certain racial identity groups. This three-study
dissertation helps university administrators, faculty, and staff more accurately identify key issues
regarding their campus racial climate, which subsequently serves as an operative point of
departure for finding suitable solutions for improving their institutions.
Key Concepts and Definitions

I have included a list of definitions and key concepts that will be used throughout the
dissertation:
Higher education institution— Institution for postsecondary education in the U.S.

16
Students of color—Students who are not of Caucasian descent. Depending on the context of the
literature, this may encompass both U.S. born citizens and international students. If it is the
latter, I make this distinction clear in my analysis.

African American— U.S. born citizen of African descent

Asian American— U.S. born citizen of Asian descent

Latinx— U.S. born citizen of Latin American descent

Campus racial climate— the contemporary and historical organizational processes and
procedures of an institution, the institutional structures and artifacts, the psychological and
perpetual elements, the behavioral aspects of race relations on campus, and the influence of
external factors (Hurtado, 1994).

Internal dimensions of campus racial climate (Hurtado, 1994; Milem, Chang & antonio,
2005)— The organizational, geospatial, perceptual and behavioral dimensions of campus
racial climate.

Organizational dimension— an institution’s historical and contemporary
organizational processes of inclusion or exclusion, and the compositional
diversity outcomes they create.

Geospatial dimension— The amount, locations, and arrangement of physical
structures and spaces on a college or university campus (Kuh, 2009), and the
cultural artifacts within them (Banning & Bartels, 1997), that signal institutional
beliefs and messages about multiculturalism, sense of belonging, safety, equality,
and the roles of institutional members (i.e., students, staff, faculty, and
administrators) (Peterson & Spencer, 1990).

Perceptual dimension— an individual’s view of institutional responsiveness to
diversity issues

Behavioral dimension— the interpersonal interactions between students of
different racial/ethnic groups on campus

External domains of campus racial climate (Hurtado et al, 1998)—

Domain 1: Governmental policy—Financial aid policies, state and federal policy
on affirmative action, court decisions affecting higher education, and differences
in policy implementation across state lines

Domain 2: Events or issues in the larger sociopolitical environment that influence
how students perceive racial diversity

Institutional actors: staff, faculty and administrators
17

Staff—All employees who help perform administrative/organizational tasks
(secretaries, assistants, registrar office, counselors, cashiers, service workers, etc.)

Faculty—All academic personnel who conduct research and/or teach at a college
or university (professors of various ranks, lecturers, researchers, instructors)

Administrators—College/university administrators who develop, maintain,
coordinate, and oversee institutional programming (Presidents, deans, directors,
chancellors, student affairs professionals)

Organization of the Dissertation
In Chapter 2 of this dissertation, I provide an extensive review of relevant literature. First,
I elaborate on a few key definitions that are foundational to the study. I then explore the literature
regarding the historical foundations of racism in higher education. In the following section, I
review the literature that focuses on contemporary manifestations of racism on college campuses.
This section also includes a thorough analysis of campus racial climate literature. I then present
the analytical and conceptual frameworks that served as the lens for which I have analyzed the
study data. In Chapter 3, I describe the three methodological approaches I utilized to help answer
the central research question. For each study I provide details about the chosen methodology, site
and sample selection, and the data collection and analysis procedures. I also introduce a new
campus climate assessment model—the Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing
Campus Climate. I embedded each of the three studies into the model to demonstrate how the
three-study methodological sequence helped comprehensively examine the influence of the
Trump presidency on campus racial climate across each ecological system.
In Chapter 4, I provide an overview of the findings for the theory-based data analysis
study of racist incidents that have been reported on college campuses from 2013-2018. This
study helps examine how the Trump presidency influenced the increase in racial violence on
college and university campuses since the launch of his presidential campaign. In Chapter 5, I
18
present the findings from the phenomenological study at four colleges and universities in
Southern California (institution names have been given pseudonyms): Clearview College (CVC),
a private liberal arts college; Central City University (CCU), a large private university; El
Camino State University (ECSU), a large public state university; and Los Angeles Southern
University (LASU), a large public university. This study explores the ways in which the Trump
presidency has affected college students’ racialized experiences by interrogating the residual
consequences of his presidential rhetoric and executive decision-making. In Chapter 6, I provide
the findings from the instrumental case study at the University of Virginia (UVA). I specifically
investigate how the Trump presidency has influenced the internal dimensions (behavioral,
perceptual, organizational, and geospatial) of the campus racial climate. In Chapter 7, I provide a
summary of all three studies, as well as a list of recommendations and implications for research.

19
CHAPTER 2: REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE

To begin this chapter, I define a set of key foundational terms that I use throughout the
dissertation study—race, racism, racialization, whiteness, white supremacy, and nationalism. I
place each of these terms in conversation with one another to demonstrate how racism (1) has an
“alliance” with nationalism, and (2) has been utilized to advance the goals of racial capitalism. I
then explain how I draw from various racial theorists and their articulations of racism to
construct my own definition that will serve as the foundation for this study. To conclude this
section, I describe how racism manifests in the context of U.S. higher education.
To define “nationalism,” I engage with Mosse’s (1995) examination of the relationship
between nationalism and racism. Nationalism has often allied itself with racism as an operational
structure to characterize the “‘outsider’ defined as the enemy both of nation and race” (Mosse,
1995, p. 171). Nationalism has further demarcated race by ascribing meaning to socially
constructed spatial boundaries on a global scale. Thus, Mosse (1995) posits that nationalism and
racism are inextricably linked. For example, European colonists used a socially constructed idea
of racial “permanence” to establish a hierarchical social order, dehumanizing people in group
terms by rendering the “inferior” (non-European) as abject, while classifying the “superior”
(European) as inherently dominant—a process called racialization (Goldberg, 2002; Saha,
2018). The “enemy” was made more readily identifiable, as “the very construction of the human
body, its size, sinews, muscles and bones, were made to bear witness to the superiority or
inferiority of a race and its culture” (Mosse, 1995, p. 165). The “superior” counterpart of the
racial “enemy” was established through the maintenance of white racial hegemony, or,
“whiteness” (Leonardo, 2004). Leonardo (2004) describes whiteness as a racial identity that is
predicated upon core ideologies embedded within a systemic structure of white supremacy.
20
White supremacy refers to how whiteness is institutionalized through systems of racial
dominance—social practices and behaviors, discriminatory policies, and economic exclusion of
people of color (Leonardo, 2004). Early stages of colonialism employed the ideologies of white
supremacy to justify the territorial occupation of land. After European territorial dominion was
accomplished, the post-colonial era began, where Western imperialism3 carried on the goals of
colonialism by controlling the political, economic and social practices of the colonized (Said,
1993; McClintock, 1995). When the “inferior race” was identified, nationalism claimed its prey.
As Mosse (1978) explains, “historically, Jews and blacks have always played the
outsider, the villain who threatens the tribe” (p. xxv). Frederickson (2002) provides insight into
how Anti-Semitism4 and antiblackness share similar roots. Judaism was once considered a
defective condition that one could convert out of through the process of Christian indoctrination,
but “antisemitism became racism” when the belief took hold that Jews were born with an
inherited “evil disposition” that necessitated their extermination, subsequently rendering
conversion obsolete (Frederickson, p. 19, emphasis added). Bauman (1989) describes this
process in an impressively concise manner:
On the other side of conversion lurks a void, not another identity. The convert loses his
identity without acquiring anything instead. Man is before he acts; nothing he does may
change what he is. This is, roughly, the philosophical essence of racism. (p. 60).

The permanence of race was therefore substantiated through the erasure of religious fluidity.
Without any means to convert out of the “evil disposition” of Judaism (a choice that was still

3 The term “post-colonial” is often used to describe the historical epochs following the structural occupation of
foreign territories. “Western imperialism,” thus, is the metaphysical extension, and mechanism of preservation, for
the ideological goals of colonialism. Therefore, “post-colonial” should not be interpreted as the cessation of the
colonial enterprise. Instead, it represents the sustained functionality and operationalization of colonial inventions,
and how they manifest within societal boundaries.
4 In Chapter 5, I allude to the notion that the Muslim religion has been contemporarily racialized in a similar way.
Thus, this serves as an analytical rationale for why I have included Muslim students in my analysis of campus racial
climate.

21
oppressive even if one’s survival could be preserved through the adoption of Christianity), Jews
were defined as a perpetual enemies.
Similarly, the colonization and enslavement of African people was partially achieved by
the weaponizing of the Bible. European colonizers held Africans in slavery by recognizing
Blackness as a biblical curse, “signifying that Africans were designated by God himself to be a
race of slaves” (Fredrickson, 2002, p. 39). Blackness was a curse that could be inherited through
the blood, proactively subjecting the next generation of Africans to a condition of enslavement
(Harris, 1993; Fredrickson, 2002). To ensure the constant reproduction of slaves, Black women’s
bodies5 were exploited as a means of increasing property and labor production (Harris, 1993). By
establishing, through law, that the determination of whether a newborn child was either free or a
slave depended on the race of the mother6, a cyclical process was instituted where slavery
became unavoidable (Harris, 1993)7. Their condition was “racialized” (Goldberg, 2002), and
therefore became unassailable. Racism was presented as a hereditary and inescapable
characteristic whose aesthetic considerations signaled a particular position in a racially stratified

5 McClintock (1995) incorporates the gendered dynamic of racism into her analysis, explaining that “The ideal of
racial ‘purity,’… depends on the rigorous policing of women’s sexuality… [it] is inextricably implicated in the
dynamics of gender and cannot be understood without a theory of gender power” (McClintock, 1995, p. 61).
6 Mosse (1995) asserts that racism is an “aggressively masculine” construct. They explain how, “Women as public
symbols were either mothers of the family or mothers of the nation…[while] masculinity symbolised the active life,
the hope for the victory of the race over its enemies and the subsequent construction of the ideal racist society.
Gender division was basic to racism. Woman was not an inferior race… she was a racial equal, but she was
excluded from public life. Nevertheless, racism was aggressively masculine and so were most of the symbols
through which it represented itself” (Mosse, p. 166).
7 Harris (1993) positions “whiteness” within a historical context of American legal doctrine. She explains how
whiteness evolved from a racial identity into a form of property, generating a level of privilege that still exists within
higher education institutions and beyond. The latter part of my definition emphasizes the maintenance of white
supremacy as an integral component of racism. And, as Harris (1993) notes, whiteness as a form of property has
served one of the most prevalent undercurrents and sustainers of racism. I include Ladson-Billings & Tate’s (1995)
interpretation of “intellectual property” as an extension of Harris’ (1993) “whiteness as property.” This will be
explored further in my analysis of Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka (1954) and President Eisenhower’s
response to Sputnik.
22
society (Fredrickson, 2002). This inescapable characteristic that was fashioned by anti-Semitism
and antiblackness was also argued by Mosse (1978):
Racism needed a secular base such as the Enlightenment or modern nationalism in order
to overcome the implications of the Christian meaning of baptism and conversion, for the
racially inferior must be locked into place and all escape routes closed. (p. xiii).

Lewis (2004) argues that race as a set of identities, discursive practices, cultural forms, and
ideological manifestations would not exist without racism. This is because race has historically
served as this divisional power structure that pins the subordinated as a population that contains
distinct differences that make them permissible subjects of colonial rule (Said, 1977;
McClintock, 1995; Fredrickson, 2002). Similarly, whiteness and white supremacy are intricately
linked, because “in the absence of White supremacy, Whiteness loses its societal value,” since it
is dependent upon a system of dominance to be affirmed, legitimated, and institutionalized
(Cabrera, 2018, p. 224).
Through the structures and processes of race, racism, whiteness, white supremacy, and
racialization, nationalism was afforded an indestructible tool to yield in its discretion. However,
regardless of the mutually beneficial alliance between nationalism and racism, Mosse (1995)
argues that there is a unidirectional dependent relationship between the two. They claim that
racism needs nationalism to survive, while “nationalism itself could exist without any necessary
reliance on racism” (Mosse, 1995, p. 165). Under this premise, racism is dependent upon the
varying symbolism of the human form (and the hierarchical structures embedded within said
variance), but racism is only one of “several alternatives from which nationalism could choose”
to achieve its goals (Mosse, p. 163).
However, there is one area of contention that I have with Mosse’s (1995) analysis—they
assert that “nationalism has made racism a reality” (Mosse, p. 172). They describe racism as a
23
“civic religion with its own agenda which includes getting the nation ready for battle by
destroying the existing political elites and subsequently defeating and eliminating the so-called
inferior race” (Mosse, p. 172). This suggests that maintaining a racially dominant position was
dependent upon achieving a material (property) and ideological goal of national superiority.
However, it does not answer how and why achieving and maintaining national dominance was so
important. Operationalizing racism as a means to classify the distinction between friend and foe
for the goal of national superiority would situate racism as an exclusively social and political
process that disregards superstructural economic elements. While xenophobia is a component of
racism, racism is predicated upon far more than just a perceived threat of- and dominance over
the inferior “Other.” A supplemental incorporation of racial capitalism is essential to
substantively defining racism and nationalism outside of this limited frame. Thus, as a final
method to articulate my definition of racism, I turn to Cedric Robinson’s (2000) Black Marxism
to situate my definition of racism within the context of racial capitalism.
Robinson (2000) illustrates how “The historical development of world capitalism was
influenced in a most fundamental way by the particularistic forces of racism and nationalism” (p.
9). Racism and nationalism both contributed to the organization of production and exchange for
the capitalist structure (Robinson, 2000). Similar to Mosse’s (1995) analysis, he explains how
nationalism “mobilized the armed might they required to either destroy the productive capacities
of those whom they opposed, or to secure new markets, new labor, and productive resources”
(Robinson, 2000, p. 27). Robinson provides an answer for the missing how and why from
Mosse’s (1995) analysis of the goals of nationalism by suggesting that capitalist expansion was
the primary strategy for achieving national superiority.
24
In his critical analysis of Marxism, he inserts race into a raceless framework. One of the
fundamental principles of Marxism that Robinson critiques is that “the function of the laboring
classes was to provide the state and its privileged classes with the material and human resources
needed for their maintenance and further accumulations of power and wealth” (Robinson, 2000,
p. 21). What is ignored in this synopsis of capitalism is that the creation of hierarchical societies
was not simply predicated upon the economic caste separation of wage laborers and the
bourgeoisie; rather, there were deeply ideological (and mythical) motivations for maintaining
this social order (Robinson, 2000). Robinson explains that within this capitalist framework,
The bourgeoisie that led the development of capitalism were drawn from particular ethnic
and cultural groups…The tendency of European civilization through capitalism was thus
not to homogenize but to differentiate—to exaggerate regional, subcultural, and
dialectical differences into ‘racial ones’… (p. 26).

Thus, the “marshaling of national forces…was accomplished by the ideological phantasmagoria
of race, Herrenvolk8, and nationalism” (p. 27). To refer back to my analysis of the main terms of
this study, Robinson interjects what has been described as the systemic characteristics of white
racial hegemony (i.e., white supremacy) into this invariable class structure (Leonardo, 2004).
White supremacy, in this context, was the mechanism for which capitalism could determine its
modes of production. Robinson explains how capitalism evolved through time, eventually
utilizing race as its operative instrument:
The consequence of [feudalism being displaced by capitalism] [was] to determine the
species of the modern world: the identities of the bourgeoisies that transformed
capitalism into a world system; the sequences of this development; the relative vitalities
of the several European economies; and the sources of labor from which each economy
would draw. (p. 17, emphasis added).

To return again to the explanation of racialization, the identification of the “sources of
labor” were thus made conveniently simple. As capitalism evolves, so too does racism, as this

8 The German phrase for “race” in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Robinson, 2000).
25
process of racialization can be revisited throughout any historical era to distinguish the
bourgeoisie (those who are able to benefit from whiteness) from the “inferior” lower-class
(Harris, 1993; Robinson, 2000; Goldberg, 2002; Leonardo, 2004). Thus, in a metaphorical sense,
if capitalism was a virulent disease, racism and white supremacy helped determine the hosts for
which to spread its contagion. Racism embedded itself within a capitalist structure, but racism
was also already a structure on its own, waiting to collide into an awaiting edifice like a nail to a
hammer.
These arguments present three key points: race would not exist without racism, whiteness
would not exist without white supremacy, and racial capitalism is achieved through the
operationalization of each. Therefore, while there still exists a prevailing nationalism-racism
“alliance” as Mosse (1995) suggests (which is something I revisit in Chapter 5), it would be
inaccurate to argue that nationalism has made racism a reality. According to these various
articulations of race, racism, whiteness and white supremacy that I have just presented, it could
be argued that the systemization of white supremacy through the process of racial capitalism has
made racism a reality rather than nationalism alone.
To now formulate my own definition of racism that I employed throughout this
dissertation, I have built from the existing arguments of these various racial theorists to construct
an amalgamated description: Racism is a mechanism for creating and maintaining a hierarchical
social order through a system of white supremacy (and processes of racialization) that has been
operationalized to achieve the goals of nationalism and racial capitalism (i.e., European
dominion and national superiority).
My rationale for emphasizing the usage and delineations of these terms will be further
explained in my analytical framework section when I explore Cabrera’s (2018) critiques of
26
Critical Race Theory (CRT). I also include a more in-depth analysis of the contemporary
manifestations of these terms throughout my triangulation process where I attempt to identify
historical patterns and contemporaneous nuances of the modern sociopolitical climate. Since the
research I engage that is concerned with the current political climate does not take such a critical
perspective on nationalism, race, racialization, whiteness or white supremacy, I help advance this
field of study by drawing connections between the conceptualizations of these terms and the data
I collected.
For example, when I engage the content focused on presidential rhetoric and the
formulation of national identities, I am speaking to the notion that nationalism, both
ideologically and materially, possesses far more consequences than are presented by scholars of
the political rhetoric discipline. Far more than just the chauvinistic professions of national pride
that come in the form of symbolic paraphernalia and national anthems (Beasley, 2004),
nationalism—and its concomitant association with racism— is maintained by colonial ideologies
of separation and “antagonistic differences” (Robinson, 2000, p. 10). This has been
conceptualized by various scholars—from Edward Said’s (1977) articulation of the Orient,
Bauman’s (1989) racialization of the Jews, to Cedric Robinson’s (2000) “fabrication of the
Negro”— signaling to the importance of situating nationalism within the context of a complex
racial project.
By including an analysis of race in this way is to acknowledge that the current
manifestations of race originated from historical patterns of oppression, and thus should be
perceived as a byproduct of centuries of transformation and reconstruction rather than a
contemporary phenomenon. As Robinson (2000) suggests,
What concerns us is that we understand that racialism and its permutations persisted,
rooted not in a particular era but in the civilization itself. And though our era might seem
27
a particularly fitting one for depositing the origins of racism, that judgment merely
reflects how resistant the idea is to examination and how powerful and natural its
specifications have become. (p. 28)

This “resistance” to the idea of further examining the historical context of racial formation is
something I wish to combat. The data that I collected throughout my methodological sequence is
situated within the context of a racial capitalist structure that, to an extent, has already predicted
the answers to my research questions. As I explore how racism has maintained its perpetual
existence on college and university campuses across the nation, the structures of racial
capitalism, the system of white supremacy, the ideology of whiteness, and the construct of
nationalism have been collectively operationalized to create the conditions for which I
thoroughly investigate. Nonetheless, my findings help provide the answers to the nuanced
questions generated by these invariable elements, and hopefully offer solutions for how to
survive amidst their contemporary iterations.
Historical Foundations of Racism in U.S. Higher Education

To observe one of the many systemic functions of racism, I begin my analysis with the
first established higher education institutions in the United States. Higher education institutions
were central to the advancement and expansion of European dominion across North America.
According to Wilder (2013), “the academy refined and legitimated the social ideas that supported
territorial expansion…it advanced the [colonial] project through which the United States
extended its borders across North American mainland” (p. 318). Thus, Europeans assumed
complete control of academic discourses to advance a colonial mission that situated Eurocentric
knowledge as the only knowledge worthy of legitimacy9 (Said, 1977). They believed it was their

9 Edward Said’s (1977) Orientalism situates racism within a cultural-intellectual apparatus of colonialism. Said
articulates intellectual “legitimacy” when they describe how critiques of anti-Semitism are often limited by- and
situated within the perspective of the dominant “Orientalist.” They argue, “what has not been sufficiently stressed in
histories of modem anti-Semitism has been the legitimation of such atavistic designations by Orientalism, and…the
28
divine duty to “advance” an “inferior” race through a conservative method of power—education
for colonization (Rogers, 2012). This form of education assumed that “certain territories and
people require and beseech domination” (Said, 1994, p. 9). This ideological foundation of
colonial forms of knowledge was a key factor in the development higher education in the U.S.
Bhambra, Gebrial and Nisancioglu (2018) describe how the Western university (derived
from colonialism) was
a key site through which colonialism – and colonial knowledge in particular – is
produced, consecrated, institutionalised, and naturalised. It was in the university that
colonial intellectuals developed theories of racism, popularised discourses that bolstered
support for colonial endeavours and provided ethical and intellectual grounds for the
dispossession, oppression and domination of colonised subjects. In the colonial
metropolis, universities provided would-be colonial administrators with knowledge of the
peoples they would rule over, as well as lessons in techniques of domination and
exploitation… European forms of knowledge were spread, local indigenous knowledge
suppressed, and native informants trained. In both colony and metropole, universities
were founded and financed through the spoils of colonial plunder, enslavement and
dispossession (p. 5).

The historical development of Native American higher education, for example, begins as early as
the “age of discovery [1492]” (Carney, 1999). Thus, in technical terms, the historical legacy of
racism experienced by Native Americans began before the United States officially existed
(Carney, 1999). Within a decade of the first permanent European settlement in Jamestown,
Virginia, there were already plans in place to establish an “Indian”10 college (Wright, 1988;
Gasman, Nguyen, and Conrad, 2014). However, these plans were driven by an underlying goal
of forceful assimilation and Christian indoctrination (Noriega, 1992; McClellan, Fox & Lowe,
2005; Patton, 2016; Bryan, 2018). Wright (1988) posits that a “close examination of the several

way this academic and intellectual legitimation has persisted right through the modem age in discussions of Islam,
the Arabs, or the Near Orient. For whereas it is no longer possible to write learned (or even popular) disquisitions on
either ‘the Negro mind’ or ‘the Jewish personality,’ it is perfectly possible to engage in such research as ‘the Islamic
mind,’ or ‘the Arab character’” (Said, 1977, p. 262).
10 I will place the term, “Indians,” in quotations. I will only use this term if I am drawing information from a
particular study or referring to the original titles of tribal colleges and universities. I am trying to avoid any
unnecessary use of colonial nomenclature.
29
schemes to establish colonial Indian colleges reveals a drama of deception and fraud” (p. 72).
Wright emphasizes that it was only when war and disease left Indian communities in a desperate,
vulnerable state did they embrace Christianity and European culture (Wright, 1988).
When the first higher education institutions were founded, racism manifested in notions
of civility (Wright, 1988). When Europeans first encountered Native Americans, they made a
racialized distinction between “Indians” and whites that “became the central reference point for
explaining the cultural chasm that separated the two races”—whites were civilized, while
“Indians” were barbaric, uneducated savages in need of saving (Adams, 1988, p. 10). The Native
people were perceived to be deficient in European standards of educational training and deprived
of the technological advancements of Western civilization, therefore justifying the infiltration of
European ideologies and practices (Beck, 1999; Guillory & Ward, 2008). European settlers
assumed a missionary charge, viewing the education of the Native people as a means to “civilize
and remake them in the image of the European” to spread the gospel in a “true spirit of piety”
(Wright, 1988, p. 72-73).
In the late 17th and early 18th century, Harvard College, Dartmouth College, and College
of William and Mary were allocated funds for establishing a higher education system for Native
Americans. Harvard President Henry Dunster, aware of the English Crown’s desire to
indoctrinate the “heathens” of America, appealed to the Commissioners of the United Colonies
(overseer of the New England Company’s disbursement of funds) by claiming that he wished to
establish a university for the purpose of evangelizing the native people (Wright & Tierney,
1991). He successfully received the charitable contributions, which supported the construction of
an “Indian” College building on Harvard’s campus that was completed in 1656 (Wright &
Tierney, 1991). However, when Dunster made his request to the Commissioners of the United
30
Colonies, Harvard was financially struggling to survive. Dunster used the charitable funds to
prioritize the education of European colonists despite his announced intentions to serve “Indian”
students (Wright, 1988). Thus, the professed interest in educating the Native people at Harvard
“merely concealed the intention to use the Indian cause to exact English funds for the survival of
the colonists’ college” (Wright, 1988, p. 75). During the four decades of the “Indian” College’s
existence, there were no more than six Native American scholars who attended, despite having a
capacity for 20 students (Wright & Tierney, 1991). Not until 1660 did a Native American student
enter Harvard for the bachelor’s degree, and never did more than two students occupy the
“Indian” College at any given time (Wright, 1988). Even more tragically, many of the Native
students died from foreign diseases spread by the European colonizers, while others died from
loneliness and depression (Guillory & Ward, 2008).
Seven decades later in 1693, James Blair emulated Dunster’s model at the College of
William and Mary. He used the same strategies to appeal to the charitable funds from the English
Crown, but eventually exploited the Native students for the same purpose of institutional profit
(Carney, 1999; Wilder, 2013; Gasman et al., 2014). By 1721, the College of William and Mary
had no native students and Blair “rendered his services exclusively to English scholars” (Wright,
1988, p. 76). Similarly, in 1769, Eleazar Wheelock, a congressional minister, founded Dartmouth
College for the “education and instruction of Youth of the Indian tribes” (Wright & Tierney,
1991, p. 13). However, while a total of 58 Native Americans attended from 1769 to 1893,
Dartmouth produced only eleven Native American graduates in the 18th and 19th century (Wright
& Tierney, 1991).
In response to these circumstances, Native people sought to establish their own higher
education institutions that could “erase the atrocities of the past and create their own version of
31
Indian education—a version defined by Indians, for Indians” (Guillory & Ward, 2008, p. 94).
The Cherokee developed the first tribally controlled schools in the 1850s, but were terminated
after the passage of the Curtis Act in 1898 which abolished tribal governments and led to federal
control of the Cherokee Nation’s education system (Beck, 1999; McClellan et al., 2005). The
development of TCUs remained at a relative standstill for nearly half a century until the Indian
Reorganization Act of 1934, the Higher Education Act of 1965, the Indian Education Act of
1972, and the Education Assistance Act of 1975. The acts promoted Native American self-
determination and autonomy, galvanizing leaders and elders with a sense of empowerment to
serve the needs of their communities (Olivas, 1982; Guillory & Ward, 2008).
This led to the first permanent tribal college, Diné College (formerly Navajo Community
College), established in 1968 on the Navajo reservation in Tsaile, Arizona. The elders of the tribe
taught courses on tribal languages, culture, and history (Bryan, 2018). However, Diné College,
and the tribal colleges and universities (TCUs) that followed, faced countless structural
impediments including scarce equipment and facilities, limited staff, and failure to meet
accreditation requirements for federal funding (McClellan et al., 2005). The early TCUs were set
up in “abandoned houses, trailers, old storefronts, condemned buildings, barracks, and
warehouses, or any structure where students and teachers could gather for classes” (Guillory &
Ward, 2008, p. 95). Although Diné College started as an independent tribal institution, the
smaller tribes were forced to resort to affiliating their institutions with larger, accredited colleges
as either branch campuses or extension centers (Olivas, 1982). Unfortunately, the status of many
TCUs is uncertain. The exclusionary infrastructure of the “Indian” Colleges at Harvard College,
College of William and Mary, and Dartmouth College in the 17th and 18th century, and the
federal neglect of TCUs in the 20th century, personifies the longitudinal scope of racism that
32
Native Americans have endured in higher education. Though, Native Americans were not alone
in this struggle, as African Americans experienced a similar history in higher education that was
also influenced by white supremacy.
There are vast similarities between the racialized nature of Native American higher
education and African American higher education (Carney, 1999). Gasman et al. (2014) describe
how “white missionaries treated Blacks much like the early Colonists treated Native Americans,
as ignorant savages in desperate need for reforming and the inculcation of White values” (p.
123). Mustaffa (2017) provides a historical overview of anti-Black11 violence in the higher
education system that examines the Colonial Era (1745-1775), Post-Civil War (1850-1890), and
the mid-to-late 20th century (1945-1975). He coined the term “education violence” to define how
marginalized people have had their lives limited and ended due to racism throughout these three
periods and beyond.
“Education violence” was institutionalized in the form of slavery, as Black people were
dehumanized and sold as material goods for colleges to exploit (Wilder, 2013; Stein, 2016;
Mustaffa, 2017). Human slavery was an essential component of the establishment and creation of
higher education institutions in the Americas (Wilder, 2013). Similar to the plight of Native
Americans, enslaved Africans were treated as “fungible…interchangeable, accumulable, and
objectified as human property” (Stein, 2016, p. 172). Enslaved persons became a “permanent
fixture” of higher education institutions, so much so that professors and administrators often
owned the majority of enslaved persons on their campuses (Wilder, 2013; Stein, 2016). In fact,

11 Throughout this paper, I have purposely capitalized the “B” in “Black” when referring to Black people, and used a
lowercased “w” in “white” when referring to white people. This writing choice is borrowed from Martha Biondi’s
novel, To Stand and Fight, where she explains that “Black is capitalized because it is used much as ‘Negro’ or
‘African American’ is used. As a proper noun, it reflects the self-naming and self-identification of a people whose
national or ethnic origins have been obscured by a history of capture and enslavement. Similarly, ‘white’ is not
capitalized because historically it has been deployed as a signifier of social domination and privilege, rather than as
an indicator of ethnic or national origin” (Biondi, xi).
33
when president Eleazar Wheelock founded Dartmouth college, there were more slaves than
faculty, administrators, and active trustees, and were arguably as many enslaved Black people at
Dartmouth as there were students (Wilder, 2013; Mustaffa, 2017). Though, Black people were
not allowed to benefit from these institutions (Gavins, 2009). Instead, they were required to
perform daily labor tasks on the college campuses including working the fields; cleaning the
kitchens, rooms, and chamber pots; and washing clothes and preparing meals for the students and
faculty (Wilder, 2013). Black peoples’ exploited slave labor was not only utilized for basic labor,
they also built the physical structures that allowed these higher education institutions to function
(Wilder, 2013; Mustaffa, 2017).
In a disturbingly cyclical manner, Black people were forced to build the institutions that
were designed to advance and perpetuate their own violent oppression. For example, college
campuses were the original sites for early medical research rooted in scientific racism, where
institutional leaders sought to intellectualize the spread of white superiority under the guise of
science (Wilder, 2013; Patton, 2016). Physicians, surgeons and students used deceased Black
bodies for anatomical dissections and various other experiments (Stein, 2016). Though, the
torture that the enslaved endured on college campuses before their deaths was equally repugnant.
The enslaved persons were branded by the slaveholders, had their ears nailed to their heads, and
were killed if they attempted to run (Wilder, 2013). They were frequently terrorized by college
students who faced no repercussions for their malicious actions (Wilder, 2013). Some of these
same students went on to become university administrators and presidents (Patton, 2016).
However, Black people would soon enter academic spaces that were outside of these white-
serving institutions.
34
The end of the Colonial Era (Mustaffa, 2017) and the aftermath of the Civil War was a
significant period for Black higher education, specifically in regard to the establishment of the
first historically Black colleges and universities (HBCUs). The Land-Grant College Act of 1862,
or “Morrill Act,” provided federal support for state education, particularly in agriculture,
education and military sciences (Brown & Davis, 2001). Over 17.5 million acres of land, along
with millions of dollars, were allocated to the establishment of white colleges (Mustaffa, 2017).
However, the end of the Civil War in 1865 meant that Southern states were required by law to
respond to the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments by providing public education
for Black people (Brown & Davis, 2001). In 1890, the second Morrill Act was passed,
mandating that the funds from the first Morrill Act be extended to institutions serving Black
students. Though, the second Morrill Act also permitted the higher education system to allow
racial discrimination in admissions, and continue to give inadequate funding to Black colleges
(Mustaffa, 2017). Six years later, the Plessy v. Ferguson court case of 1896—although framed as
a reasonable solution for equality—exacerbated the effects of the second Morrill Act by allowing
states to continue the racial segregation of public schools only if accommodations and facilities
were equal (Anderson, 1988). Harper, Patton and Wooden (2009) point out that if the facilities
were, in fact, “equal,” then there would have been no reason to establish separate or segregated
institutions. Similar to TCUs, HBCUs established under the Morrill Acts were generally of
poorer quality than public predominantly white institutions (PWIs) and were allocated
significantly lower funds from the state (Anderson, 1988; Harper et al. 2009).
The fundamental insufficiencies of HBCUs were manufactured by sheer design. White
missionaries’ donations were crucial in establishing early HBCUs, and the schools were
governed almost exclusively by white administrators and teachers until the 1930s and 1940s
35
(Harper, Patton, & Wooden, 2009). This granted white people the ability to control governing
boards, offer curriculum grounded in white supremacist ideologies, and continue to distribute
inequitable resources to Black students, thus preserving white power by indoctrinating the
superiority of whiteness into African American education (Anderson, 1988; Du Bois; 2007;
Harper, Patton, & Wooden, 2009; Mustaffa, 2017).
Being stripped of their humanity and sold as material goods for colleges during the
Colonial Era, battling the institutionalization of anti-Black exclusionary policies of the Post-Civil
War era, and enduring the violent and legalized discrimination of Jim Crow laws during the mid-
to-late twentieth century have created a hostile, exclusionary environment for Black college
students (Mustaffa, 2017). As Wilder (2013) reminds us, “the academy never stood apart from
American slavery—in fact, it stood beside church and state as the third pillar of a civilization
built on bondage” (p. 12). The American campus stood as a “silent monument to slavery,” as the
fingerprints of the enslaved could be felt and seen within every facet of their construction
(Wilder, 2013, p. 291). The Native American experiences with U.S. higher education institutions
were fairly similar. According to Szasz (1983), higher education institutions became sites of
assimilation and extensive trauma for Native Americans rather than academic learning
environments. The establishment of both historically Black colleges and universities (HBCUs)
and tribal colleges and universities (TCUs) faced financial and structural limitations that are
primarily caused by the lack of investment from the federal government (Anderson, 1988;
Guillory & Ward, 2008; Harper et al., 2009; Stein, 2016). This has disallowed Black and Native
American students from accessing the same resources and opportunities as their white
counterparts (Mustaffa, 2017). Higher education still “represents the complex relations between
race, property, and oppression” (Patton, 2016, p. 320). Patton (2016) illustrates how higher
36
education institutions continue to serve as symbolic manifestations of white supremacy,
reinforced by exclusionary curriculum, campus policies, and racist campus spaces (Patton,
2016).
It is crucial to incorporate this historical context of racism into my analysis of the current
sociopolitical climate. Racism, at its core, has not changed. It has merely transformed to mold
into the shape of every historical era since the early 16th century. By understanding the
foundational principles of racism, we can more thoroughly contextualize the underlying
objectives and motivations of its contemporary manifestations.
Contemporary Manifestations of Racism on College Campuses

Before delving into the specific racial dynamics of campus climate, I broadly explore the
literature focused on campus climate in general. I then describe Hurtado’s (1994)
multidimensional model for examining campus racial climate, and how each dimension has been
given scrupulous individual attention in higher education literature. Given the research topic
under investigation, I engage in a more in-depth analysis of how the sociopolitical environment
has historically influenced college campuses, and how this phenomenon is largely unexamined in
campus racial climate literature.
Campus Climate

Campus climate has been defined in various ways within existing higher education
literature (Peterson & Spencer, 1990; Hurtado, Carter and Kardia, 1998; Hurtado, Milem,
Clayton-Pederson & Allen, 1998; Hart & Fellabaum, 2008; Hurtado, Griffin, Arellano &
Cuellar, 2008). For example, Rankin and Reason (2008) define campus climate as “attitudes,
behaviors, and standards/practices that concern the access for, inclusion of, and level of respect
for individual and group needs, abilities, and potential” (p. 264). Milem, Chang and antonio
37
(2005) define the term as a combination of psychological climate (intergroup relations,
institutional responses to diversity, and perceptions of discrimination and racial conflict),
behavioral climate (the status of social interaction between different racial and ethnic groups),
structural diversity (budget allocations, hiring and admissions practices, and other campus
decision-making processes), compositional diversity (the numerical and proportional
representation of various racial and ethnic groups), and institutional history (historical vestiges
of segregated schools and colleges that continue to affect the climate for racial and ethnic
diversity). These relatively recent definitions were built upon several foundational frameworks of
campus climate. For this particular review of literature, I focus on two specific frameworks—
Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) understanding of culture and climate, and Hurtado’s (1994) four-
factor model for assessing campus racial climate. The latter will be discussed in the following
subsection.
Building from Schein’s (1985) schema of organizational values and Ott’s (1989)
organizational culture perspective, Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) foundational framework
analyzes organizational culture and climate, which are concepts used to describe the internal
environment of an institution. They define “environment” as broad concept that includes all
internal and external organizationally related phenomena (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). Culture
focuses on the “deeply embedded patterns of organizational behavior and the shared values,
assumptions, beliefs, or ideologies that members have about their organization or its work”
(Peterson & Spencer, p. 6). Organizational culture is defined by an organization’s distinctive
character, which is deeply embedded and only “changed primarily by cataclysmic events or
through slower, intensive, and long-term effects” (Peterson & Spencer, p. 6). Climate is defined
as “the current common patterns of important dimensions of organizational life or its members’
38
perceptions of and attitudes toward those dimensions” (Peterson & Spencer, p. 7). Climate is
conceptually different than culture in the sense that it is more concerned with individual-level
foci that can be tangibly identified and defined. Peterson and Spencer (1990) demarcate this
conceptual difference by explaining that “if culture is the ‘organizational value,’ climate is the
‘atmosphere,’ or ‘style’” (p. 8). Common assessments of climate involve an examination of an
organization’s “institutional goals and functioning, governance and decision patterns, teaching
and learning processes, participant behaviors, effort, and interaction patterns, and work patterns
or workplace dynamics” (Peterson & Spencer, 1990, p. 8). While climate can be specified in
these various ways, culture remains relatively abstract, and therefore difficult to measure.
Peterson and Spencer (1990) separate culture into four broad categories: geospatial;
traditions, myths, artifacts, and symbolism; behavioral patterns and processes; and espoused
versus embedded values and beliefs. Geospatial analyses involve the examination of tangible and
visible physical elements of an institution, including campus structures, styles, and patterns that
signal deeper institutional beliefs (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). The traditions, myths, and
artifacts of an organization refers to the organizational symbols that convey past and current
ideologies and assumptions that members deem important and motivational12 (Peterson &
Spencer, 1990). The behavioral patterns and processes comprise of the organizational operations
that are cultivated and defined by repeated organizational behavior (Peterson & Spencer, 1990).
Finally, the espoused versus embedded values and beliefs refers to how institutional mission

12 For example, numerous studies have explored how higher education institutions engage in ethnic fraud by using
Native American symbols and figures as their mascots (Davis, 1993; Black, 2002; King, 2002; Franklin, 2006;
Castagno & Lee, 2007; Staurowsky, 2007). Most notably, Richard King’s (2001), Team Spirits: The Native
American Mascots Controversy, highlights how colleges are essentially mocking the troubling history of Native
people in America by having repulsive imagery as their mascots (including “scalping braves,” Native American
chieftains with red skin, and other derogatory monikers), with cultural artifacts, public sentiments, and ritual
performances (victory dances, school songs, cheers, chants, drinking games, face painting, apparel, etc.) associated
with them. Rather than having their histories respectfully acknowledged and commemorated, Native students have
been continuously reminded that they are still not valued by higher education institutions.
39
statements “often present the organization in its ideal, rather than actual, form” (Peterson &
Spencer, 1990, p. 11)13.
Climate is separated into three broad categories: objective climate, perceived climate, and
psychological or felt climate (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). The objective climate refers to the
patterns of behavior of an institution, which may include the practices and procedures,
characteristics, and quantifiable patterns of behavior of academic management (Peterson &
Spencer, 1990). The perceived climate is concerned with the “cognitive images that participants
have of how organizational life actually does function and how it should function” (Peterson &
Spencer, 1990, p. 12). In other words, “perception is reality.” The psychological or felt climate is
the motivational dimension that focuses on how participants feel about their organization and
work (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). This may include organizational performance measures,
organizational members’ morale and satisfaction, or their sense of belonging at the institution
(Peterson & Spencer, 1990).
Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) framework is tremendously helpful for interrogating the
organizational elements of institutions. However, the framework does not account for the role of
students, and the impact that the organizational climate and culture has on their college-going
experiences. Thus, in the next subsection, I introduce Hurtado’s (1994) foundational framework
that helps assess the climate implications for college students’ racialized experiences.
Students of different identity groups experience campus climate in their own distinctive
ways (Hurtado, Carter & Kardia, 1998). Thus, an integral component of these definitions is that
they include space for disaggregated and intersectional analyses for the climate experiences of
various social identity groups (Vaccaro, 2012). To comprehensively investigate the numerous

13 I will return to these categories of organizational culture when I introduce my performative equity framework in
Chapter 6.
40
dimensions of campus climate, researchers have deviated from an isolated analysis, and instead
chosen to explore how the various elements intersect. Stockdill and Danico (2012) explain how
traditionally marginalized groups should be centered in campus climate literature—including the
experiences of immigrants; women; lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ)
identifying people; people with disabilities, and people of color—to explore how classism,
racism, sexism, and homophobia intersect to create hostile environments on college campuses.
Park, Denson and Bowman (2012) conducted a study to examine the effects of racial and
socioeconomic diversity on campus climate. They found that when an institution has more
socioeconomic and racial diversity, “it challenges the consolidation of privilege on campus,
contributing to a more equitable campus environment” (Park, Denson & Bowman, 2012, p. 11).
Although race and class are not interchangeable factors, a socioeconomically diverse institution
was positively associated with higher levels of cross-racial interaction and co-curricular diversity
activities (Park, Denson & Bowman, 2012).
Lundy-Wagner and Winkle-Wagner (2013) used intersectionality and critical race
feminist frameworks to highlight how sexual harassment research and campus racial climate
research must be juxtaposed in order to gain a more complex understanding of college campuses
and student experiences. In their review of the literature, they found that campus racial climate
research takes a more structural and institutional approach, while in sexual harassment literature
the emphasis on power is typically at an individual level. The authors posit that through an
intersectional approach, a more thorough understanding of these two dimensions of campus
climate can be achieved. Similar to these scholars, I am interested in the connection between
multiple dimensions of campus racial climate. More specifically, I am primarily focused on the
41
intersection between the racial dimensions of the campus climate and the influence of the larger
sociopolitical environment.
Campus Racial Climate

Students of color experience racism in education long before they step onto college
campuses (Anderson, 2006; Pérez Huber, Johnson & Kohli, 2006; Kohli, 2008; Howard, 2014).
Thus, higher education can often be a continuation of these experiences that students have spent
their entire lives enduring. Over the past few years, there have been horrific incidents of racist
attacks on college campuses across the nation. In 2013, three white male San Jose State
University students were charged with misdemeanor hate-crime and battery charges for fastening
a bicycle lock around the neck of their Black male roommate. They berated him with racist
epithets every day, nicknaming him “Three-fifths” and “Fraction,” and writing the “N-word” on
his dry-erase board (Kaplan, 2013). In 2017, another racist incident involving roommates
happened at the University of Hartford, where a white female student harassed her Black female
roommate over a nine-month span by spitting in her coconut oil, calling her “Jamaican Barbie,”
inserting moldy clam dip in her lotions, rubbing used tampons on her backpack, and putting her
toothbrush in her private areas before placing it back on the sink (Bromwich, 2017). The racist
student was charged with criminal mischief and was expelled from the university. Various other
incidents have been documented, including Black students being harassed by campus police
(Jaschik, 2019a), numerous Blackface parties hosted by college fraternities (Lawrence, 1990),
themed Halloween parties based on racist stereotypes (typically hosted by predominantly white
fraternities) (Mueller, Dirks & Picca, 2007; Patton, 2008), professors using the “N-Word” in
class (Flaherty, 2019), racist vandalism and hate speech (Matsuda, 1989; Logue, 2016; New,
42
2016a) and racist cyber-bullying (Diehl, 2015; Jaschik, 2016c). Researchers have explored how
these violent incidents are situated within a broader context of hostile campus racial climate.
Sylvia Hurtado (1994) developed a four-factor model for examining campus racial
climate. The model is contextualized by both internal (institutional) and external (policy and
sociohistorical/sociopolitical influences) forces (Figure 1) (Hurtado, Milem, Clayton-Pederson &
Allen, 1998). The model examines the internal context of the campus environment by assessing
the historical legacy of inclusion and exclusion of an institution (exclusionary procedures of the
past continuing to influence current practices), the structural properties (size, control, selectivity
and racial composition of the college), the psychological and perceptual elements (an
individual’s view of institutional responsiveness to diversity issues), and the behavioral aspects
of race relations on campus (the interpersonal interactions between students of different
racial/ethnic groups) (Hurtado, 1994).
Harper and Hurtado (2007) expanded the assessment of the internal factors by
synthesizing 15 years of published research on campus racial climate, and dividing the literature
into three categories: (1) differential perceptions of campus climate by race, (2) racial/ethnic
minority students reports of prejudicial treatment and racist campus environments, and (3)
benefits associated with campus climate that facilitate cross-racial engagement. In addition to
this analysis, they presented nine themes that emerged from a qualitative study of the campus
racial climate at five predominantly white universities: Cross-race consensus regarding
institutional negligence; race as a four-letter word and an avoidable topic; self-reports of racial
segregation; gaps in social satisfaction by race; reputational legacies of racism; white student
overestimation of minority student satisfaction; the pervasiveness of whiteness in space,
curricula, and activities; the consciousness-powerlessness paradox among racial/ethnic minority
43
staff; and finally, unexplored qualitative realities of race in institutional assessment. Hurtado’s
(1994) model, and Harper and Hurtado’s (2007) nine themes are helpful for understanding the
undercurrents and sustainers of racism on college campuses.
It is important to remember that higher education institutions are not situated within an
isolated context. Hurtado, Milem, Clayton-Pederson and Allen (1998) extend Hurtado’s (1994)
framework to include ways to assess the external components of campus racial climate. They
separate the external components of climate into two domains: (a) the impact of governmental
policy, programs and initiatives, and (b) sociohistorical/sociopolitical forces that impact the
campus racial climate. The first domain refers to financial aid policies and programs, state and
federal policy on affirmative action, court decisions that affect the structures and procedures of
higher education institutions, and the differences in policy implementation across state lines. The
second domain refers to the events or issues in the larger society that influence how people
perceive racial diversity (Hurtado et al., 1998).
Hurtado, Alvarez, Guillermo-Wann, Cuellar and Arellano (2012) identify several
assumptions of Hurtado et al.’s (1998) model: (1) students are educated in distinct racial contexts
within institutions that are often influenced by the larger sociohistorical and policy contexts; (2)
campus climate can be assessed; and (3) most institutions possess historical legacies of inclusion
and exclusion that influence the contemporary representation of individuals from diverse
backgrounds on campus. These assumptions help transform notions of the campus climate “from
an intangible concept to one that was tangible (documented and measured) with real
consequences for students of color and majority students,” and highlight the unique racialized
experiences of American Indian, Asian American, Black, Latino/a, and Native American
students in higher education (Hurtado et al., 2012, p. 43). This particular research study
44
examines the influence of the sociopolitical environment on campus racial climate by directly
investigating both the internal and external components of the assessment model. Thus,
following the evaluation of literature focused on the internal dimensions of campus racial
climate, I also engage in a more in-depth analysis of the two external domains as well.
Figure 1 Hurtado's (1994) four-factor model for assessing campus racial climate (with external additions from Hurtado, Milem,
Clayton-Pederson & Allen, 1998)

Historical dimension. Hurtado’s (1998) model defines the historical dimension of
inclusion or exclusion as the “resistance to desegregation in communities and specific campus
settings, the maintenance of old campus policies at predominantly White institutions that best
serve a homogenous population, and attitudes and behaviors that prevent interaction across race
and ethnicity” (Hurtado et al., 1998, p. 283). Earlier in this chapter, I provided a comprehensive
overview of the historical manifestations of racism on college campuses which explored how
Black and Native American students were excluded from higher education until relatively
45
recently. Scholars have since studied the residual effects of these exclusionary institutional
practices of the past (Hurtado, 1994; Chesler, Lewis & Crowfoot, 2005; Feagin, 2014).
For example, Williamson (1999) posits that “Black students continue to be disadvantaged
on White campuses relative to their White peers and continue to suffer from isolation, alienation,
and lack of support” (p. 103). However, they identified how Black students at a PWI adapted to
the racially exclusionary environment by creating their own support systems to maintain their
psychological and academic well-being, including their own tutorial services, academic advising,
and departmental organizations that specifically served students of color (Williamson, 1999).
Conversely, Palmer, Davis and Maramba’s (2010) study found that Black students at a HBCU
found that the “racial homogeneity of the university…[was] encouraging, motivational, and an
important factor in promoting their success” (p. 98). The students expressed how their professors
helped them work toward their full potential, and that they surrounded themselves with
academically driven peers who also popularized academic success (Palmer, Davis & Maramba,
2010, p. 99). Black student success was found to be consistent in both settings (Kim, 2002), but
the HBCU environment helped Black students circumvent the many of the obstacles that they
would have had to endure at a PWI.
Another area of research situated within the historical dimension is the examination of
how universities are now coming to terms with their nefarious histories with slavery. In 2003,
Brown University President Ruth Simmons appointed a “Steering Committee on Slavery and
Justice.” The committee included faculty members, undergraduate and graduate students, and
administrators, with the goal of preparing a report about the University’s historical relationship
to slavery and the transatlantic slave trade (Brown University Steering Committee on Slavery
and Justice, 2006). The report was presented to Dr. Simmons in 2006, which was then endorsed
46
by the Brown Corporation the following year who decided to implement a set of initiatives in
response. Inspired by Dr. Ruth Simmons’ work at Brown University, in 2011, Sven Beckert,
Katherine Stevens, and the students of the Harvard and Slavery Research Seminar published a
booklet, Harvard and Slavery: Seeking a Forgotten History, that details Harvard University’s
history and involvement with the enslavement of Black people. The authors hoped that “by
interpreting these traces of history we find in our everyday lives, our communities, and our
world, we can add depth and context to our perception of the present” (Beckert & Stevens, 2011,
p. 26). Students from the seminar group suggested that Harvard erect a memorial for those who
were forced into slavery on Harvard’s campus, adding that “recapturing the full history of
Harvard is not to discredit or diminish its achievements, but to hold us in tension between the
future we will make at Harvard and its full, flawed, but no less remarkable past” (Beckert &
Stevens, p. 27). It is the hope of each of these universities that the acknowledgment of their
flawed pasts can lead to constructive transformations of their structural procedures and
processes.
Structural dimension. The structural dimension of Hurtado’s (1994) model examines
the size, control, selectivity, and racial composition of the university. Racial diversity on college
campuses has been positively linked to educational outcomes for all students (Chang, 1999,
2001, 2002; Gurin, Dey, Hurtado, & Gurin, 2002; antonio, Chang, Hakuta, Kenny, Levin &
Milem, 2004; Moses & Chang, 2006). However, higher education institutions still remain
racially homogenous (read: white) environments. Under the guise of meritocracy, colleges
disproportionately admit far more white students than students of color (Alvarado, 2010; Liu,
2011). For example, legacy admissions at some institutions use white sociohistorical inheritance
criteria that gives preferentiality to white students (Gusa, 2010). Furthermore, standardized tests
47
used for admission standards have been found to be culturally biased against students of color,
and cater towards white students through Eurocentric forms of knowledge (Flagg, 2005; Moore,
2005; Knoester & Au, 2017). These invariable structures lead to inequitable racial compositions
on college campuses, subsequently producing a toxic campus racial climate.
Organizational/structural diversity. Milem, Chang and antonio (2005) extended
Hurtado’s (1994) extension even further by arguing that the term “structural” was not accurate
descriptor of the institutional characteristics it denotes. They identified that “while Hurtado and
colleagues argue that the historical legacy of exclusion at higher education institutions influences
institutional policies and practices, they do not fully elaborate on this important idea” (Milem,
Chang & antonio, 2005, p. 18). There was an apparent conceptual nexus between the historical
and structural dimensions that were not clearly extricated in the original model. The racial
composition of an institution conceptually existed within the historical dimension—which refers
to an institution’s history of (racial) exclusion of people of color—and structural dimension—
which also includes the selectivity and racial composition on an organizational level. Therefore,
to differentiate the two dimensions, Milem, Chang, and antonio (2005) refer to the size, control,
selectivity, and racial composition of the university (which was originally categorized as the
“structural dimension”) as “compositional diversity,” which is defined as “the numerical and
proportional representation of various racial and ethnic groups on a campus” (Milem, Chang &
antonio, 2005, p. 15).
However, they did not eliminate the “structural terminology.” Instead, they offer a “fifth
dimension” of campus racial climate, “organizational/structural diversity,” which refers to “the
organizational and structural aspects of colleges and the ways in which benefits for some groups
become embedded into these organizational and structural processes” (Milem, Chang, and
48
antonio, 2005, p. 18). Drawing from Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) framework for
organizational culture and climate, this fifth dimension can be reflected “in the curriculum; in
campus decision-making practices related to budget allocations, reward structures, hiring
practices, admissions practices, and tenure decisions” (Milem, Chang, and antonio, 2005, p. 18).
This dimension is more concerned with institutional policies that influence compositional
diversity.
For example, the compositional diversity (e.g., diverse student enrollments and diverse
faculty and staff hires) of an institution is influenced by the organizational/structural diversity
dimension since it is contingent upon the institutional priorities and policies that delineate which
students or professionals will receive the “benefits” of admission or employment over others
(e.g., admissions practices and tenure policies/decisions). The organizational/structural
dimension is often operationalized in racialized ways, which subsequently produces racial
inequity on a compositional level. Milem, Chang and antonio (2005) emphasize that all five of
these dimensions of campus racial climate are interconnected, but researchers should interrogate
the unique aspects of each dimension to comprehensively address their important nuances.
Perceptual dimension. The perceptual and psychological dimension of Hurtado’s (1994)
model examines how students view the institutional responsiveness to diversity issues, and how a
lack of diversity influences a students’ psychological wellbeing. Hurtado (1994) originally
constructed this dimension based on Peterson, Blackburb, Gamson, Arce, Davenport and
Mingle’s (1978) indicators of attitudinal or perceptual climate on campus. These indicators
included “measures that reflected the respondents’ views on the philosophical role of colleges
with regard to minorities; the ideology of the institutions, represented by institutional goal
commitments to minority concerns; the intent of the institution, reflected in support for minority
49
programs; perceptions and actual behavior on campus, characterized by racial and interracial
activity; and a psychological measure of the climate, or measures of the degree of trust and
hostility among groups” (Peterson et al., 1978, as cited in Hurtado, 1994, p. 24). Peterson (1990)
eventually embedded these indicators within their framework for organizational culture and
climate that was described in the previous subsection.
Numerous studies have since studied the impact of this particular dimension in depth
(Kotori & Malaney, 2003; Reid & Radhakrishnan, 2003; Brackett, Marcus, McKenzie, Mullins,
Tang & Allen, 2006; Ward & Zarate, 2015; Griffin, Cunningham & Mwangi, 2016; Alamilla,
Kim, Walker & Sisson, 2017). A study by Rankin and Reason (2005) found that students of
color perceived the campus climate as more racist and less accepting than their white
counterparts, and experienced harassment at higher rates. Similarly, Ancis, Sedlacek and Mohr
(2000) found that African American, Asian American, and Latinx14 students were significantly
more likely than their white counterparts to experience pressure to conform to racial and ethnic
stereotypes related to their academic performance and behavior. Related studies have found that
racial-ethnic groups experience racial tension in the residence halls (Harper, Davis, Jones,
McGowan, Ingram & Platt, 2011), exploitative treatment as student athletes (Harper, 2009),
racism amongst faculty (Jayakumar, Howard, Allen & Han, 2009; Patton & Catching, 2009;
Victorino, Nylund-Gibson & Conley, 2013), and cross-cultural discomfort (Ancis, Sedlacek &
Mohr, 2000).
The impact of perceived racial discrimination has also been found to drastically affect the
mental health of African American, Asian American and Latinx college students, including
higher psychological distress, suicidal ideation, state anxiety (transient feelings of worry,

14 I use the term Latinx rather than “Hispanic” or “Latina/o” to be gender inclusive when referencing peoples of
Latin American descent.
50
tension, and nervousness), trait anxiety (predisposition to respond anxiously to stressful
situations), and depression (Hwang & Goto, 2008). Asian American students in particular have
been subjected to the “model minority” myth (Alvarez, Juang & Liang, 2006; Kiang, 2009;
Museus & Yi, 2015), but more holistically driven research has found that their negative
perceptions of campus racial climate were significantly associated with trauma-related symptoms
(Pieterse, Carter & Walter, 2010). Student perceptions of diversity at their respective institutions
have been found to impact their sense of belonging (Johnson, 2012; Stebleton, Soria &
Huesman, 2014; Museus, Yi & Saelua, 2016) and academic performance (Torregosa, Ynalvez &
Morin, 2015) as well.
The common theme within this literature is that white people perceive and feel the impact
of racism far less than people of color. Researchers have posited that one reason for this is that
white people have been found to adopt “color-blind” ideologies (Bonilla-Silva & Forman, 2000;
Bonilla-Silva, 2014). Colorblindness is the assertion that race is not a significant factor in society
(Harris, 1993). By not acknowledging or engaging the realities of marginalized racial
populations, it allows the “colorblind” individual to avoid taking responsibility for their actions
(Harris, 1993). Worthington, Navarro, Loewy and Hart (2008) studied the correlation between
colorblind racial attitudes and perceptions of campus climate, and found that white students’
unawareness of racial privilege was associated with more positive perceptions of the institution.
The white students who had positive perceptions were also more likely to deny the existence of
racial privilege within intergroup relations (Worthington, Navarro, Loewy & Hart, 2008).
However, when white students do engage in dialogue about race, they often become defensive, a
response that DiAngelo (2011) refers to as white fragility. This often leads to white people
becoming confused, triggered, and self-protective when talking about their racial privilege
51
(DiAngelo, 2011). Cabrera (2012) argues that this response prompts white people to minimize
the importance of race and racism in society, claim victimization, and in the process, recreate
white supremacy.
Behavioral dimension. The behavioral dimension focuses on the interpersonal
interactions between students of different racial and ethnic groups (Hurtado, 1994). Students of
color have often faced negative interactions with their peers in the form of racial
microaggressions— “brief and commonplace daily verbal, behavioral, and environmental
indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or
negative racial slights and insults to the target person or group” (Sue, Capodilupo, Torino,
Bucceri, Holder, Nadal & Esquilin, 2007, p. 273). Yosso et al.’s (2009) study used Critical Race
Theory (CRT) to explore and understand how Latinx undergraduates experience racial
microaggressions. They found that the participants experienced verbal and nonverbal racial
affronts by other students and faculty; were targets of compulsive racial joke-telling; and were
victims of institutional microaggressions that instilled feelings of self-doubt, alienation, and
discouragement15.
A similar study conducted by Sue, Bucceri, Lin, Nadal, and Torino (2007) examined how
Asian American students experienced microaggressions on racially hostile college campuses.
The participants endured various forms of verbal and nonverbal assaults including questions
about their citizenship, invalidating statements about their interethnic differences, the
exoticization of Asian American women (especially from white men), and constantly hearing
from their peers that inequities do not exist for Asian Americans (Sue et al., 2007). The residual

15 These feelings of self-doubt have been conceptualized as stereotype threat, which refers to when students of color
fear being reduced to negative racial stereotypes to the extent that their academic performance is hindered (Steele,
1997; Fischer, 2008).
52
effects of these microaggressions can lead to mental, emotional, and physical strain called racial
battle fatigue (Pérez Huber & Solórzano, 2015). Smith, Allen, and Danley (2007) describe racial
battle fatigue as the psychological and psycho-social emotions that students of color endure
when confronted by racial and oppressive slurs on their college campuses (Smith, Allen &
Danley, 2007). These negative interpersonal interactions between students of different racial and
ethnic groups have reproduced and contributed to the perpetual inadequacies of campus racial
climate.
In summary, the historical, organizational/structural (Milem, Chang, & antonio, 2005),
compositional diversity (Milem, Chang, & antonio, 2005), perceptual/psychological, and
behavioral dimensions of higher education institutions encapsulate the internal (institutional)
forces that impact campus racial climate16. Each dimension is helpful for understanding the
undercurrents and sustainers of racism on college campuses. However, it is not only the
institutional components that influence the campus racial climate, there are also external forces
that are equally significant and warrant deeper analysis.
External forces of campus racial climate. College campuses are not isolated
environments; rather, they are institutional settings that are susceptible to external influences
(Hurtado et al., 1998). Higher education institutions can be affected by the broader sociopolitical
environment in various ways, including financial aid policies (Dynarksi & Scott-Clayton, 2013;
Perna, 2015; Goldrick-Rab, Kelchen, Harris & Benson, 2016), state and federal policies
regarding affirmative action (Harris, 1993; Katznelson, 2005; Schmidt, 2007), Supreme Court
decisions related to issues in education (O’Brien, 1949; Bell, 1980; Tate, 2004; Ayoub &

16 In Chapter 3, I modify these existing definitions of the internal dimensions of campus racial climate. More
specifically, I introduce a new definition for the “organizational/structural” dimension proposed by Milem, Chang,
and antonio (2005), as well as a new “geospatial dimension” that builds upon research pertaining to campus ecology,
organizational culture, and the intersections of race and space.
53
Beydoun, 2017), and different state-specific policies that hold particular institutional
ramifications for each college and university.
There is an abundance of research that studies the impact of these de jure governmental
procedures on higher education. However, Hurtado, Milem, Clayton-Pederson and Allen (1998)
note that although existing literature has documented the structural effects of governmental
policy on higher education, there are noticeably fewer studies that focus on the interpersonal and
cultural influence of the sociopolitical (de facto) and sociohistorical environment on campus
racial climate. This is particularly problematic given the racialized nature of American politics.
Milem, Chang and antonio’s (2005) examples of the de facto influence of the sociopolitical and
sociohistorical environment include the ongoing debate over affirmative action policy “that has a
noticeable impact on the racial climate at colleges and universities,” and the “events of 9/11 and
our country’s response to these events…that have a profound effect on campus racial climate”
(p. 15). A qualitative investigation into the influence of these external elements on college
students’ racialized realities would help fill this dearth in literature.
Researchers have studied aspects of the relationship between the sociopolitical climate
and college campuses by examining college students’ levels of political and civic engagement
(Bernstein, 2005; Hillygus, 2005; Kiesa, Orlowski, Levine, Both, Kirby, Lopez & Marcelo,
2007; Hollander & Longo, 2008; Perez, Espinoza, Ramos, Coronado & Cortez, 2010; Simmons
& Lilly, 2010; Stroup, Bunting, Dodson, Horne & Portilla, 2013). The foundational premise of
political engagement literature, as research focused on “activity that has the intent or effect of
influencing government action,” is to provide insight into the dialectical relationship between
politically involved students and the larger sociopolitical environment (Verba, Scholzman, &
Brady, 1995, p. 38).
54
A more nuanced focus has been dedicated to investigating student activism in particular
(Ellsworth & Burns, 1970; Brax, 1981; Joseph, 2003; Rogers, 2012; Davis & Morgan, 2019).
D’Antonio (1969) defines activist as “an individual who is interested in seeing that his
ideological orientation toward the affairs of the world has influence upon these affairs, either to
see that the status quo is maintained, or that changes are brought about in the system, or even that
the system is changed” (p. 2). Student activists address both internal (institutional) and external
(sociopolitical) issue in their agendas in their efforts to bring about change in various systems.
For example, Bradley (2015) explores that from 1945 to 1975, Black student activists engaged in
the “Black Freedom Movement” at Dartmouth University and advocated on their own behalf to
increase Black enrollment, establish a Black studies program, and create Black cultural spaces on
campus. The students challenged the university for failing to acknowledge their specific needs,
and through their activism, were able to create institutional change that challenged the macro-
level normalization of racial exclusion (Bradley, 2015).
Student activists have also contested with the larger issues of the sociopolitical climate as
well. Hope, Keels and Durkee (2016) found that Black and Latinx students became more
involved with the Movement for Black Lives (popularly known as the Black Lives Matter
movement), and advocated for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), a federal policy
program that sought “legislative change to address the obstacles faced by immigrant youth that
severely limit their ability to participate in American society” (p. 204). Both the Movement for
Black Lives and DACA were not institutionally-specific issues, yet student activists still
explored ways that they could create change on a broader systemic level. These examples
demonstrate how the “external forces” and “internal forces” of Hurtado et al.’s (1998) revised
model interact with one another in a reciprocal fashion. However, this area of research focuses
55
on the relationship between politically engaged students and the influence of external domains.
Not all students engage in politics, nor do they all identify as student activists. Additional
research can explore how this process presents itself with students outside of these identity
groups.
Thus far, I have presented student activism research as one area of focus that explores the
relationship between the sociopolitical environment and campus racial climate. I have also
highlighted Milem, Chang and antonio’s (2005) examples of the influence of the sociopolitical
and sociohistorical environment on campus racial climate, which included the racially salient
debates over affirmation action policy and the cataclysmic event of 9/11 that influenced campus
racial climate. Therefore, it is evident that “sociopolitical environment” and “sociohistorical
environment” are broad terms that must be narrowly defined when engaging this research topic.
In an effort to concentrate these terms into a specific discipline, I turn to the study of presidential
rhetoric.
United States Presidents are situated in the highest position of power in America, thus
mitigating their ability to advance their political agendas (Windt, 1986). The study of
presidential rhetoric focuses on how U.S. presidents yield their political power by utilizing
various rhetorical strategies as a means to achieve their legislative aims (Windt, 1986; Lim,
2002; Zarefsky, 2004; Whitford & Yates, 2009; Stuckey, 2010). Words in isolation are merely
motionless, decontextualized reverberations of thought; however, “words become things, things
become weapons—and the more weapons one has, the more convinced one is of the right to use
them” (Montagu, 1997, p. 44). This power has been yielded in various ways by U.S. presidents
in their efforts to justify certain higher education policy changes throughout history. To illustrate
this point, I am providing three examples: (1) President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s response to the
56
launch of “Sputnik,” (2) President Barack Obama’s influence on “post-racial” policy-making in
higher education, and (3) President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Executive Order 9066 (1942)—the
internment of people of Japanese ancestry during World War II— and its parallels to President
Donald Trump’s Executive Order 13769 (2017)—also referred to as the “Muslim Ban.” Each of
these examples will demonstrate how the sociopolitical and sociohistorical context influenced
campus racial climate throughout various historical periods. These examples also serve as a
theoretical rationale for including the study of presidential rhetoric as a component of my
analytical/conceptual framework that I introduce at the end of this chapter.
Example 1. On October 4, 1957, the Soviet Union launched “Sputnik,” the first artificial
satellite to successfully orbit the Earth (Berube, 1991). The launch of the spacecraft incited
national hysteria in the minds of the American people, as it served as a symbolic indication that
the United States may lose the Cold War (Hess & McGuinn, 2002). Sputnik “struck deep at
cherished American values,” provoking fear and anxiety amongst the American public that the
Russians had supplanted the U.S. in the race for economic, scientific, and technological
superiority (Berube, 1991, p. 44). Thus, in the midst of the ideological “cold” war that
commenced after World War II, concerns about national security sent the nation into a panic
(Markwardt, 2012). However, rather than holding the federal government accountable for failing
to establish an adequate space program, the U.S. education system was accused of insufficiently
preparing its citizens (Berube, 1991). Senator John W. Bricker blamed the space deficit on John
Dewey’s idea of “progressive education,” which placed the child at the center of education and
promoted individual agency (Berube, 1991). Despite being adopted by prestigious colleges and
universities, the ideology was heavily criticized for creating a “soft” culture that lacked proper
structure (Berube, 1991). In contrast, Russia’s education practices were perceived as more
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rigorous and strenuous, particularly in the fields of science and mathematics. This alleged
ideological difference was framed as the primary reason for the U.S. falling behind Russia in the
race for global superiority (Berube, 1991).
As a response, higher education policy underwent significant reform. After Sputnik was
launched, “higher education…was used as a scapegoat to explain why the U.S. had lost its
competitive edge” (Markwardt, 2012, p. 91). Higher education was metaphorically positioned as
a national defense mechanism—it represented as a “means to fend off technological threats
posed by the Soviets” (Markwardt, p. 91). In a special message to the United States Congress,
President Dwight D. Eisenhower alluded to the notion that education was an issue of national
security, stating:
Because of the national security interest in the quality and scope of our educational
system in the years immediately ahead…the Federal government must also undertake to
play an emergency role. The Administration is therefore recommending certain
emergency Federal actions to encourage and assist greater effort in specific areas of
national concern. These recommendations place principal emphasis on our national
security requirements…if we are to maintain our position of leadership, we must see to it
that today's young people are prepared to contribute the maximum to our future progress.
Because of the growing importance of science and technology, we must necessarily give
special… attention to education in science and engineering. (Eisenhower, 1958).

Eisenhower then continued to provide a series of recommendations to Congress that
proposed a major expansion of the education activities headed by the National Science
Foundation (NSF) and the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare (DHEW). His
recommendations for the NSF included allocating funds for supplementary training of science
and math teachers through teacher fellowships; improvement of science course content at all
academic levels; encouraging more students to consider careers in science; graduate fellowships
for students in science-related fields; and the creation of additional NSF programs that provide
fellowship support for secondary school science teachers, graduate student teaching assistants,
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and individuals who want to become high school science and math teachers (Eisenhower, 1958).
His recommendations for the DHEW included matching grants to the States to improve State and
local testing programs, local counseling, and guidance services; federal need-based scholarship
programs for high school graduates pursuing a college degree; federal grants to the States that
help employ qualified science and math teachers; graduate fellowships to encourage more
students to prepare for college teaching careers; federal grants for higher education institutions
that help pay for graduate school salaries and teaching materials; improving foreign language
teaching through establishing special centers in colleges and universities; financial support for
institutes who teach foreign languages; and lastly, strengthening the United States Office of
Education (OE) by authorizing the OE to make grants to State educational agencies for
improving data collection processes regarding the status and progress of education (Eisenhower,
1958).
In response to these recommendations, higher education policy was propelled into the
forefront of the nation’s political agenda. On September 2, 1958, Congress passed the National
Defense Education Act (NDEA), which provided student loans for college students interested in
science. The legislation was intended to “correct as rapidly as possible the existing imbalances in
our educational programs which have led to an insufficient proportion of our population
educated in science, mathematics, and modern foreign languages and trained in technology”
(NDEA, 1958, p. 1581). NDEA allocated $47.5 million in 1958, $75 million in 1960, $82.5
million in 1961, and $90 million in 1962 for student loans (NDEA, 1958). Undergraduate
students were allowed to borrow up to $5,000 over the duration of their studies, with a maximum
of $1,000 per year (NDEA, 1958). Eisenhower’s recommendation to implement a graduate
fellowship program also came to fruition in the form of the National Defense Fellowships, which
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gave preference to college teachers. Graduate students received $2,000 in the first year, and
$2,400 for each year until 1962 (NDEA, 1958). By 1964, nearly 750,000 students had received
federal financial aid support (Berube, 1991). Additionally, if higher education institutions were
unable to secure funding from non-federal sources for their student loan programs, federal funds
were available to assist their efforts (not to exceed a total of $25 million) (NDEA, 1958). Other
NDEA provisions included the implementation of Eisenhower’s initial recommendations to
Congress for funding language centers, equipment for science and math programs, and State-
level data collection regarding the status of education in the U.S (NDEA, 1958). This legislative
decision, along with several others, commenced what would be called the “New Math”
movement, which aimed to educate a generation of students who would help protect the U.S.
from the Soviet intellectual threat (Martin, 2013).
As a political response to the demands of the Cold War, “a commitment to education
meshed neatly with the perceived demands of national security” (Hess & McGuinn, 2002, p. 77).
Markwardt (2012) describes how the passage of the NDEA “appealed heavily to the ideology of
American exceptionalism, capitalizing on widespread anxiety that America was falling behind in
a technological race with the Soviet Union and on the widely held conviction that drastic action
was necessary to ensure that America would retain its lead” (p. 90). It was a matter of cultivating
a damaged national identity that was predicated upon an ideology of global superiority.
However, President Eisenhower was reluctant to support the National Defense Education
Act because it conflicted with his governing philosophy that federal aid to education should only
be “temporary and mainly a prod to state funding” (Berube, 1991, p. 43). He held a firm belief
that education was a State-level issue that should not be subject to federal control. In fact, Hess
& McGuinn (2002) found that Eisenhower referenced education in his public speeches and
60
papers less than 100 times during his 8 years in office. In his initial letter to Congress after the
launch of Sputnik, he emphasized how his recommendations “[stem] from a national need, and
its fruits will bear directly on national security. The method of accomplishment is sound: the
keystone is State, local, and private effort; the Federal role is to assist—not to control or
supplant—those efforts” (Eisenhower, 1958). He reinforces this stance in the official NDEA
document, stating, “The Congress reaffirms the principle and declares that the States and local
communities have and must retain control over and primary responsibility for public education.
The national interest requires, however, that the Federal Government give assistance to education
for programs which are important to our defense” (NDEA, 1958, p. 1581). By positioning the
perceived crisis as a rationale for his political decision-making, Eisenhower was able to nurture a
national identity of exceptionalism while also retaining his political philosophy.
Thus far, I have illustrated how President Eisenhower’s rhetorical and pragmatic response
to Sputnik impacted higher education policy. However, a thorough analysis of the post-Sputnik
reaction to improving science and math education requires “a number of race-based
considerations in the prevailing sociopolitical context” (Martin, 2013, p. 325). As Said (1993)
reminds us, “Defensive, reactive, and even paranoid nationalism is, alas, frequently woven into
the very fabric of education, where children as well as older students are taught to venerate and
celebrate the uniqueness of their tradition (usually and invidiously at the expense of others)” (p.
xxvi). This is important to keep in mind when we situate the NDEA policy within its
sociohistorical racial context. In 1954, three years prior to Sputnik, the U.S. Supreme Court
overturned the 1896 case of Plessy v. Ferguson with the Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka
(1954) decision. The “separate but equal” doctrine that existed for the previous half-century was
deemed unconstitutional, which paved the way for the integration of U.S. public schools. In a
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1956 television broadcast of “The People Ask the President,” President Eisenhower responded to
a question from an audience member about the Brown court decision where he stated:
Now, as you know, we have, I believe, eliminated all of the segregation that I know of, at
least, on official terms in Washington. We have tried to eliminate it in all of the
Government contracts. We have eliminated it from the services, and so on. We have been
pursuing this quietly, not tub-thumping, and we have not tried to claim political credit.
This is a matter of justice, not of anything else. That is the way I see it. (Eisenhower,
1956).

However, Bell’s (1980) analysis of the court case contends that the decision was not
simply a “matter of justice.” He explains how “these issues cannot be understood without some
consideration of the decision’s value to whites, not simply those concerned about the immorality
of racial inequality, but also to those whites in policymaking positions able to see the economic
and political advances at home and abroad that would follow the abandonment of segregation”
(p. 524). This fundamental principle called, “interest convergence,” refers to how “the interest of
Blacks in achieving racial equality will be accommodated only when it converges with the
interests of whites” (p. 523). Throughout the Cold War, for example, “It was astonishing to
witness…in the United States, the constant condemnation of Nazi racist policy made no
perceivable difference to racist attitudes toward blacks within the nation” (Mosse, 1995, p. 170).
Thus, with the passage of Brown, the country was able to repair and strengthen their global
reputation, demonstrate to Black veterans of World War II that the nation would uphold their
promises for equal rights, and finally, capitalize on the desegregation of the South by
industrializing rural areas to maximize profit (Bell, 1980). Only by aligning with white national
interests could the progression of Black education be considered.
Although it was framed as a progressive step toward educational equality, researchers
have explored the many unintended consequences of Brown that drastically affected Black
people (Wiley, 1994; Snipes & Water, 2005). By desegregating the public schools, “Black
62
schools usually were closed or consolidated, Black principals often were demoted, and teachers
were dismissed. Southern and border states saw a loss of more than half of the Black principals
and the dismissal of more than 6,000 Black teachers the year after Brown I was issued” (Wiley,
1994, p. 3). Amongst the Black schools that did survive, Black students received lower quality
and outdated textbooks, were provided with less science and mathematics courses compared to
white schools, and were perceived to be incapable of learning by their white teachers (Snipes &
Water, 2005). Black students were also disproportionately placed into special low-achievement
classes and more heavily disciplined by “zero tolerance” suspensions (Wiley, 1994; Tate, 2004).
Researchers have explored how the passage of Brown and the federal response of Sputnik
are inextricably linked (Cohen, 1970; Tate, 2004; Martin, 2013). Cohen (1970) explains how
public education has been viewed as the solution for the diminishing equality of opportunity,
which is based on the “idea that in advanced industrial societies occupational success depends
upon intellectual competence” (p. 13). Cohen (1970) argues that the debates surrounding both
Sputnik and Brown shared this underlying connotation— that knowledge is power in the sense
that it is the key to higher individual social and economic status (Tate, 2004). Thus, “Brown and
Sputnik put matters of social justice and global competition into the same political sphere” (Tate,
p. 164). The New Math movement that occurred after Sputnik was predicated upon the idea that
an intellectual gap existed between the Soviet Union and the U.S. However, Martin (2013)
refocuses the analysis of the movement toward the status of domestic race relations rather than a
global intellectual competition. By utilizing Critical Race Theory, he demonstrates how the
reformed mathematics curriculum post-Sputnik represented what Ladson-Billings & Tate (1995)
refer to as “intellectual property”—the opportunity to learn, and the access to adequate academic
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resources. He explains how people of color were prevented access to the increase of intellectual
property of the New Math movement, stating:
If the nation had minimal will to integrate Black children into their schools and other
public institutions or the voices of Blacks into its policymaking circles, it was certainly
no more willing to integrate their needs into the mathematics education reforms of the
day. As a result, it could be argued that the New Math movement to educate a generation
of students who would help protect the U.S. from the Soviet intellectual threat did not
include Blacks (or Native Americans, Chinese, Japanese, or Latina/os). Rather,
mathematics education in the United States served to help maintain the prevailing racial
project. (Martin, 2013, p. 326).

Therefore, it is important for both the Brown decision and the outcomes of the NDEA to
be understood through a racialized lens. In doing so, the advancement of higher education post-
Sputnik can also be interpreted as a means to preserve a white national identity through the
monopolization of intellectual property (Bell, 1980; Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995; Beasley,
2004). Researchers have shown how this “prevailing racial project” situated whites as the
beneficiaries of education policy while people of color were often excluded (Tate, 2004; Martin,
2013).
In this section, I explained how President Eisenhower’s presidential rhetoric impacted
higher education policy by positioning higher education reform as the solution for regaining
global superiority. Presidential rhetoric, in this case, was used as a strategic mechanism to
nurture an impaired national identity. However, critical race scholars have also engaged in a
deeper analysis, presenting several arguments that demonstrate the link between the Brown
decision and the reaction to Sputnik, and the underlying racial connotations that influenced both
events. I return to this point when I discuss the four themes of presidential rhetoric that are
embedded within the conceptual framework for this dissertation study. In what follows, I
continue my analysis of the racial elements of presidential rhetoric by providing an example of
how the election of President Barack Obama influenced higher education policy.
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Example 2. The presidential rhetoric of President Barack Obama has been widely studied
across disciplines (Hill, 2009; Augoustinos & De Garis, 2012; McDougal, 2013; Obasogie, 2013;
Utley & Heyse, 2014). Researchers have explored how the election of Barack Obama signified
the commencement of a “post-racial”17 society to many members of the American public (Boyd,
2009; Nelson, 2009; Shuford, 2009; Guillermo-Wann, 2010; Alemán, Salazar, Rorrer & Parker,
2011; Brown, 2011; Crenshaw, 2011; Moses, 2011; Lowndes, 2013; Springer, 2014; Bonilla-
Silva, 2015), which resulted in a “decrease in whites’ perceptions of discrimination against
Blacks, and a concomitant drop in support for affirmative action and other racially redistributive
policies” (Valentino, Neuner & Vandenbroek, 2017, p. 758). Bonilla-Silva (2015) posits that a
“new racism” has emerged that is comprised of the following elements: (1) the covert nature of
racial discourse and practices, (2) avoidance of direct racial terminology, (3) racial political
agendas that evade direct racial references, (4) the subtle ways that racial privilege is reproduced,
and (5) the reviving of racial practices of the past.
As a result of this new form of racism, researchers have argued that white people “now
believe that reverse racism is more rampant than racial discrimination against Black people…the
popular discourse focuses on an imagined problem (reverse racism) while ignoring
contemporary, systemic White supremacy” (Cabrera, 2018, p. 228). For example, during the
confirmation of the first Latinx Supreme Court Justice, Sonia Sotomayor, Texas Republican
Senator John Cornyn claimed that the Supreme Court appointment, along with the election of
Barack Obama, made it “harder and harder to see the justifications for race-conscious decisions

17 Crenshaw (2011) finds that “Post-racialism offers a gentler escape, an appeal to the possibility that racial power
can be side-stepped, finessed and ultimately overcome by regarding dominance as merely circumstance that need
not get in the way of social progress” (p. 1326). Claims of a post-racial society stem from “colorblind” (Bonilla-
Silva, 2014) ideologies that disregard histories of oppression experienced by people of color.

65
across the board” (Richman, 2016, p. 90). However, President Obama has also been placed under
harsh criticism for employing a “post-racial” governmental approach to racial issues that allows
statements like Senator Cornyn’s to persist.
In Obama’s “A More Perfect Union” address, also referred to as the “race speech” (Utley
& Heyse, 2014), Boyd (2009) argues that “for the first and only time in his campaign, Obama
was directly addressing the issue of race” (p. 78). Throughout the speech, Boyd (2009) found
that instead of critically addressing race both historically and contemporarily, Obama
“employ[ed] a wide variety of strategies in the speech to arrive at a collective identity
representing all Americans” (p. 91). Similarly, in Utley and Heyse’s (2014) criticism of the
speech, they argue that while the speech was successful in maintaining a positionality that
appealed to a diverse audience, “the speech failed to accurately represent a racially differentiated
United States of America. By sanitizing the country’s histories of chattel slavery and racism,
Obama’s speech reified many harmful racial tropes” (Utley & Heyse, 2014, p. 312). What is
more, Coe & Reitzes (2010) engaged in a computer-assisted content analysis of more than
11,500 distinct words that Obama used during his campaign (183 speeches and debates from
February 2007 through November 2008) and found that for every 1,000 words he uttered in his
major speeches, only 0.87 words were race-related. Similarly, during the first two years of his
presidency, it has been said that he talked about race “less so than any of his Democratic
predecessors in the Oval Office from John F. Kennedy onward” (Aden, Crowley, Phillips &
Weger, 2015, p. 608). In a 2007 interview with National Public Radio (NPR), Obama
acknowledged his use of raceless language, stating:
there has always been some tension between speaking in universal terms and speaking in
very race-specific terms about the plight of the African American community. By virtue
of my background, I am more likely to speak in universal terms. (Obama, 2007, as cited
in Utley & Heyse, p. 315).
66

It has been argued that this reluctance to directly engage race substantially impacted his political
decision-making. Bonilla-Silva (2015) claims that Obama possessed a “reticence to carry out any
race-based initiative in any area,” all while continuing to support U.S. imperial policies in Iraq,
Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan; failing to provide the controlled costs of a universal health care
system; shying away from appearing “too Black” during speeches and events; avoiding
discussions about the widespread racial profiling of African Americans, and building a cabinet
that was whiter than President George W. Bush’s (p. 1368).
Some researchers believe that his “post-racial” approach to politics has also influenced
higher education policy as well (Moses, 2011; Nguyen & Ward, 2017; Valentino, Neuner &
Vandenbroek, 2017). For example, Moses (2011) argues that “Of chief concern is that viewing
President Obama’s election as the mark of a ‘post-racial’ era will vitiate important policy efforts
aimed at mitigating racial inequality in schools and society, such as efforts to foster racial
integration and educational opportunities” (p. 419). Similarly, Nguyen & Ward (2017) posit that
the “mythical assertion [of a post-racial society] permeated not only everyday discourse, but it
also became a useful legal tool in race-conscious admissions debates” (p. 554). One of the most
prominent of these debates surrounded the Supreme Court case, Fisher v. University of Texas
(2013), where a white applicant, Abigail Fisher, sued the University of Texas at Austin (UTA)
for racial discrimination when she was rejected admission.
Abigail Fisher argued that the University of Texas at Austin (UTA) violated the Equal
Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment because they considered race in their
admissions process (Barnes, Chemerinksy & Onwauchi-Willig, 2015). The case was primarily
focused on whether the university’s implementation of its “Texas’s Top Ten Percent Plan” met
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the “strict scrutiny standard” outlined by the constitution (Nguyen & Ward, 2017)18. Nguyen &
Ward (2017) explain that as the law currently stands, “[if] race is at question in these race-
conscious admissions cases, courts must employ the strict scrutiny standard when deciding
whether the admissions policy is constitutional…To pass strict scrutiny, the government must
first illustrate that its act to treat people differently is justified by a compelling government
interest” (p. 558). UTA used the 2003 Supreme Court case, Grutter v. Bollinger (2003), as
precedent for considering race in admissions. In Grutter, the Supreme Court upheld the
affirmative action policy used by the University of Michigan Law School because they deemed
the value of diversity within education to be a “compelling government interest” (Barnes et al.,
2015). As a result of this decision, the Top Ten Percent Plan allowed students of color who did
not meet the eligible requirements to still be considered for admission by considering their race a
“meaningful factor” (Nguyen & Ward, p. 561). Fisher believed that this exception caused her to
be discriminated against in the admissions process. However, the Fifth Circuit decided in favor
of UTA under the same diversity rationale as the Grutter decision (Nguyen & Ward, p. 562). The
Fifth Circuit heard the case a second time (Fisher II) in 2015, but in a two-to-one decision found
that UTA’s plan was constitutionally sound.
Before the Supreme Court decision of Fisher I, the Obama administration issued an
extensive amicus brief where they took a strong stance in favor of affirmative action in higher
education admissions19. The statement directly addressed Fisher’s claim that she suffered from

18 Under the Top Ten Percent Plan, high school students who graduate in the top ten percent of their class are
automatically eligible to any public college or university in Texas. The state-wide plan was implemented in response
to declining college enrollment of minority students. However, it did not guarantee that the student would be
automatically admitted to the institution of their choice (Nguyen & Ward, 2017).
19 Similar to President Eisenhower, higher education policy was also framed as a national security issue in the brief:
“The armed services and numerous federal agencies have concluded that well-qualified and diverse graduates are
crucial to the fulfillment of their missions. The Nation’s interests in a range of areas— including military readiness,
national security, public health, federal law enforcement, global competitiveness, and education—will be more
readily achieved if the pathways to professional success are visibly open to all segments of American society. The
68
racial discrimination by explaining why the Obama administration20 believed race, among other
factors, should be considered in affirmative action decisions:
Race is not considered on its own, and it is never determinative of an applicant’s
admission by itself…Rather, race is one of a number of contextual factors that provide a
more complete understanding of the applicant’s record and experiences. That is a far cry
from impermissible racial balancing. (Verrilli et al., p. 21)

Moses (2011) believes that the administration’s response “stems from the race-egalitarian
philosophy, with the understanding that race and ethnicity continue to play a significant role in
American society” (p. 417). The issue of race in higher education affirmative action policy was
explicitly addressed—a political strategy that runs counter to the claims about Obama’s post-
racial approach to politics. However, on June 23, 2016, after the Supreme Court decision for
Fisher II was announced, President Obama spoke at a press conference where he confirmed the
administration’s stance on affirmative action policy in higher education without mentioning race:
…in the [Fisher v. University of Texas] case, I’m pleased that the Supreme Court upheld
the basic notion that diversity is an important value in our society, and that this country
should provide a high-quality education to all our young people, regardless of their
background. We are not a country that guarantees equal outcomes, but we do strive to
provide an equal shot to everybody. And that’s what was upheld today. (Obama, 2016).

While the language in the Obama administration’s amicus brief was racially salient, President
Obama’s verbal support for the Supreme Court decision during the press conference only
addressed “diversity” in a general sense. Obama spoke in “universal terms”—which he noted

government endeavors to recruit well-qualified graduates who are diverse and prepared to succeed in a diverse
society, and it benefits directly when selective universities ensure that their student bodies are diverse so that all
students receive the educational benefits of diversity… To meet these concerns, creating a diverse pipeline of officer
candidates is an urgent military priority” (Verrilli, Perez, Kneedler, Anders, Flynn, McGowan, Johnson, Rosenfelt,
Schultz, Kerry & Smith, 2012, p. 10). A comprehensive comparison between the Eisenhower administration and the
Obama administration in considering higher education policy a national security issue is beyond the scope of this
particular argument. Instead, I simply wish to point out that both administrations used similar strategies to justify
their political decision-making. For example, it could be argued that similar to Brown, this argument made by the
Obama administration about the importance of racial diversity in higher education for military purposes could be
seen as a form of “interest convergence” (Bell, 1980).
20 The brief was collectively produced by various government departments including the Department of Defense,
Department of Education, Department of Health and Human Services, Department of Commerce, Department of
Labor and the Department of Justice.
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himself was an intentional rhetorical decision—to cater to a more diverse audience. As Obasogie
(2013) would argue, this was “consistent [with the] role of post-racialism in his approach to
governing” (p. 169).
Researchers posit that Obama’s decision to avoid critically addressing race has allowed
space for white supremacy to go unchallenged in various domains, including higher education
(Crenshaw, 2011; Utley & Heyse, 2014; Nguyen & Ward, 2017). For example, in 2014, two
other lawsuits were filed against Harvard University and the University of North Carolina-
Chapel Hill (Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard University and Students for Fair
Admissions v. University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill) by a group of students who were denied
admission to both schools. The group of students, referring to themselves as “Students for Fair
Admissions (SFFA),” declared that the admissions procedures violated Title VI of the Civil
Rights Act of 1964 due to claims of ethnic and racial discrimination against white and Asian
students (Ellis, 2016). They maintained that the undergraduate programs denied admissions to
“highly qualified” Asian-Americans, while white “legacy” students and less “academically
qualified” students of color were accepted in their place (Ellis, 2016; Nguyen & Ward, 2017;
Jaschik, 2019b). Both court cases exemplify how higher education policy can be influenced by
colorblind ideologies. The students’ claims of “reverse discrimination” ignore the “systemic,
cyclical, and long-standing underrepresentation of students of color in university settings due to
racism” (Nguyen & Ward, 2017, p. 555).
While some scholars have expressed concerns over President Obama’s perceived lack of
race-salient rhetoric, others were less skeptical in their criticism, claiming that he engaged the
topic of race as a prominent issue throughout his presidency. Nonetheless, researchers have
posited that his post-racial approach to politics influenced debates surrounding the consideration
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of race in college admissions (Barnes et al., 2015; Nguyen & Ward, 2017). Presidential rhetoric
will continue to play an integral role in maintaining a supportive political narrative around
affirmative action policy. Nguyen & Ward (2017) warn that “With the movement to ban
affirmative action…there is a full-fledged effort to eliminate race as one of the many factors in
admissions decisions and the ability of institutions of higher education to shape the diverse
make-up of their student body. The Supreme Court may either eliminate the use of race-
conscious admissions, make it more challenging for institutions to utilize, or heighten the strict
scrutiny standard impacting affirmative action programs broadly” (p. 573). The examples
provided demonstrate how presidential rhetoric can convey a particular stance—whether
implicitly or explicitly—about critical issues in higher education. I further explore how
presidential rhetoric precedes governmental decision-making at the end of this chapter. However,
in the next subsection, I engage in a comparative analysis of two sociopolitical eras where
presidential rhetoric significantly impacted the campus racial climate of higher education
institutions.
Example 3. In February of 1942, amidst the hysteria surrounding World War II and the
attack on Pearl Harbor, the American public possessed “widespread fears over a possible
Japanese invasion of the West Coast” (Robinson, 2001, p. 112). President Franklin D. Roosevelt
responded to these fears by signing Executive Order 9066, which authorized the internment of
120,313 people of Japanese ancestry. However, the ideological blueprint of the order existed
long before its tangible manifestation. Robinson (2001) argues that Roosevelt’s decision was
proceeded by decades of rhetoric directed at Japanese people. In the July 1923 issue of Asia: The
American Magazine on the Orient, Roosevelt wrote an article titled, “Shall We Trust Japan?”
where he attempted to rationalize the exclusion of the Japanese on racial grounds:
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So far as Americans are concerned, it must be admitted that, as a whole, they honestly
believe…that the mingling of white with oriented blood on an extensive scale is harmful
to our future citizenship... [Americans] do not want non-assimilable immigrants as
citizens (Roosevelt, 1923, p. 475).

What is evident in this statement is the implication that “American” is synonymous with
“white.” By claiming that Japanese people were unassimilable, and therefore unworthy of
American citizenship, he demonstrated his racial prejudice through his rhetoric. His statement
“constituted an undeniable rationalization of white prejudice both towards Japanese immigrants
and towards their native-born children in the United States” (Robinson, 2017). Roosevelt
elaborated on this sentiment in a 1925 newspaper column of the Macon Telegraph, writing:
Anyone who has traveled in the Far East knows that the mingling of Asiatic blood with
European or American blood produces, in nine cases out of ten, the most unfortunate
results... I know a great many cultivated, highly educated, and delightful Japanese. They
have all told me that they would feel the same repugnance and objection to have
thousands of Americans settle in Japan and intermarry with the Japanese…In this
question then of Japanese exclusion from the United States, it is necessary only to
advance the true reason—the undesirability of mixing the blood of the two peoples
(Roosevelt, 1925).

In an attempt to justify his beliefs, he claimed that his attitude toward racial exclusion was shared
by the Japanese. He was shamelessly opposed to “mixing the blood” of white Americans and the
Japanese, which inevitably served as the ideological underpinning of his governmental decision-
making (Robinson, 2001).
Robinson (2001) claims that Roosevelt carried these prejudicial views into later life,
where he eventually acted upon them when he was given the power as President of the United
States to implement Executive Order 9066 (1942). Ten internment camps were established along
the West Coast, where people of Japanese ancestry were forced into inhumane conditions after
being evacuated from their homes by the U.S. military. They were placed under extreme
surveillance, required to comply with mandatory curfew hours and various restrictive rules and
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regulations (Matsumoto, 1984). The order assumed disloyalty of all people of Japanese ancestry,
regardless of citizenship, under the rationale that “every possible protection against espionage
and against sabotage to national-defense material, national-defense premises, and national-
defense utilities” must be undertaken (Executive Order No. 9066, 1942).
Roosevelt’s decision, however, was not made entirely on his own. Researchers claim that
he was under “irresistible pressure from his military advisors21 and public opinion” to take
political action after the attacks on Pearl Harbor (Medoff, 2014, para. 8). For example, in a 1942
letter to the President titled, “Final Recommendation,” Lieutenant General John DeWitt22
instigated the internment of Japanese people by asserting “that [people of Japanese ancestry]
were members of an ‘enemy race’…and that their ‘undiluted racial strains’ made them innately
Japanese and a risk to national security” (Robinson, 2001, p. 85). The letter was sent after a
“barrage of letters, newspaper columns, and congressional lobbying” had already demonstrated
to the President that the American public was demanding a swift and significant response from
the administration (Robinson, p. 106). Thus, President Roosevelt catered to the national fears of
the American public, and the pressure from his military personnel, by implementing one of the
most controversial policies in American history.
While some of the incarcerated Japanese people were hesitant to challenge the
President’s orders in fear of appearing disloyal to America, others sought opportunities to
continue their education outside of the internment camps (Okihiro, 1999). Three months after

21 Robinson (2001) states that “To military leaders…Japanese Americans were a faceless mass whose feelings and
loyalties were unknowable. As popular anti-Japanese sentiment escalated and rumors of subversion became more
frequent, army staffers became convinced that there must be some foundation for them” (p. 241).
22 DeWitt also sought permission to exclude all undocumented Germans and Italians, but the government declined.
The War Department and Justice Apartment who drafted the executive order “clearly understood that it was directed
primarily against Japanese Americans” (Robinson, p. 128). While some German and Italian undocumented
immigrants were still placed into internment camps, they were only a small fraction of the population (Austin,
2004).
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signing Executive Order 9066 (1942), War Relocation Authority (WRA) director Milton S.
Eisenhower began trying to get Japanese students into colleges for the fall 1942 semester
(Austin, 2004). In coordination with educators, religious leaders, and students, a privately
organized and financed agency called the National Japanese American Student Relocation
Council (NJASRC) was established, which “worked within the context of pervasive wartime
racism to facilitate the movement of college students from concentration camps to colleges away
from the West Coast” (Austin, 2004, p. 1). Over 4,000 incarcerated students were able to obtain
releases to pursue higher education at more than 600 schools across the nation during World War
II (O’Brien, 1949; Austin, 2004). Despite their learning occurring under “circumstances of
manifest oppression,” these resilient students found a way to navigate the dehumanizing
sociopolitical climate by pursuing higher education as means to a better future (James, 1985, p.
155).
President Roosevelt approved the relocation of Japanese students under one condition:
that they prove their loyalty to America. California Governor Culbert Olson advocated on behalf
of Japanese students in a 1942 letter to Roosevelt, expressing “his fear that evacuation would
interfere with the education of loyal Japanese American students in West Coast colleges”
(Robinson, 2001, p. 161). He requested that the federal government help fund transportation
costs for the students so that they could be admitted to colleges outside the West Coast as well
(Robinson, 2001). Roosevelt responded by saying, “I am deeply concerned that the American-
born Japanese college students shall be impressed with the ability of the American people to
distinguish between enemy aliens and staunch supporters of the American system who happen to
have Japanese ancestry” (Roosevelt, 1942, as cited in Robinson, 2001, p. 161). Robinson (2001)
argues that despite this contingent-laden approval, it must be noted that “the contrast [the
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statement] made between ‘enemy aliens’ and ‘supporters’ implied that all Issei [Japanese-born
immigrants] were ipso facto disloyal…Roosevelt [also] made no effort to provide the
government aid to the transferring students that underlay Olsen’s letter” (p. 172). Many higher
education institutions aligned themselves with Roosevelt’s sentiments about Japanese loyalty.
Some colleges immediately refused to participate in the education initiative, arguing that all
Japanese students should be treated as prisoners of war whether they were citizens or not (James,
1985). Other colleges were not entirely opposed to admitting Japanese students, but the “college
administrators wanted a statement clarifying an individual student’s loyalty before they would
accept [them]” (Austin, 2004, p. 24).
Thus, when Japanese students arrived on campus, some felt pressure to assimilate into the
predominantly white campus culture. For example, O’Brien’s (1949) analysis reveals how
Roosevelt’s executive order propelled Japanese college students into an acculturating
environment where they were stripped of their identities and forced to demonstrate their
provincial chauvinism through assimilationist behavior. In an extensive study of this
sociopolitical phenomenon, O’Brien (1949) included personal letters that Japanese students sent
to the NJASRC. One student described how he went so far as to change a core characteristic of
his identity as a symbol of assimilation:
The real purpose of this letter is to let you know that I have legally changed my name
from Newton K. Uyesugi to Newton K. Wesley. I have had so much difficulty in the
pronunciation and spelling of the old name that I have thought of changing it. Now since
I will have to begin my life all over again, I think that it was an opportune time to have
the courts act upon my name. (O’Brien, 1949, p. 117).

Many students were forced into similar circumstances, sacrificing parts of their Japanese
identities for their own academic survival (O’Brien, 1949).
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The decades of rhetoric that proceeded Executive Order 9066 foreshadowed President
Roosevelt’s political decision-making. With the added pressure he received from his military
advisors and public opinion, he implemented a policy that would drastically transform the
landscape of higher education for thousands of Japanese students. However, this moment in
American history has not necessarily escaped into the annals of the past. Traces of this
phenomenon have now manifested in the current sociopolitical era.
On December 7, 2015, then Republican Presidential Candidate Donald Trump called for
the “total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States” during one of his
campaign rallies (Taylor, 2015). While many dismissed the statement as “merely campaign
rhetoric,” he followed through with the proclamation during his first week as President (Ayoub
& Beydoun, 2017, p. 220). On January 27, 2017, President Donald Trump exercised his Article
II executive powers to pass into law Executive Order 13769, titled, “Protecting the Nation from
Foreign Terrorist Entry into the United States,” also referred to as the “Muslim Ban” (Ayoub &
Beydoun, 2017). The order restricted entry of individuals from Iran, Iraq, Libya, Somalia, Sudan,
Syria and Yemen—five of which are Muslim-majority countries. The title of the executive order
is enough evidence to infer its underlying connotation; that Muslim people should be perceived
and treated as enemies of the state. In an interview with “Good Morning America,” President
Donald Trump cited President Franklin D. Roosevelt (FDR) when trying to justify his decision to
implement the ban, saying, “What I’m doing is no different than FDR…I mean, take a look at
what [he] did many years ago and he’s one of the most highly respected presidents… they named
highways after him” (Keneally, 2015). By comparing the Muslim ban to the internment of
Japanese people during World War II, his intentions were made clear. While Executive Order
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9066 (1942) shifted the landscape of higher education, Trump hoped his encore would have a
similar effect.
The travel ban, and the mass media coverage of Muslim-related conflicts that deliberately
depicted Islam as “directly opposed to Western, Christian ideologies,” have all added to the
hypervisibility of Muslim students as “threats” and “outsiders” (Shams, 2017, p. 74). The
negative repercussions of the increased visibility of the Muslim population was evident on
college campuses, as students feared the personal consequences of the national emergency.
Ayoub & Beydoun (2017) highlight that the most common inquiries made to the American Arab
Anti-Discrimination Committee (ADC) came from students who were stuck abroad and unable
to return to their studies. Similar to the letters sent by Japanese students to the National Japanese
American Student Relocation Council (NJASRC), various emails were sent to the ADC from
Muslim students fearing their livelihood was in danger. In an email to the ADC, one college
student wrote, “Please help me, I don’t know what to do. All I want to do is travel back home to
bury my mother. Will this ban prevent me from coming back to the U.S.?” (Ayoub & Beydoun,
2017, p. 228). The policy also had an impact on the operation of colleges and universities
nationwide, when foreign doctors and researchers were banned from entering and continuing
their work “resulting in setbacks for many programs housed at American universities” (Ayoub &
Beydoun, 2017, p. 224).
The residual effects of the policy have been projected to impact recruitment of
international students and overseas partnerships, and diminish U.S higher education’s standing in
the world (Rose-Redwood & Rose-Redwood, 2017; Fischer, 2018). Rose-Redwood and Rose-
Redwood (2017) found that international students are currently living in a “precarious world of
insecurity” in which they are currently becoming targets of discrimination based on race,
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religion, ethnicity, and national origin. Similarly, Ahmad Ezzedine, Associate Vice President for
Educational Outreach and International Programs at Wayne State University, expressed his fear
of the rhetoric attacks on international students’ perceptions of studying in America, saying, “It’s
symbolic… It’s psychological” (Fischer, 2018). The fear instilled by this policy decision not
only affected students in the U.S., but also influenced international students in their decisions to
pursue their higher education in the states as well.
The parallels between these two examples shed light on a disturbingly cyclical
sociopolitical trend that has impacted higher education institutions. The racialized rhetoric of
United States Presidents foreshadowed the conversion of magazine articles and campaign
messages into official policy, radically shifting the landscape of the nation and the institutions
within it. However, outside of O’Brien (1949) and Austin’s (2004) extensive studies of Japanese
students during World War II, there is hardly any research that explores how the sociopolitical
environment influences college students directly. Even less research examines the connections
between the racial elements of presidential rhetoric and campus racial climate. Thus, in the next
section I illuminate these deficiencies in the literature, and identify the common methodological
approaches that have been employed for studying racism on college campuses.
Methodological Trends for Studying Racism on College Campuses

For the past two decades, campus racial climate has been interrogated through various
methodological approaches. In 2007, Hurtado and Harper (2007) conducted a study to analyze
the methodological trends in campus racial climate research since 1992. They categorized their
findings into three categories: (1) differential perceptions of campus climate by race, (2)
racial/ethnic minority student reports of prejudicial treatment and racist campus environments,
and (3) benefits associated with campus climate that facilitate cross-racial engagement (Hurtado
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& Harper, 2007). Their database consisted of 35 studies, 24 of which were based on quantitative
methods, nine of which were qualitative methods, and two utilized a mixed-methods approach.
Of the nine qualitative studies, only one was conducted at multiple institutions (Solórzano, Ceja
and Yosso, 2000). After Hurtado and Harper’s study was originally published, more qualitative
(Locks et al., 2008; Jayakumar et al., 2009; Patton & Catching, 2009; Yosso et al., 2009; Griffin,
Muñiz & Espinosa, 2012; Harper et al., 2011; Johnson, 2012; Cabrera; 2014; Stebleton et al.,
2014; Museus & Park, 2015) and mixed-methods (Fischer, 2008; Cuellar & Johnson-Ahorlu,
2016) studies have been conducted at multiple institutions.
Similarly, over the last decade, there has been an influx of research that has utilized
Hurtado’s (1994) campus racial climate model to assess historical, structural, behavioral, and
perceptual dimensions of college campuses. As illustrated in the previous section, scholars have
applied the model to examine each dimension individually. However, there is a considerable lack
of methodological variance between the qualitative studies. The majority of qualitative campus
racial climate studies have used large-scale quantitative surveys and datasets for analysis. While
some scholars have conducted multiple-institution studies using focus groups (Yosso et al.,
2009), individual interviews (Cabrera, 2014; Museus & Park, 2015), and written narratives
(Patton & Catching, 2009), survey research has still remained the most common qualitative
methodological strategy.
Returning to the literature regarding the influence of the larger sociopolitical environment
on college campuses, the research has been limited by an underutilization of methodologies
outside of retrospective historical reviews. Over twenty years has passed since Hurtado et al.
(1998) mentioned how there had been very little investigation into the influence of
sociohistorical and sociopolitical environments on college campuses, and this statement still
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remains relevant today. The vast majority of studies focused on the influence of the
sociopolitical and sociohistorical environments on college campuses are historical commentaries
of events without any substantive, individualized information (Chesler, Lewis & Crowfoot,
2005; Guillory & Ward, 2008; Wilder, 2013; Mustaffa, 2017). While we can draw our own
imaginative hypotheses and conclusions about student experiences from the historical data, it is
rare to find a study that deliberately explores how students were affected throughout polarizing
sociopolitical and sociohistorical eras.
However, the residual effects of President Roosevelt’s Executive Order 9066 (1942) have
been brilliantly encapsulated by Allen W. Austin’s (2004) seminal work. His book, From
Concentration Camp to Campus, is a tremendous example of a comprehensive analysis into how
the external environment affected the lives of Japanese students. He augmented his historical
data with a narrative inquiry approach by interviewing the Japanese students who were
personally incarcerated in internment camps, while also providing a detailed analysis of the
sociopolitical climate. Austin’s (2004) methodological approach—although not explicitly
situated within Hurtado’s (1994) framework—is a relative anomaly within campus racial climate
literature, as most researchers do not include the influence of the sociopolitical or sociohistorical
environment on college student lives. Furthermore, although I included President Roosevelt’s
statements in my own analysis, racialized presidential rhetoric was also not incorporated into
Austin’s (2004) study. This analytical omission is common within the methodological
approaches to studying racism on college campuses.
As exemplified by my evaluation of U.S. Presidents, the sociopolitical and sociohistorical
climate of a certain historical epoch can drastically affect students’ college-going experiences.
This becomes more evident when presidential rhetoric is racialized in specific ways. As I further
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elaborate upon in my analytical/conceptual framework section, manifestations of racism are
substantially different contemporarily than they have been historically. De facto racism and
white supremacy were once demonstrated through an explicit ideology that white people were an
inherently superior race, and de jure forms of racial stratification significantly changed during
and after the Civil Rights Movement (Cabrera, 2018). Thus, an analysis of racism has
sociohistorical implications that need to be considered. By situating campus racial climate
studies within a sociopolitical context of time, we can gain a better understanding of how
students’ racialized experiences are governed and influenced by external forces23.
Each sociopolitical epoch also possesses its own unique structure of political leadership.
This includes the different ways that presidential rhetoric is consumed, interpreted, debated, and
employed throughout time. There is a noticeable dearth in existing research that utilizes
presidential rhetoric in higher education literature. The study of presidential rhetoric has been
primarily comprised of content and discourse analyses of presidential speeches, interviews and
debates (Aune & Medhurst, 2008). However, scholars have not yet formulated a conceptual or
theoretical link between presidential rhetoric and higher education. Higher education research
can tremendously benefit from combining presidential rhetoric with existing frameworks. For
example, by utilizing Critical Race Theory (CRT) as an analytical framework to interrogate
presidential rhetoric, the long overdue investigation into the interrelated relationship between the
external and internal factors of campus racial climate research can be properly explored. What is
more, rather than inhibiting presidential rhetoric to the boundaries of content and discourse
analysis, a qualitative case study or phenomenological study could expand the scope of the
discipline to consider how it may influence college campuses.

23 In Chapter 3, I introduce the Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC) that
incorporates Bronfenbrenner’s (1976; 1977; 1979; 1994) “chronosystem” as an element of campus racial climate.
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Additional methodological trends will be discussed in Chapter 3. There is an abundance
of research that specifically addresses the intersections of institutional climate and culture that
have been utilized to examine race on college campuses (Banning & Kaiser, 1974; Peterson et
al., 1978; Peterson & Spencer, 1990; Banning, 1997; Banning & Bartels, 1997; Banning & Kuk,
2005; Kuh, 2009; Hurtado et al., 2012; Cabrera, Watson, & Franklin, 2016). However, it is
helpful to first outline my analytical and conceptual frameworks since they will be embedded
within my Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC) that
I introduce in the research methodology chapter (Chapter 3).
Analytical and Conceptual Frameworks for Studying the Influence of Presidential Rhetoric
on Campus Racial Climate
In this section I provide a brief synopsis of the study of presidential rhetoric by identifying four
core themes of the discipline. I follow with a historical overview of Critical Race Theory (CRT), and my
intentions for utilizing six of its core tenets as an analytical framework for investigating the racial
elements of presidential rhetoric. This racialized interpretation of presidential rhetoric will then be
applied to both historical and contemporary examples. Lastly, I demonstrate how this composited
framework can be employed to investigate a modern sociopolitical phenomenon—the Trump
presidency—and its distinctive characteristics.
Presidential Rhetoric

Before engaging in a thorough analysis of presidential rhetoric, I broaden the scope of
the discipline to provide a brief synopsis of the study of political rhetoric and its various
implications. The study of political rhetoric generally refers to empirical studies examining how
politicians use different rhetorical strategies to achieve a wide range of political goals (Krebs &
Jackson, 2007). It is traditionally examined in the context of communication and linguistic
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studies through the analysis of political debates, political campaigns and marketing, and political
speeches or texts (Condor, Tileaga & Billig, 2013). Rozina and Karapetjana (2009) examine the
sociolinguistic components of political rhetoric (linguistic theory, language and politics, and
language and power) to demonstrate how “political regimes whether totalitarian or democratic
communicate in order to inform, influence, issue commands, legislate, or persuade” (p. 120).
They employed an extensive discourse analysis of political rhetoric in newspapers and arrived at
four thematic conclusions: (1) political rhetoric is primarily focused on persuading people to take
specific political action through linguistic manipulation, (2) language plays a significant
ideological role in how politicians “manipulate” the public, (3) political rhetoric comprises a
broad range of rhetorical devices, and (4) politics dominates mass media, which subsequently
affects how the American public consumes and interprets political rhetoric (Rozina &
Karapetjana, 2009).
Scholars have also explored political rhetoric beyond the traditional fields of
communication and linguistics. Political rhetoric has been interrogated across disciplines,
including psychology, political science, history, and sociology (Read, Cesa, Jones & Collins,
1990; Windt, 1990; Finlayson, 2004; Krebs & Jackson, 2007; Rozina & Karapetjana, 2009;
Condor et al., 2013). Political rhetoric research has included studies related to the rhetorical
strategies of social movements, activist groups, and other political organizations as well (Windt,
1986; Condor et al., 2013). The substantive topics investigated in studies of political rhetoric
primarily focus on issues related to the rhetoric in debates concerning national identity,
immigration and citizenship, foreign policy, climate change and the legitimization of war
(Beasley, 2004; Condor et al., 2013).
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While the study of political rhetoric explores the connections between the strategic
rhetoric of politicians (and political groups) and the American public’s interpretations, this
communicative process is not one dimensional. The study of political rhetoric also explores the
rhetorical exchange between politicians and the American public, and between politicians and
political groups as well. For example, after President Barack Obama won the 2008 presidential
election, various racist visuals and texts depicting Barack and Michelle Obama as apes began
appearing at Tea Party rallies (Valentino, Neuner & Vandenbroek, 2017). Windt (1986) provides
another example of this exchange of political rhetoric by exploring how activists protesting the
Vietnam War engaged in various rhetorical strategies to communicate with an ostensibly
inaccessible and reluctant U.S. government.
Furthermore, to place this in a contemporary context, this rhetorical exchange has also
manifested in the realm of social media between members of Congress and law enforcement.
Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (N.Y.) was recently targeted in a Facebook post
written by Louisiana police officer, Charlie Rispoli, where the officer suggested that the
Congresswoman “need[ed] a round—and I don’t mean the kind she used to serve” (a reference to
her previous occupation as a bartender) (Neil, 2019, para. 3). The post was perceived as a direct
threat to the Congresswoman’s life, however, the chief of the Louisiana police department
believed it did not violate the department’s social media policy (Neil, 2019). Representative
Ocasio-Cortez responded to the threat on Twitter, saying,
This is Trump’s goal when he uses targeted language & threatens elected officials who
don’t agree w/ his political agenda. It’s authoritarian behavior. The President is sowing
violence. He’s creating an environment where people can get hurt & he claims plausible
deniability. (Ocasio-Cortez, July 22, 2019, retrieved from Twitter account).

The Congresswoman was responding to another rhetorical exchange initiated by President
Donald Trump on Twitter, where he suggested that the
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Democratic Congresswomen [Representatives Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (N.Y), Ilhan
Omar (Minn.), and Rashida Tlaib (Mich.)], who originally came from countries whose
governments are a complete and total catastrophe, the worst, most corrupt and inept
anywhere in the world…[should] go back and help fix the totally broken and crime
infested places from which they came. (Trump, July 14, 2019, retrieved from Twitter
account).

Four days later, Trump supporters chanted, “Send her back!” during a rally organized by the
Trump administration at East Carolina University (Groppe & Fritze, 2019). The exchange
between Trump and Representative Ocasio-Cortez appeared to have spilled over into the popular
discourse of the American public. In this context, political rhetoric transcended the realm of
conventional politics and influenced people to feel, act, think and behave in certain ways.
These examples illustrate the scope of political rhetoric and how it can manifest across,
between, and within various political environments, and amongst a range of political
constituents. As I have illustrated, a broad study of political rhetoric would introduce an infinite
number of investigative possibilities that would each require their own nuanced analyses24.
Therefore, rather than analyzing the study of political rhetoric in its totality, it would be more
effective to narrow the focus of this study to a specific subfield of the discipline. Thus, I have
chosen to engage the study of presidential rhetoric to concentrate my analysis into something
more analytically manageable.
The study of presidential rhetoric is a distinct subfield within the discipline of political
rhetorical studies that examines the impact of the language used by U.S. Presidents (Windt,

24 For example, there are the three branches of the federal government (Legislative, Judicial, and Executive), state
governments (State Senates, State Assemblies, and several other departments) and local city governments that all
have their own distinct characteristics. Political rhetoric, in a general sense, would require an extensive investigation
into the rhetoric of political officials of each level of government, the interactions between one another, the
relationships between political organizations and politicians, the power dynamics of each political position, and
various other factors to consider. Therefore, a more focused analysis seems more appropriate for this particular
study.
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1986; Zarefsky, 2004). When presidential rhetoric gained traction during the 1980s25, scholars
from various disciplines focused their research upon four categories: criticism of single speeches,
criticism of rhetorical movements, development of genres of presidential speeches, and
miscellaneous articles on various ancillary topics dealing with presidential rhetoric (Windt, 1986;
Aune & Medhurst, 2008). It has since been radically expanded beyond textual analyses, as there
is now a reinterpretation for what counts as “data” for the rhetorical critic (Aune & Medhurst,
2008).
For example, Lim (2002) conducted a content analysis of 264 inaugural addresses and
annual message that were delivered between 1789 and 2000. He discovered five themes that
continuously occurred within the sample: anti-intellectual rhetoric (substituting formal word
choices for more colloquial phrases), abstract rhetoric (making religious, poetic, and idealistic
references), assertive rhetoric (words that convey an “activist” or “realist” message), democratic
rhetoric (messages that honors the people), and conversational rhetoric (more intimate and
anecdotal speeches) (Lim, 2002). Over time presidential rhetoric has adopted more colloquial
language to appeal to a wider democratic audience. Brooks (2012) explains how “the subsequent
reliance on exhortation and aphorism – both populist appeals exploiting pathos and, importantly,
ethos – placed a premium on rhetorical idealism over rhetorical pragmatism” (p. 6). Presidents
have exploited the inherent ethos of their political position, as they remain “the primary focus of
public opinion…[leading] the country because of [their] high visibility, the prestige of the office,
and [their] ‘symbolic’ representation of the United States” (Oliver, 1998, p. 141). Thematic

25 From 1984 through 1995, speech and communication scholars produced more than fifty books on presidential
rhetoric, a number surpassing all other books on rhetoric, whether theoretical, pedagogical, historical, or critical in
orientation—a period also referred to as the “rhetorical renaissance” (Medhurst, 2008, p. 15). In fact, the study of
presidential rhetoric was fueled by publications arising from doctoral dissertations, which became the primary
source for this particular subfield.
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trends of presidential rhetoric throughout history reveal that presidents have departed from using
logical appeals of persuasion (logos), and have instead focused their efforts toward invoking an
emotional response based on core national values (ethos) (Lim, 2002; Zarefsky, 2004).
Since its origins, a plethora of literature has been written about the construct of the
rhetorical presidency (Ceaser, Thurow, Tulis & Bessette, 1981; Windt, 1986; Oliver, 1998; Cole,
1999; Beasley, 2004; Aune & Medhurst, 2008), and the rhetoric of specific U.S. Presidents
(Bostdorff & O’Rourke, 1997; Murphy, 1997; Ivie, 1999; Medhurst, 2000; Kassop, 2002;
Rowland & Jones, 2002; Crocket, 2003; Zarefsky, 2004; Abbott, 2006). Contemporary scholars
of presidential rhetoric began situating the texts (i.e., speeches, interviews, and debates) within a
larger sociopolitical context after observing that presidential rhetoric has the ability to instigate
wider institutional transformation (Lim, 2002). Building from this existing literature, I have
narrowed my analysis of presidential rhetoric into four main themes: (1) presidential rhetoric
precedes governmental decision-making (Windt, 1986); (2) presidential rhetoric has the ability to
persuade the American people, and therefore influence their behavior (Windt, 1986; Zarefsky,
2004; Aune & Medhurst, 2008; Rozina & Karapetjana, 2009); (3) presidential rhetoric defines
American national identity (Beasley, 2004); and (4) presidential rhetoric is consumed,
understood, and debated through various mediums of communication (Blumler & Kavanagh,
1999; Rozina & Karapetjana, 2009; Enli, 2017).
Presidential rhetoric precedes governmental decision-making. Contemporary scholars
have examined presidential rhetoric within an overall context of the policies and politics of the
administration (Lim, 2002). Researchers have found that the considerable degree of influence of
presidential rhetoric in a U.S. context can be largely attributed to existing within a democratic
society (Windt, 1986; Aune & Medhurst, 2008). Windt (1986) explains that in democratic
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politics, “words establish the compact between the governor and the governed” (p. 112). U.S.
Presidents have always been required to rationalize their decisions to garner the support (and
votes) of the American people (Windt, 1986). Hence, rhetoric has always preceded political
action. This reciprocal exchange between the President and the American public establishes the
President as an authoritative figure, while also situating the occupation of the presidency as a
provisional power structure that is contingent upon public approval. Therefore, to study the
dynamics of presidential language is to better understand the fundamental elements of the
democratic process since presidents are required to engage the public in a way that will garner
endorsement for their legislative agendas. Thus, while presidential rhetoric may be only one of
the many powers available to the President, “it may well be the fundamental power upon which
all others rest” (Windt, p. 103).
Kane and Patapan (2010) assert that because democracy is predicated upon the core
principle of popular sovereignty,
…it requires the steady maintenance of public deliberation, debate, and a calling to
account of officialdom for its actions and omissions. It assumes and relies on free public
speech to formulate questions, to defend or criticize policy and to evaluate courses of
action. Democratic leaders have no choice but to use rhetoric to frame the debate on
policy choices and thereby try to shape public opinion. (p. 374).

Therefore, it is arguably inconceivable for a U.S. president to pursue a political agenda that is in
diametrical opposition to majority public opinion (Kane & Patapan, 2010). Regardless of the
powerful ethos of the presidency, the fundamental structure of democracy demands for the
president to cater to the desires of the governed. However, it is possible for a president to
persuade the American public to feel and believe a certain way about a particular issue, thus
allowing them to achieve their legislative goals.
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Presidential rhetoric has the ability to persuade the American people. The president
of the United States is “first and foremost a public figure who monopolizes the public space”
(Lim, 2002, p. 347). This monopolized space is supplemented by a particular level of influential
power (ethos). Thus, presidential rhetoric can have the ability to change how people think about
an issue (Zarefsky, 2004; Rozina & Karapetjana, 2009). While presidential rhetoric does not
necessarily determine outcomes, it can offer “invitations” to think, feel and act a certain way
(Zarefsky, 2004). Ceaser et al. (1981) argue that the president’s ability to persuade through their
rhetoric is, to an extent, the primary goal of the presidency itself. They suggest that presidential
speech and action “reflect the opinion that speaking is governing” (Ceasar et al., p. 159). A
political shift occurred in the beginning of the 20th century when presidents transformed
themselves into rhetorical instruments to advance their political agendas. Ceasar et al. (1981)
describe the “Wilsonian” concept of the rhetorical presidency—a governing strategy adopted by
U.S. presidents following President Woodrow Wilson’s successful presidential campaign—
which is predicated on the idea that “the greatest power in modern democratic regimes lay
potentially with the popular leader who could sway or…‘interpret’ the wishes of the people” (p.
163). The Wilsonian concept consisted of two elements: (1) the President should employ rhetoric
to create an active public opinion that could, if necessary, pressure Congress into accepting their
program, and (2) presidential rhetoric must articulate the desires and emotions of the American
public in order to persuade them into embracing a particular legislative program (Ceasar et al.,
1981). Through this approach, presidents combine the emotional and procedural elements of the
presidency through the utilization of strategic rhetoric. Not only are the American people the
focus of their oratories of persuasion, but the politicians who also possess authoritative power
over political decision-making are accounted for as well.
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This persuasive process is not an exact science, however, for people have their rights to
their own ideological agency. Krebs and Jackson (2007) posit that “although persuasion
undoubtedly does occur in the political arena…such mechanisms rest upon a strong specification
of the subjective motivations of individuals and thus are methodologically intractable” (p. 36).
They further argue that contemporary scholars should focus less on centering causal accounts of
presidential persuasion in their analysis, and instead shift their focus to examine the exercise of
power, contextual factors of rhetoric, ideological messages regarding citizenship and
nationalism, rhetorical coercion in political debates, and the characteristics of the targeted
audience (Krebs & Jackson, 2007). Therefore, an expansive approach to presidential rhetoric is
necessary to fully encapsulate the various factors of the subdiscipline. Thus, I have included
some additional themes (not to be interpreted as an exhaustive list) of presidential rhetoric that
will serve as the main focus of my analysis.
Presidential rhetoric helps define an American national identity. Beasley (2004)
demonstrates how U.S. Presidents have defined American national identity through “shared
beliefs” – “the notion that Americans are Americans because they share certain ways of thinking,
even if there has been debate about exactly what these ways of thinking are” (p. 46). People of
the United States are bound together by ideational models of national identity that are predicated
upon conceptions of citizenship, patriotism, and “civil” religious beliefs (Beasley, 2004). United
States presidents often discuss national identity, and its varying components, in polysemic ways,
leaving it to be interpreted by the American people (Beasley, 2004). However, as mentioned
previously, the inherent ethos that accompanies the presidency should not be undervalued. The
U.S. national identity, at its core, is merely an intangible, malleable entity to be shaped and
defined by those who participate within it (Windt, 1986; Beasley, 2004). Thus, as Beasley (2004)
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explains, “for there to be an American nation, an American ‘we,’ or even an American
presidency at all, U.S. presidents must find ways of breathing life into the otherwise abstract
notion of American political community” (p. 8).
In my previous example of presidential rhetoric impacting higher education after the
launch of Sputnik, I described how President Eisenhower’s rhetoric and subsequent political
responses were centered upon cultivating a damaged national identity. An American national
identity of exceptionalism and global superiority was threatened by the perceived intellectual and
military prowess of the Soviet Union (Markwardt, 2012). As a result, Eisenhower transformed
higher education into a matter of national security with the National Defense Education Act of
1958 (Berube, 1991). By shifting the narrative in this way, the “abstract” identity of the nation
was redefined, strengthened, and operationalized as a means to reinvigorate the American public
during a time of crisis.
Presidential rhetoric is consumed, understood, and debated through various
mediums of communication. Blumler and Kavanagh (1999) illustrate how political
communication in the U.S. has passed through three successive phases following World War II.
The first two decades following the war, termed “the golden age of parties,” refers to a party-
dominated communication system where the voters’ relationship and interaction with national
politics was primarily dependent upon long-standing party affiliations. The political system was
“closely articulated to entrenched cleavages of social structure,” and was regarded as a reliable
institution that was fairly separated from everyday life (Blumler & Kavanagh, p. 211). During
this phase, political rhetoric (and presidential rhetoric) was satiated with political language about
the principles and policies of their administration (Blumler & Kavanagh, 1999). Thus, voters
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tended to be more selective in how they consumed politics, leaning more toward rhetoric that
reinforced their preexisting beliefs, or choosing not to engage in politics at all.
However, in the 1960s, the second phase of political communication (“the era of
television”) commenced, where limited-channel nationwide television became the dominant
medium (Blumler & Kavanagh, 1999). Blumler and Kavanagh (1999) identify four
transformations that took place throughout this phase: (1) due to the increased exposure of
various political perspectives via television news, the selectivity of party affiliated information
became less frequent; (2) fairness, impartiality, neutrality and measured choice became the
central platform of political communication; (3) the rise of television engaged citizens who were
previously disinterested in politics; and (4) the values and formats of television news modified
the scheduling of political events, the language of politicians, and the personalization of political
communication. Political parties had to consider mass media as an integral part of their
governing strategy, and as a result, began professionalizing political communication through the
creation of pre-planned press conferences, briefings, interviews and broadcast discussions
(Blumler & Kavanagh, 1999). In phase three, the “digital era,” which at the time of Blumler and
Kavanagh’s (1999) article was still an emerging period, refers to the “communication
abundance” of multiple television channels, radio stations, and political news circulated via the
computer that shifted how people receive politics. Political and journalistic reflection and
analysis was required to adapt to the accelerated consumption of political communication, and
was therefore less thorough and comprehensive (Blumber & Kavanagh, 1999).
As technological advancements rapidly intensified throughout the new millennium, Enli
(2017) claims that this third phase has ended, giving way to a fourth phase called, “the era of
social media.” From the 2010s onwards, “a new shift in power balance between politicians and
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editorial media” was established (Enli, p. 52). Platforms such as Facebook, Twitter and
Instagram exist in tandem with television, newspapers and radio to create “multi-platform
campaigns and multi-tasking users” (Enli, p. 52). Advancements in media communication have
once again restructured the approach to political rhetoric. Ott (2017) explains that the very
structure of Twitter demands a level of rhetorical simplicity. Because of its 280-character
limitation, “Twitter structurally disallows the communication of detailed and sophisticated
messages” (Ott, p. 60). This coincides with Lim’s (2002) theme of “anti-intellectual rhetoric,”
where presidents substitute formal word choices for more colloquial phrases to appear more
relatable to the American people. Thus, within a democratic society, “the media and the modern
presidency feed on each other…the president has found a vehicle in the media that allows it to
win public attention and with that attention the reality…of enhanced power” (Ceaser et al., 1981,
p. 165).
The 2008 Obama campaign has been touted as the first “social media election” of its
kind, which has since been adopted by presidential candidates of the modern sociopolitical era.
For example, rather than organizing a press conference or utilizing mainstream media outlets,
Hillary Clinton launched her 2016 presidential candidacy on Twitter (Enli, 2017). Similarly, Enli
(2017) describes how Trump’s political image was “largely formed by his widely circulated
tweets, which were often quoted and debated in the mainstream media” (Enli, p. 56). However,
as I explore further in my analysis of Trump at the end of this chapter, political leaders now also
have the ability to employ social media as a mechanism for advancing controversial ideologies
and beliefs as well.
These four themes illustrate the various dynamics of power that presidential rhetoric
holds. Each theme helps provide possible explanations for how individuals exist within a
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democratic society, and the potential impact that U.S. presidents have on the experiences and
perspectives of the American people. However, while these four themes serve as the conceptual
foundation for my three methodological approaches, I employ Critical Race Theory (CRT) as an
analytical framework to critically examine the racial elements of presidential rhetoric.
Critical Race Theory (CRT)

Critical Race Theory (CRT) was developed from Critical Legal Studies (CLS)26 and radical
feminism27 in the mid 1970s as a way to combat the stagnancy of progress that existed after the civil
rights era of the 1960s (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). CRT scholars engage in a critical analysis of the
relationships between race, racism and power, while also searching for transformative ways to change
how society organizes itself along racial lines and hierarchies (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001). Despite the
theory’s origins in law, CRT has been expanded into various academic disciplines. For example,
Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) provide a critical race perspective in education to theorize race as an
analytic tool for understanding school inequity. Higher education scholars have since developed more
nuanced interpretations of Ladson-Billings and Tate’s (1995) foundational work that concentrates on
postsecondary institutions in particular (Harper, Patton & Wooden, 2009; Patton, 2016). For example,
Patton (2016) introduced a critical race perspective in higher education that interrogates the various
racial elements of power embedded within U.S. higher education. Their analysis illustrated how the
academy has functioned as a “bastion of racism/White supremacy” within various postsecondary
contexts, including history, access, curriculum, policy, and research (Patton, 2016, p. 317).
Critical Race Theory has been operationalized as a composition of various tenets that are
imperative to the conceptualization and articulation of how racism perpetuates systems of privilege and

26 Specifically, the idea of legal indeterminacy, especially in regard to cases that are racially salient in nature
(Delgado & Stefancic, 2001).
27 The relationship between power and the construction of social roles, and the societal customs, behaviors and
traditions that produce patriarchy and other types of domination (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001).
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oppression (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Harper, Patton & Wooden, 2009; Yosso, Smith, Ceja &
Solórzano, 2009). Though there is no fixed list of tenets, scholars often cite five that vary slightly but are
each intentional in investigating racism through a counterhegemonic lens (Solórzano, 1997, 1998;
Yosso, 2005). Frequently, they include: the permanence of race and racism (also termed “endemic
racism”); challenge to dominant ideology or narrative (also termed “counternarrative”); commitment to
social justice; the centrality of experiential knowledge; and the utilization of interdisciplinary
approaches (Yosso, 2005). Scholars Harper, Patton, and Wooden (2009) expand upon these tenets,
adding to them the following: the rejection of colorblindness, interest convergence, revisionist history,
and a critique of meritocracy. Critical examinations of whiteness (Harris, 1993; Leonardo, 2004;
Cabrera, 2018) and civil rights law in education (Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995) are additional tenets
that fall within the CRT umbrella as well.
For the purpose of this study, I have elected to focus on the six following tenets: (1) racism is an
endemic element of society (Yosso et al., 2009), (2) intersectionality (Crenshaw 1989, 1991), (3)
hegemonic Whiteness (Cabrera (2018) and whiteness as property (Harris, 1993), (4) colorblindness
(Harris, 1993; Bonilla-Silva, 2014) and revisionist history (Harper et al., 2009), (5) interest convergence
(Bell, 1980), and (6) the utilization of interdisciplinary approaches (Yosso, 2005). I amalgamated the
third tenet into one category, “critiques of whiteness.” The fourth category also contains two separate
traditional tenets of CRT, however, I am utilizing Harper et al.’s (2009) “revisionist history” tenet as a
supplementary component of “colorblindness.”28 Choosing these six tenets is by no means an

28 I am arguing here that revisionist history is a response to colorblindness. Colorblindness has been used to deny the
existence of racism and systems of oppression. It has been operationalized in academic discourse in the form of
majoritarian narratives that position white people as the dominant group. The “revisionist history” tenet challenges
these colorblind narratives by taking a critical perspective toward examining historical events (Harper et al., 2009).
Therefore, I have decided to combine both of these tenets since they were analytically employed in similar ways
when I interpreted my study data.
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implication that the other CRT tenets cannot also be applied to studying the sociopolitical climate;
however, the six tenets I have chosen are most relevant to the specific research topic.
Endemic racism. Cabrera (2018) found that CRT scholars commonly equate “racism” with
individual prejudice, but often do not provide a thorough and nuanced exploration of racism as a
structure of power and oppression. CRT scholars are therefore “applying Critical Race Theory in the
absence of a critical theory of racism” (Cabrera, p. 221). A lack of explicit racial theory can leave CRT
scholars with nothing but the core tenets of CRT for their analyses (Cabrera, 2018). Thus, any
operationalization of CRT as an analytic framework without the augmentation of substantive racial
theory is limited by the absence of embedded principle assumptions (Cabrera, 2018). While a surface-
level analysis can still be achieved, dynamics of power will most likely be unexplored. I have made an
intentional effort to avoid this analytical deficiency by incorporating racial theory into my introductory
analysis. In the beginning of this chapter, I have drawn from multiple racial theorists to construct my
own definition of racism in the context of nationalism and racial capitalism. This delineation of racism
presents it as an ontological given that is endemic to society (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Harper, Patton
& Wooden, 2009). By placing race in the forefront of analysis in this way, critical race scholars are able
to challenge the ways in which it is utilized as a mechanism of oppression against people of color.
Endemic racism will serve as the foundational component of my analytical framework.
Intersectionality. Crenshaw’s (1989) concept of “intersectionality” has also been categorized as
a core tenet of CRT. Intersectionality considers how race, class, and gender intersect to oppress
marginalized communities in nuanced ways (Crenshaw 1991, 2011). In Crenshaw’s (1989) introduction
of the term, they interrogated “doctrinal manifestations of a common political and theoretical
approach[es] to discrimination” that have marginalized the experiences of Black women (p. 150). In
these approaches, theorists have been “unable to grasp the importance of Black women’s intersectional
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experiences…[and] treated Black women in ways that deny…the unique compoundedness” of their
circumstances (Crenshaw, 1989, p. 150). Intersectional forms of subordination are frequently the
consequence of multiple, interacting burdens of preexisting vulnerabilities that create nuanced
dimensions of disempowerment (Crenshaw, 1991). Intersectionality also suggests that individual racial
group experiences are not monolithic (Crenshaw, 1989). Thus, the “nuanced dimensions of
disempowerment” consist of both between-group and intragroup differences. For example, the
experiences of Black women and Black men are not homogeneous. Black women experience patriarchy,
racism, and classism—as isolated structures of oppression and as an amalgam—in ways that Black men
are not susceptible to (Crenshaw, 1989).
Incorporating intersectionality as a component of my analytical framework has methodological
implications for this particular study. It will support my analytical sensemaking by helping me
accurately identify the nuanced ways that presidential rhetoric may affect people from different identity
groups. Racism will still be placed at the center of analysis, but this tenet allows for multiple forms of
power and privilege to be conjunctively critiqued in the context of political discourse.
Critiques of whiteness. “Hegemonic Whiteness” and “whiteness as property” are not
synonymous. In Harris’ (1993) seminal text, “Whiteness as Property,” she explains how “becoming
white [means] gaining access to a whole set of public and private privileges that materially and
permanently guaranteed basic subsistence needs and, therefore, survival. Becoming white increased the
possibility of controlling critical aspects of one’s life rather than being the object of others’ domination”
(p. 1713). The field of higher education provides these disproportionate public and private benefits to
white people29, and as a result, perpetuate white supremacist ideologies and practices (Ladson-Billings

29 For example, property tax and public-school funding are linked in the United States, with nearly half of all
property tax revenue allocated toward public elementary and secondary education (Kenyon, 2007). Since most
affluent communities are white, white students are disproportionately afforded more educational benefits than
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& Tate, 1995). Ladson-Billings and Tate (1995) apply this theory in their conceptualization of CRT in
education, showing how educational inequities are perpetuated by white institutional norms; specific
social, economic, and cultural privileges; the negative reputations of predominantly Black, “urban”
schools; and the exclusion of students of color in predominantly white schools. They refer to these
factors as “intellectual property” (Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995). These forms of intellectual property
help create a residual pipeline that generates an inequitable higher education system that is maintained
by racially biased policies and practices (Harper, Patton & Wooden, 2009; Patton, 2016). As a result,
higher education institutions have become environments where white supremacist ideologies can often
go unchallenged (Patton, 2016).
It is important to consider how racism manifests differently throughout sociopolitical epochs.
Cabrera (2018) introduces a theoretical perspective to conceptualize the contemporary nature of
systemic racism, termed, “hegemonic Whiteness.” Hegemonic whiteness “highlights both the systemic
and cultural means by which White supremacy is continually reproduced” (Cabrera, p. 223). Within the
structural context of white supremacy, Whiteness is inherently granted the value as the dominant racial
group. However, “cultural and discursive practices” normalize and naturalize racial inequities, which
often leaves systemic White supremacy invisible, uninterrogated and unchallenged (Cabrera, 2018). This
tenet is also predicated upon the notion that while racially minoritized people suffer from racism, this
does not mean that all people of color possess a monolithically shared critical racial consciousness (I
explore this further in the description of my methodological sequence) (Cabrera, 2018). I have combined
Harris’ (1993) and Cabrera’s (2018) analyses into one composited tenet as a way to incorporate multiple
critiques of whiteness into my analytical framework.

students of color (Ladson-Billings & Tate, 1995). Thus, when Harris (1993) situates “whiteness as property,” they
are referring to the inextricable link between property, power, and academic resources.
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Colorblindness. Colorblind ideologies “camouflage the socially constructed meanings of race
and present it as an individualistic and abstract idea instead of addressing how racial advantage propels
the self-interests, power, and privileges of the dominant group” (Harper et al., 2009, p. 91). Higher
education institutions, and the larger sociopolitical environments that influence them, adopt colorblind
ideologies to minimize race, and subsequently diminish the validity of racial issues and experiences in
the process (Harris, 1993; Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Beasley, 2004; Harper et al., 2009; Lopez, 2014).
On an interpersonal level, white people have been found to adopt colorblind ideologies as a way
to avoid accountability for their racist beliefs and actions (DiAngelo, 2011; Cabrera, 2012, 2014). This
same strategy has been employed by U.S. Presidents to justify the implementation of racially inequitable
policies (Beasley, 2004). In this study, race was a salient component of my analysis—colorblind
ideologies were critically critiqued and interrogated throughout my methodological sequence. For
example, this critique was also applied to examining historical events presented in the data through the
lens of “revisionist history.” Revisionist history is the reinterpretation of America’s historical record that
replaces majoritarian accounts (or “master narratives”) of events with a more accurate depiction of what
occurred (Stefancic & Delgado, 2001; Harper et al., 2009). This counterhegemonic approach demands a
critical examination of history through the lens of the oppressed. Thus, while I have categorized the
tenet as “colorblindness” in my analytical framework, it could also be interpreted as “critiques of
colorblindness” as well. My overview of the historical legacy of racism in higher education was an
intentional effort to discount these majoritarian versions of history. Similarly, in Chapter 6, I deeply
engage with how majoritarian historical narratives concerning the University of Virginia and the City of
Charlottesville have ignored the institution’s historical legacy of slavery, eugenics, gentrification, and
disenfranchisement that continues to affect student lives in the modern era.
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Interest convergence. Interest convergence refers to how “the interest of Blacks in achieving
racial equality will be accommodated only when it converges with the interests of whites” (Bell, 1980,
p. 523). I previously situated this concept within the context of the Brown v. Board of Education (1954)
and President Eisenhower’s presidential rhetoric. Delgado and Stenfancic (2001) broaden Bell’s
analysis, stating, “the majority group tolerates advances for racial justice only when it suits its interest to
do so” (p. 149). In Chapter 5, I employed interest convergence and Robinson’s (2000) racial capitalism
to examine how students believed undocumented students have been subjected to hyper-conditional
circumstances where their livelihood is dependent on their economic and intellectual contributions.
The utilization of interdisciplinary approaches. CRT is not isolated within one particular
discipline (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Yosso, 2005). In fact, it encourages the incorporation of
multidimensional methodological and analytical strategies for studying how race and racism manifest in
different contexts. As implied by the first tenet, racism is endemic in every facet of life, and therefore
must be considered as an integral component of all academic disciplines. When these five tenets of CRT
are employed conjunctively with the themes of presidential rhetoric, for example, the resultant
composited framework can be utilized to critically engage the influence of presidential rhetoric on
campus racial climate.
Cabrera’s (2018) extensive analysis of CRT suggests that it should not be utilized as a
standalone theoretical framework. Therefore, with the study of presidential rhetoric serving as
my conceptual foundation, I utilized CRT as my analytical framework (Figure 2). The
qualitative equation from Figure 2 illustrates how this composited framework can allow me to
generate various principle assumptions to achieve a critical analysis of the racial elements of
presidential rhetoric. For example, by combining the “critiques of whiteness” tenet of my
analytical framework with the “presidential rhetoric helps define an American national identity,”
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I can generate the following principle assumption: presidential rhetoric helps define a white
American national identity. This principle assumption can serve as a theoretical foundation to
explore how whiteness, white supremacy, and nationalism intersect in compounding ways
through racialized presidential rhetoric. In Chapter 5, I analyze President Trump’s rhetoric about
undocumented immigrants, and how he has helped promote the exclusion of undocumented
students from attaining citizenship and educational resources.
Another example from Chapter 5 will illustrate how I can generate multiple principle
assumptions that are specifically catered to the investigative context. When I explore how the
“Muslim Ban” influenced the campus racial climate for Muslim students, I utilize three themes
of my conceptual framework—presidential rhetoric precedes governmental decision-making, has
the ability persuade the American people, and helps define an American national identity—and
two tenets of my analytical framework— “endemic racism” (the permanence of racialization)
and “critiques of whiteness.” An amalgamation of these tenets of CRT with the themes of
presidential rhetoric generate the following principle assumptions: racialized presidential rhetoric
helps justify Islamophobic discriminatory governmental policies; racialized presidential rhetoric
has the ability to persuade the American people to exude Islamophobic behavior; and racialized
presidential rhetoric helps define a white national identity that excludes Muslims and other
minoritized groups. I explore how each of these compounding elements have collectively
generated a hostile racial climate for Muslims on college and university campuses who have
been frequent targets of racial violence throughout the last two decades.

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Figure 2 Analytical/Conceptual Framework

Racializing Presidential Rhetoric

I conclude this overview of analytical/conceptual framework by providing examples of
racialized presidential rhetoric throughout history. Stuckey (2010) asserts that “the idea that the
presidency is implicated in racialized understanding of American politics is now something that
scholars of presidential rhetoric and the rhetorical presidency can no longer afford to ignore” (p.
43)30. My aim is to fill this void in research by employing Critical Race Theory (CRT) to
analytically interrogate the racial elements of presidential rhetoric. In this section, I discuss both
historical and contemporary examples for how this strategy can be applied to various
sociopolitical eras.

30 Beasley (2004) does a tremendous job incorporating the racial component of presidential rhetoric into their
analysis, however, they did not develop a concrete theoretical framework to do so. Nonetheless, I am incorporating
various aspects of their study—especially in regard to national identity—into my proposed framework.
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Beasley (2004) argues that U.S. presidents have implicitly sanctioned racially
exclusionary governmental procedures through the use of colorblind rhetoric. By framing the law
as the foremost agent in the process of creating an equal society, presidents have claimed that
racial problems must be adjudicated by the “impersonal and unprejudiced” court system
(Beasley, 2004, p. 107). This not only relinquishes accountability from the presidents
themselves, but also allows the American people to be exonerated from their involvement and
participation in racial matters (Beasley, 2004). Davis (1989) and Harris (1993) inform us that
whites have historically been affirmed, legitimated, and protected by the law, and in the process,
have engaged in white racial domination and economic exploitation of people of color. The law
has never been colorblind, even if it has been promoted as such by political leaders (Gotanda,
1991). For example, in my three examples of the influence of presidential rhetoric on higher
education, I demonstrated how numerous higher education policies have limited and restricted
access to various academic resources and adequate educational opportunities for students of
color (O’Brien, 1949; Austin, 2004; Berube, 1991; Hess & McGuinn, 2002; Crenshaw, 2011;
Ayoub & Beydoun, 2017; Nguyen & Ward, 2017). While certain policies may be framed as
objective, they may still possess implicit racial elements that disproportionately affect racially
minoritized groups.
U.S. presidents have also addressed national identity in ideational terms by strategically
using colorblind language to avoid racial or ethnic essentialisms (Beasley, 2004). Lopez (2014)
argues that embedded within this polysemic language is an implicit nod to white supremacy
(Lopez, 2014). For example, Lopez illustrates how Richard Nixon adopted a hard stance on “law
and order” by characterizing Black civil rights activists as “lawbreakers,” and outwardly opposed
the busing system for school integration after the Brown decision. Lopez believes that this
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political strategy “drew upon a rhetoric frame rooted in Southern resistance to civil rights” (p.
70). As a result, this rendered “Forced bussing, law and order, and security from unrest as the
essential civil right of the majority—all of these were coded phrases that allowed Nixon to
appeal to racial fears without overtly mentioning race at all” (p. 72). By adopting colorblind
language, Nixon was able to indirectly promote a white national identity that was rooted in
racially prejudiced ideologies. This colorblind rhetorical strategy has been employed in similar
ways when addressing citizenship as well.
Through nearly every presidency, Beasley (2004) contends that much of the logic in
presidential discourse repeatedly suggests that non-white people have “‘characters,’
‘dispositions,’ and ‘spirits’ that are essentially different from those of native-born [white]
Americans” (p. 86). The term “American” has been indirectly defined as “white,” while non-
white people are subsequently categorized as “immigrants” or “outsiders” regardless of their
citizenship.31 For example, in President Grover Cleveland’s First Annual Message in 1885, he
explained why he believed Native Americans were unfit for civilization and citizenship:
Among the Indians upon these several reservations there exist the most marked
differences in natural traits and disposition and in their progress toward civilization.
While some are lazy, vicious, and stupid, others are industrious, peaceful, and intelligent;
while a portion of them are self-supporting and independent, and have so far advanced in
civilization that they make their own laws, administered through officers of their own
choice, and educate their children in schools of their own establishment and maintenance,
others still retain, in squalor and dependence, almost the savagery of their natural state.
(Cleveland, 1885).

He felt that because of the “savagery of [the Native Americans’] natural state,” civilized whites
needed to help “improve the conditions” of Native Americans to save them from their

31 Beasley (2004) describes this prejudicial perspective of immigrants, stating, “Because immigrants are, by
definition, foreign, they are unfamiliar with American democracy. Because they do not understand American
democracy, they are unfit for citizenship. Because they are unfit for citizenship, they are inherently dangerous to
America. Because they are dangerous, they must be regulated and restricted” (Beasley, 2004, p. 81).
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“dispositional qualities that stood in the way of their becoming American citizens” (Beasley,
2004, p. 98). He eventually instilled an education system where Native Americans could acquire
the “training” and “guidance” to escape their “barbaric” mindset as the only means to achieve
citizenship (Beasley, p. 100). This form of explicitly racist presidential rhetoric has become far
less common over time. Nonetheless, the examples I have provided for President Nixon’s
colorblind approach to “law and order,” and President Cleveland’s racist rhetoric regarding
Native American citizenship, demonstrate that both implicit and explicit forms of racialized
presidential rhetoric have been equally effective in communicating their intended message.
Colorblind rhetoric can also have intersectional consequences as well. During Ronald Reagan’s
1976 presidential campaign, he coined the term “welfare queen” to undermine support for public
benefits programs (Pruitt, 2016). One of Reagan’s most repeated anecdotes during his presidential
campaign was a story about a hypothetical Chicago woman with “80 names, 30 addresses, 12 Social
Security cards and is collecting veteran's benefits on four non-existing deceased husbands. And she is
collecting Social Security on her cards. She's got Medicaid, getting food stamps, and she is collecting
welfare under each of her names” (Gilliam, 1999, p. 3). The implicit racial coding embedded within his
rhetoric produced a debilitating stereotype about Black women, depicting them as “lazy, greedy, black
ghetto mother[s]” (Alexander, 2010, p. 49). Reagan’s racialized rhetoric also conveyed similar
stereotypes about Black men as “criminals” who were “undeserving” of government assistance;
however, his “welfare queen” rhetoric specifically targeted Black women (Alexander, p. 49). His choice
to use “she” throughout his speech implicitly signaled to his intended audience that Black women were
the key perpetrators of welfare fraud. Alexander (2010) found that Reagan’s racially coded rhetoric
“proved to be extraordinarily effective, as 22 percent of all Democrats defected from the party to vote
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for Reagan” (p. 49). These intersectional consequences of presidential rhetoric will be further explored
in Chapter 5 within the context of the Trump presidency.
Racialized presidential rhetoric also manifests in the way U.S. presidents discuss national
identity. Korostelina (2017) explains how people mirror the narratives of particular leaders as a
way to form an understanding of their national identities. Mosse (1995) asserts that there is an
“alliance” between nationalism and racism, in that racism is the chosen mechanism for which
nationalism has often relied upon to achieve its goals (Mosse, 1995). Thus, according to Mosse’s
conceptualization of the nationalism-racism “alliance,” when “nations identif[y] a national
character in a consistent manner, then nationalism and racism [draw] much closer together”
(Mosse, p. 167, emphasis added).
The presidency is historically the province of white men (Stuckey, 2010). Out of the 45
U.S. presidents that have taken office, only one has not been white, and none have been women.
Thus, given the inherent ethos of the political position, it could be argued that white men have
served as the “national character”—the physical and symbolic representatives of the country.
Lowndes (2013) argues that “the president acts as a cultural representative of the American
people… supporters in the electorate see themselves—and therefore the nation itself—in the
figure of the president, in his physical bearing, his biography, his persona” (p. 470). Therefore, in
addition to the ideational strategies invoked by presidents to help promote a white-centric
national identity, there are also symbolic implications rooted in the body politics of the
presidency that underlie presidential rhetoric as well.
To further situate my analysis of racialized presidential rhetoric within a contemporary period, I
utilize existing literature regarding the “Trump Effect” to demonstrate the unique characteristics of the
current political landscape. Researchers have discovered an influx of racial incidents occurring in
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schools after the 2016 election. These incidents were associated with what has been referred to as “The
Trump Effect”— the residual consequences of Donald Trump’s rhetoric targeting marginalized
populations. Rogers, Franke, Yun, Ishimoto, Diera, Geller, Berryman and Brenes (2017) engaged in
large-scale survey analysis to examine the state of K-12 schools after the 2016 presidential election. The
survey comprised of 1,535 responses from public school teachers across the nation. The key findings of
the report revealed that 51.4% of teachers reported more students experiencing high levels of stress and
anxiety; 79% of teachers reported that their students expressed concerns for their well-being and the
well-being of their families in regards to public policy discourse around immigration, the “Muslim Ban,”
LGBTQ rights, changes to health care, and environmental issues; 27.7% of teachers reported an increase
in students making derogatory remarks about other groups during class; and more than 20% of teachers
reported heightened polarization on campus and incivility in their classrooms (Rogers et al., 2017).
Many teachers also shared how the political environment seemed to have emboldened their students to
say “virulently racist, anti-Islamic, anti-Semitic, or homophobic rhetoric in their schools and
classrooms” (Rogers et al., p. 6). According to the results of this study, there seemed to be a noticeable
correlation between the 2016 election and the racial climate of K-12 schools. However, additional
research must explore whether this same correlation can be found in higher education institutions.
The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) released a similar report titled, The Trump
Effect: The Impact of the 2016 Presidential Election on our Nation’s Schools, which analyzed
survey data comprised of 10,000 responses from K-12 teachers, counselors, and administrators.
The report revealed that the aftermath of the 2016 election resulted in a profound negative
impact on schools and students (Costello & Cohen, 2016). Some key findings from the study
revealed that 90% of the educators who responded have noticed a negative impact on students’
mood and behavior, 80% reported heightened anxiety from marginalized students (especially
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immigrants, Muslims, African Americans, and LGBT students), 40% have heard derogatory
language directed at students of color, and over 2,500 of the respondents described specific
incidents of bigotry and harassment that were directly related to the rhetoric of the 2016
presidential election (including racist graffiti, assaults on students and teachers, property damage,
and threats of violence) (Costello & Cohen, 2016). Although SPLC’s report helped provide some
important context into the phenomenon, it was not designed to explain how and why this
tumultuous national climate has been manufactured.
Scholars have explored theoretical explanations for these important questions in an
attempt to more thoroughly understand this current sociopolitical phenomenon. In 2017, Karina
V. Korostelina released a book titled, The Trump Effect, where they utilized a multidisciplinary
theoretical approach (using concepts from political science, psychology, economics, and
sociology) to investigate how Donald Trump has reinvigorated substantial problems in the social,
political, and economic fabric of American life. Although their analysis was not primarily
focused on the field of education, there are important theoretical implications of the research that
I wish to repurpose for my own analysis of the campus racial climate of higher education
institutions.
To structure their analysis, they examined three complementary pillars of the “Trump
Effect”: (1) Trump champions a specific conception of American national identity that empowers
his supporters, (2) he mirrors the emotions of a “disenfranchised” American public and inspires
the use of frustration-based anger and insults to achieve desired aims, and (3) he challenges the
existing political balance of power within the U.S. and globally (Korostelina, 2017). Their
analytical framework included a thematic analysis, critical discourse analysis, and content
analysis of Trump’s speeches, interviews, and reports and opinion articles written about him.
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Given the temporal recency of this sociopolitical phenomenon, Korostelina (2017) provides one
of the few theoretically-driven analyses of the “Trump Effect” that has been published since the
election. Although the framework is extremely helpful in a multitude of ways, there is a
considerable deficiency in the racial component of their analysis that demands further
elaboration.
I would argue that the first pillar, “the championing of specific conceptions of American
national identity,” can be translated as “Trump champions a white national identity that is based
on racially prejudiced principles.” However, Korostelina (2017) uses the word “white” in a very
limited, superficial manner when stating, “many members of the White population in the U.S. are
exhibiting feelings of cultural stress resulting from growing illegal immigration, perceived
resistance to assimilation, and worsening race relations” (p. 3). “White,” in their context, is
merely a racial identity group. However, when examining presidential rhetoric through the
analytic lens of CRT, “whiteness” can be interpreted through dynamics of power—a social
construct predicated on white dominance and the subordination of non-white people (Harris,
1993). Thus, “cultural stress” is not only an interpersonal sentiment in this regard, it is more
importantly a perceived issue of power. As a solution to “cultural stress,” one of Trump’s
rhetorical strategies is to “[reinforce] the perception, prevalent among his White supporters, that
they have fewer rights, resources, and capacities in comparison with other racial groups and in
comparison with their previous position in American society” (Korostelina, 2017, p. 71). This
majoritarian narrative of history reinserts the racialized dynamic of power to the forefront of the
“white” experience, simultaneously positioning people of color as the ones responsible for their
institutional shortcomings.
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Trump’s campaign slogan, “Make America Great Again,” has been critiqued as a
strategic attempt to implicitly convey anti-Black and anti-immigrant sentiments (Bobo, 2017;
Sanchez, 2018). Bobo (2017) argues that making America great again is a “none-too-subtle dog
whistle signaling an effort to return to an America where the material well-being and privileged
position of white citizens would be protected and made something that could be again taken
comfortably for granted” (p. 100). It implies a preference to returning to the times of explicit de
jure racism where de facto white supremacy was more socially visible and acceptable (Cabrera,
2018). The infamous red hat with the campaign slogan written on the front has become a
recognizable way for Trump’s supporters to express their endorsement of the President. Mosse
(1995) explains how nationalism is often demarcated by abstract symbols that carry with them
underlying principles and philosophies (e.g., the national flag, national anthems, and other
national traditions). Thus, to link Bobo’s (2017) articulation of Trump’s campaign slogan with
Mosse’s (1995) explanation of symbolic nationalism, it would not be an exaggeration to perceive
the red hat as a colorblind “symbol” of nationalism that implicitly suggests racist ideals.
It has also been argued that presidential rhetoric can embolden citizens to behave in racist
ways (Korostelina, 2017). For example, Trump’s rhetoric concerning national identity has been
directly associated with violent racist attacks against people of color. In 2015, two Trump
supporters, both white men, viciously attacked a homeless Hispanic man who was sleeping in a
subway in Boston (Moyer, 2015). One of the perpetrators, Scott Leader, cited Donald Trump as
his inspiration, stating, “Donald Trump was right, all these illegals need to be deported” (Moyer,
2015). When Trump heard of the news, he said in a press conference, “I will say that people who
are following me are very passionate. They love this country and they want this country to be
great again. They are passionate” (Trump, as cited in Moyer, 2015). Sanchez (2018) interprets
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this moment as a “wink” to white supremacy. Trump’s language “implies that doing hateful
crimes is acceptable because passion and wanting to make the country ‘great again’ supersedes
racialized assault…the wink to his followers as making America great and loving their country
generates a ‘patriotic’ tone” (Sanchez, p. 51).
Scott Leader could be citing one of many examples of when “Donald Trump was right”
as the inspiration for his attack. Throughout his campaign and presidency, Trump has addressed
immigration reform as a frequent talking point during his speeches and interviews. For instance,
during a 2015 campaign speech, Trump expressed his views about Mexican immigrants crossing
the U.S.-Mexico border:
When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best…They’re sending people
that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with them. They’re
bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good
people. (Trump, as cited in Schwartz, 2015).

In a 2015 interview with Fox News host Howard Kurtz, Trump reinforced his statement
by saying, “I can never apologize for the truth” (Trump, as cited in Key, 2015). More recently
reported attacks have been linked to Trump’s presidential rhetoric as well.32 On August 3rd,
2019, Patrick Crusius murdered 22 people and injured 24 others with an assault rifle when he
specifically targeted Mexican immigrants at a Walmart in El Paso, Texas (Barrouquere, 2019).
Minutes before his attack, he posted a manifesto online where he stated, “My opinions on
automation, immigration, and the rest predate Trump and his campaign…I know that the media
will probably call me a white supremacist anyway and blame Trump’s rhetoric” (Crusius, as
cited in York, 2019, para. 24). However, his Twitter account was found to have a picture of a
photo where someone used a collection of guns to spell out “Trump” (Barrouquere, 2019). This

32 Some of these racist attacks have taken place on college campuses. This will be examined in Chapter 4 when I
analyze a dataset of racist incidents that have reported on college campuses from 2013-2018.
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behavior aligns with Korostelina’s (2017) second pillar—Trump mirrors the emotions of a
“disenfranchised” American public, and inspires the use of frustration-based anger and insults to
achieve his social and political objectives.
Korostelina (2017) argues that there is an intentional absence of diplomacy in Trump’s
rhetoric that deviates from the rhetorical strategies of past presidents. Researchers have explored
how past presidents conveyed messages about equal opportunity and the “American Dream,”
while also echoing the fears and prejudices of the American people through polysemic, racially
implicit language (Beasley, 2004). Korostelina (2017) claims that Trump has eliminated the
former part of that rhetorical strategy and has instead chosen to focus his attention toward
pontificating explicitly racist language that reinforces the xenophobic and racist viewpoints held
by many of his supporters. Korostelina (2017) explains how “many Trump supporters who have
a negative perception of immigrants, Muslims, African Americans, or other groups do not want
to accept that their views may be biased or even bigoted in some cases” (p. 93). Thus, through
Trump’s rhetoric, his supporters find confirmation for their existing biases that help validate their
prejudicial positions (Korostelina, 2017).
This unfiltered racist rhetoric has transcended class consciousness. Regardless of economic class,
Trump supporters “start to see themselves as agents of his will, carrying out his wishes as their own, and
they all lay responsibility for their actions with Trump. Trump, thus, feeds on obedience, as people come
to view themselves as the instrument of their leader’s will” (Korostelina, p. 37). Leonardo (2015)
describes this process as “whiteness as bully,” where “denigrated whites” pledge allegiance to the
current social order despite being negatively affected by its construction (Leonardo, 2015). He explains
how “[poor whites] carry out the terrorism of whiteness at the same time that they are terrorized by it,
usually capitulating to the demands and discipline of elite Whites” (Leonardo, p. 19). Despite Trump’s
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substantial wealth, he has managed to create a common identity with white working-class people
through shared ideologies centered in whiteness.
Leonardo’s (2015) concept of “whiteness as bully” is exemplified by how Trump utilizes social
media. Karpf (2017) draws attention to the “crowds of vocal adherents that [assemble] on social media
to promote…Trump and verbally accost [those] who [oppose] him” (p. 4). By organizing their efforts
through the hashtag #MAGA (“Make America Great Again”), a concerning aggregate of Trump’s
supporters have “deployed racist, sexist, and anti-Semitic memes and tropes” upon those who publicly
dispute the President (Karpf, p. 4). Giroux (2017) argues that “Trump’s weaponizing of Twitter against
critics and political opponents not only functions to produce a chilling effect on critics, but gives
legitimacy to those willing to suppress dissent through various modes of harassment and even the threat
of violence” (p. 896). Wang, Luo, Niemi and Li (2016) analyzed the growth patterns of Donald Trump’s
Twitter followers and found that the more he tweeted, the more followers he acquired. To a certain
extent, it could be argued that Trump’s Twitter account is, in itself, a mass media channel (Enli, 2017).
As of May 2020, Trump has more than 78.6 million followers on Twitter, 19.3 million followers on
Instagram, and 27 million followers on Facebook, all of whom he can organize and mobilize
instantaneously.
U.S. presidential candidates have essentially become “media personalities” in response to how
the American public consumes their political rhetoric. The candidates are willingly projected into the
status of celebrity since they “have to be media personalities if they want to attract (media) audiences”
(Wodak, 2009, p. 32). Social media has “given the President the means by which to communicate
directly and instantaneously with a large national audience” (Ceaser et al., 1981, p. 164). Trump is the
literal representation of a celebrity media personality after starring on his reality TV series, “The
Apprentice,” before becoming president. Karpf (2017) emphasizes that “Donald Trump’s single greatest
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asset during the Republican primary campaign was arguably his unique blend of reality television and
social media outburst” (p. 2). Trump uses Twitter to directly communicate with his millions of followers
without having to utilize the traditional mainstream mediums of communication.
In this section, I have provided both historical and contemporary examples that demonstrate the
racial elements of presidential rhetoric. By situating my analysis within multiple sociopolitical eras, I
have shown how utilizing CRT as an analytical framework to engage in a racialized analysis of
presidential rhetoric is not generationally bound (i.e. endemic racism). However, each era comprises of
distinct time-specific idiosyncrasies that will need to be examined in their own ways. For example, as
technological advancements continue to change how we consume presidential rhetoric through various
mediums of communication, certain aspects of studying presidential rhetoric will require a time-specific
analysis.
Employing CRT to examine the racial elements of presidential rhetoric served as the foundation
for my analytical sensemaking throughout this study. Though, my examination of presidential rhetoric
was not approached through the traditional disciplines of communication studies and linguistics (e.g.,
discourse analysis, textual analysis, sociolinguistics, etc.). Rather, I applied my analytical/conceptual
framework within the context of higher education to investigate the influence of racialized presidential
rhetoric on campus racial climate. More specifically, I interrogated the possible ways that Trump’s
racialized presidential rhetoric may have affected the frequency of racist incidents on college campuses,
the racialized experiences of college students at four colleges and universities in California, and the
institutional dimensions (Hurtado, 1994) of the University of Virginia’s campus racial climate.

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CHAPTER 3: METHODOLOGICAL FRAMEWORK AND RESEARCH METHODS

Before delving into the research methods that I employed for this dissertation study, I first
continue my overview of literature concerning the methodological trends utilized to study
campus climate, and campus racial climate more specifically. I have extended this particular
section from Chapter 2 into this chapter as a way to centralize my methodological discourse into
one focal area, particularly because many of the subheadings that will be discussed are directly
related to how and why I have chosen my three-study methodological sequence for examining
the influence of the Trump presidency on campus racial climate.
First, I explore Bronfenbrenner’s (1974; 1976; 1977; 1979; 1994) ecological systems model
for human development that has been adapted into higher education research (Renn, 2003, 2004).
Second, I engage with Hurtado et al.’s (2012) Multicontextual Model for Diverse Learning
Environments (DLE) that utilized Bronfenbrenner’s ecological systems model to help construct a
model for examining diverse learning outcomes. I differentiate this area of research from campus
ecology literature (Banning & Kaiser, 1974; Banning, 1997; Banning & Bartels, 1997; Banning
& Kuk, 2005; Kuh, 2009; Cabrera, Watson, & Franklin, 2016), which consists of similar
empirical properties but has been largely underutilized in campus climate research. More
specifically, the interrelated relationship between organizational climate and culture (Peterson &
Spencer, 1990) is relatively absent. I draw attention to this dearth in literature and offer solutions
for amalgamating concepts from these separate but overlapping research areas to create a more
cohesive lens for which to interrogate campus climate issues. These solutions will be presented
through a redefinition and reorganization of Hurtado’s (1994) dimensions, which builds from the
contributions from Milem, Chang, and antonio’s (2005) modified “organizational/structural
diversity” and “compositional diversity” dimensions. I then define the geospatial dimension,
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which is a culmination of various concepts from campus ecology research, organizational culture
research, and research focused on the intersections of race and space (Knowles, 2003; Sullivan,
2006; Lipsitz, 2007; McKittrick & Woods, 2007; McKittrick, 2011; Neely & Samura, 2011).
Finally, I describe how I have incorporated each of these elements into a new model that I
constructed for this dissertation study—the Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing
Campus Climate (NCEMACC).
Bronfenbrenner’s Ecological Model

Urie Bronfenbrenner is the pioneer of the ecological model for human development
theory. They believed that identity development is not a universal linear process, but a process in
which each individual’s identity is uniquely shaped by their environment (Bronfenbrenner,
1974). Rather than focusing entirely on the developmental outcomes of individuals, they
emphasized the importance of investigating the processes that lead to those outcomes (Renn,
2003). This provided a more holistic perspective that transcended the traditional, linear identity
development models (Renn, 2003). His ecological model is composed of five systems; the
microsystem, mesosystem, exosystem, macrosystem, and chronosystem (Bronfenbrenner, 1994).
These five systems explore the most immediate environment of an individual, as well as the
macro-level influences of larger society and culture (Cabrera, Watson & Franklin, 2016).
The first of these subsystems, the microsystem, is the face-to-face interactions with
family, at school, with peers, and in the workplace that contribute to the development of an
individual’s identity (Bronfenbrenner, 1994). In a higher education context, microsystems may
include “academic settings (classes, laboratory and recitation sections, study and project groups),
residential and/or family settings (residence halls, student apartments, family homes), formal
cocurricular and/or community settings (student organizations, intercollegiate and intramural
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athletic teams, performance groups, faith communities, community service sponsors), and
informal social settings (friendship groups, dating or partner/spousal relationships)” (Renn, 2004,
p. 35). The distinctive characteristic of the microsystem is that it specifically examines the
developing person’s relationship with the environment in their immediate setting (i.e., not the
external environment) (Bronfenbrenner, 1977).
The mesosystem is the relationship between two or more of the microsystems (i.e.,
between home and school, peers and school, etc.), or a “system of microsystems”
(Bronfenbrenner, 1994). The relationship between two microsystems can be extremely
influential to an individual’s identity development for a variety of reasons. Renn (2004)
describes how the “messages received from friends may reinforce or call into question parental
values, just as the curriculum might confirm or challenge the teachings of a religious tradition.
The developmental challenge to the individual is to respond and adapt to these forces, as well as
to exert his or her own force on these interacting environments” (p. 38). An individual develops
their identity amidst competing and intersecting microsystems that they consciously and
subconsciously contend with.
The exosystem is an extension of the mesosystem, but does not directly involve the
developing person (Bronfenbrenner, 1977). Bronfenbrenner (1977) distinguishes the exosystem
from the mesosystem by explaining that it “[embraces] other specific social structures, both
formal and informal, that do not themselves contain the developing person but impinge upon or
encompass the immediate settings in which that person is found, and thereby influence, delimit,
or even determine what goes on there” (p. 515). In a higher education context, a student of
color’s exosystem may include their professor of color’s relationship and/or hierarchical role
amongst their colleagues (i.e., tenure, promotions, acceptability of research, etc.), which may
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indirectly influence the student of color even if the child only experiences the class setting
(Bronfenbrenner, 1994). For example, if the professor of color serves as one of the only support
systems for the student of color but is denied tenure, the student of color will still be affected
even though they had no involvement in the relationship between the professor of color and their
colleagues.
The macrosystem is the belief systems, customs, opportunity structures, and bodies of
knowledge that serve as the “social blueprint” for the micro-, meso-, and exosystems
(Bronfenbrenner, 1994). The macrosystem encompasses the “overarching institutional patterns
of the culture or subculture, such as the economic, social, educational, legal, and political
systems,” as well as the “carriers of information and ideology that, both explicitly and implicitly,
endow meaning and motivation to particular agencies, social networks, roles, activities, and their
interrelations” (Bronfenbrenner, 1977, p. 515). The distinctive characteristic of macrosystems is
that it does not refer to the specific contexts affecting the life of a particular person, but rather the
structures and systems in which all other ecological systems are nested within (Bronfenbrenner,
1977). Furthermore, the ideological component of the macrosystem determines the
implementation of policy, legislation, and other societal constants, and therefore establishes the
“culture” or “subculture” of the society under investigation.
Lastly, the chronosystem refers to how time is a property of the surrounding environment
of an individual (Bronfenbrenner, 1994). The development of an individual’s identity does not
necessarily develop in a linear fashion as they get older; instead, the changes over the life course
in family structure, socioeconomic status, place of residence, and employment can all influence
an individual’s development at different times throughout their lives (Bronfenbrenner, 1994). For
example, if a Black person in the United States wanted to pursue higher education in the Jim
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Crow era, the sociohistorical time period, or “chronosystem,” that they lived within would not
allow them the same access as a Black person in the 21st century. Thus, the chronosystem is
dependent on chronological time, but also dependent on the subculture within a particular time
period. As time progresses, the macrosystem changes, which inherently changes the ecological
systems nested within it. In the description of my nested contexts ecological model, I explain
how the chronosystem is particularly important for examining campus racial climate within the
context of different U.S. presidencies.
Bronfenbrenner’s ecological systems theory has since been utilized by higher education
researchers, most notably through Renn’s (2000, 2003, 2004) ecological model for multiracial
identity development. Renn (2004) explored how the identity development processes for
multiracial students was situated within multiple ecological systems, and was constructed in the
context of social relations, the ongoing interactions between individuals and their environments,
the interactions among and between the various sub-environments, and the sociohistorical
context of time. Bronfenbrenner (1994) describes the relationship between the five subsystems as
a “set of nested structures, each inside the other like a set of Russian dolls. Moving from the
innermost level to the outside” (p. 39). Thus, Renn (2004) provided an illustration of the nested
context ecological model for multiracial identity development which visually demarcated how
each ecological system interacts through and between one another to construct a multiracial
students’ identity. The Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate
(NCEMACC) builds from this illustrative blueprint, which I further elaborate upon in the next
section.
Building from Bronfenbrenner’s (1977, 1979) description of the ecological systems,
Renn (2004) also categorized the key elements of the model as “person, process, context, and
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time” (PPCT). The person element “includes a student’s unique experiences and characteristics,
including socially constructed identities (race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation,
socioeconomic class, ability, etc.), prior academic performance and academic self-concept,
political and social ideologies, and family background (Renn, 2004, p. 30). The process element
refers to how the identity development processes “are enduring forms of progressively more
complex, reciprocal interactions between a developing person and the persons, objects, and
symbols in her or his environment” (Renn, 2004, p. 32). The context element refers to the
microsystem, mesosystem, exosystem, and macrosystem of Bronfenbrenner’s (1976) ecological
model that were described above. Finally, the time element, which Bronfenbrenner (1994)
defines as the “chronosystem,” “operates at a sociohistorical level to make possible certain kinds
of developmentally instigative opportunities…as well as at an individual level according to the
timing of life events in the microsystems” (Renn, 2004, p. 47). The time element is particularly
important since it accounts for “differing social, cultural, and historical contexts, [and] it is
especially useful in analyzing the development of students across institutional settings in light of
dynamic, fluid notions of identity” (Renn, 2004, p. 48). A time-bound analysis extends the
“context” of the PPCT beyond an examination of the person-environment relationship by
understanding that the “environment” changes according to different sociohistorical time
periods.
However, Renn’s (2004) interpretation of Bronfenbrenner’s ecological model was
primarily structured toward examining the identity developmental ecology of multiracial college
students rather than an assessment of the institutional ecology of their respective campuses. This
distinction is vitally important, as the ecological identity development models derived from
Bronfenbrenner’s (1976) ecological systems (Root, 1996; Chaudhari & Pizzolato, 2008;
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Wijeyesinghe, 2001, 2012) are different from the ecological systems of college campuses—the
former is centered on the identity development of an individual, while the latter is focused on
institutional-level contexts.
Hurtado et al. (2012) constructed the Multicontextual Model for Diverse Learning
Environments (DLE), which built upon Hurtado’s (1994) four-factor model for assessing campus
racial climate; Hurtado et al.’s (1998) extension of the model that included the external domains;
Milem, Chang, and antonio’s (2005) addition of the “organizational/structural” dimension;
Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) three categories of organizational climate (objective, perceived
and psychological); Bronfenbrenner’s (1976; 1977; 1979; 1994) ecology of human development
model, and Renn’s (2003, 2004) higher education adaptation of Bronfenbrenner’s model that
analyzed the identity development processes of multiracial students.
They drew attention to Bronfenbrenner’s (1976) nested ecological framework to illustrate
that “individuals can better understand the climate in their immediate or proximal environments
if they can understand how concrete political and sociohistorical developments impact
organizational components of the climate, rules and regulations that govern institutional
behavior, and ultimately shape individual perceptions and feelings, as well as their interactions
(behavioral aspects of the climate)” (Hurtado et al., 2012, p. 46). Thus, by following the
blueprint of the ecological systems model that was initially designed for an examination of an
individual’s human development, they repurposed the ecological model to demonstrate how, just
like individuals, institutions also “do not exist in a vacuum, but rather are part of communities
and individual external commitments and macrosystems or the contextual forces outside the
institution” (Hurtado et al., 2012, p. 49). By essentially treating institutions as individuals in this
manner, this ecological approach to campus racial climate research can account for the
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perceptions and behaviors of students and institutional actors, while also assessing the
compositional, organizational/structural, and historical dimensions of the institution itself.
The illustration of the DEL shows how it is separated into four levels stacked on top of
one another: sociohistorical context (top), policy context (second level), institutional context
(third level) and community context and external commitments (bottom). Within the institutional
context level is the climate for diversity, which includes the historical, organizational,
compositional, psychological, and behavioral dimensions (Hurtado, 1994; Milem, Chang &
antonio, 2005), and the curricular and co-curricular processes (pedagogy/teaching methods;
course content; the identities of the instructor, student, and staff; and institutional practices and
programming). The DEL illustrates that the intended outcome of the model is to help students
develop habits and skillsets for lifelong learning, cultivate competencies for a multicultural
world, and increase retention and achievement levels (Hurtado et al., 2012). These individual
outcomes “result in collective implications for the promotion of social equity, pluralistic ideals of
democratic citizenship, as well as economic outcomes for regions where diverse college
graduates reside” (Hurtado et al., 2012, p. 50).
Although the terminology is similar, the Multicontextual Model for Diverse Learning
Environments (DLE) is not necessarily defined as campus ecology research. While Renn (2004)
and Hurtado et al. (2012) employ Bronfenbrenner’s ecological systems within their frameworks,
campus ecology research takes on a different approach to the “ecological system” model.
However, as I argue in the next section, these two separate but overlapping lines of inquiry could
be utilized in conjunction with one another to create a truly comprehensive assessment of
campus racial climate.
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Campus Ecology

Kuh (2009) identifies how ecology, climate, and culture often are used interchangeably,
but ecology “is the broadest of these concepts, encompassing both climate and culture” (p. 68).
Similar to how Peterson (1990) defined the unique sub-environments of both climate and culture,
Kuh (2009) explains that “campus climates and cultures have competing, sometimes
contradictory effects on the behavior of students, faculty, and student affairs professionals” (p.
68). For example, the objective climate refers to the patterns of behavior of an institution,
including the practices and procedures, characteristics, and other quantifiable patterns of
behavior of academic management (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). These policies and practices
may contradict the “espoused versus embedded values and beliefs” of the institutional culture
(Peterson & Spencer, 1990, p. 11). For example, a college or university may claim that racial
equity is an espoused value of their institution, but may contradict these values by engaging in
racially discriminatory and exclusionary admissions practices. Thus, the term “ecology” captures
these interrelated complexities of both culture and climate.
Banning and Kuk (2005) define campus ecology as the “study of the campus as an
ecological system” (p. 9). According to Renn (2004), campus ecology frameworks are
categorized as “person-environment” theories of development, which differ from
Bronfenbrenner’s “person-process-context-time” (PPCT) framework because they do not
account for the “time” element (person-environment theories account for “context,” but it is not
time-bound). Banning and Kaiser (1974) were the first to introduce the framework for “campus
ecology” within the context of higher education (Banning & Kaiser, 1974; Banning, 1997;
Banning & Bartels, 1997; Banning & Kuk, 2005; Kuh, 2009; Cabrera, Watson, & Franklin,
2016). They critiqued three perspectives of individually focused student personnel activities that
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focus on helping individuals adjust to their educational environment: the unenlightened
perspective (the premise that not all young people belong in college), the adjustment perspective
(for students who are not academically successful, they should be provided with counseling and
other services that might benefit their educational environment), and the developmental
perspective (college students are in a transition or growth period so they must perform certain
tasks to reach maturity) (Banning & Kaiser, 1974). They describe how “The essence of the
ecological perspective is the transaction between the student and his or her environment. This
perspective, therefore, incorporates the influence of environments on persons and persons on
environments. The focus of concern is not solely on student characteristics or environment
characteristics but on the transactional relationship between students and their environment”
(Banning & Kaiser, 1974, p. 371). They identified how the three perspectives placed the onus on
students’ individual development processes rather than acknowledging the ways in which “the
issues of institutions changing, institutions adjusting, or institutions growing up” can hinder or
enable the educational growth and development of the student (Banning & Kaiser, 1974, italics
in original).
In the late 1990s and early 2000s, the “campus ecology” approach to higher education
research took on many forms. Banning and Bartels (1997) produced a taxonomy for
understanding campus cultural artifacts that helped explore how campus administrators, faculty,
and students decipher their implicit cultural messages. The taxonomy contains four dimensions:
the type of physical artifact responsible for the message, the multicultural parameters relevant to
the specific group on campus, the content of the message, and the evaluative impact of the
message (Banning & Bartels, 1997). The types of physical artifacts include art, signs, graffiti,
and architecture (Banning & Bartels, 1997). The multicultural parameters involved the artifacts’
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implicit messages about gender, race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, and disability
(Banning & Bartels, 1997). The content of the messages, while infinite, were separated into four
categories: messages of belonging, messages of safety, messages of equality, and messages
regarding role33 (Banning & Bartels, 1997). Finally, the evaluative impact of the artifacts ranged
from positive, neutral, to negative (Banning & Bartels, 1997). This taxonomy allows for
researchers to evaluate how institutional artifacts “promote, neutralize, or discourage the spirit of
multiculturalism” (Banning & Bartels, p. 35). Banning (1997) incorporated this taxonomy of
campus artifacts into an ethical climate assessment matrix which was separated into three
dimensions: the type of physical artifact sending the message, the ethical issues dimension, and
the evaluative effect or ethical saliency of the message. This reapplication of the taxonomy was
helpful for evaluating the ethical ramifications of campus artifacts, thus allowing for higher
education practitioners to perform a “culture audit” of their institutions (Banning, 1997, p. 101).
Banning and Kuk (2005) separated campus ecological system into three components:
organisms/inhabitants component (students, faculty, staff, visitors, and other associated members
of the campus community), the settings/environments (which includes the social environment—
the curriculum, extra-curriculars, and other social functions—and the physical environment—
buildings, landscapes, walkways, and other physical features of the environment) (Banning &
Kuk, 2005). The relationship between these variables is mutually inter-dependent, and can
“support or hinder the traditional goals of student growth and development” (Banning & Kuk,
2005, p. 9).

33 Cabrera, Watson and Franklin (2016) recently conducted a Critical Whiteness Studies (CWS) analysis of campus
ecology to examine how these four categories were influenced by the pervasiveness of white spaces on college and
university campuses.
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Interestingly, the evolution of Banning and Kaiser’s (1974) campus ecological system
historically paralleled the evolution of Peterson et al.’s (1978) indicators of attitudinal or
perceptual climate on campus (discussed in Chapter 2), but the two approaches never intersected
in a theoretically perpendicular manner. Despite the similarities, the two frameworks essentially
co-existed within the same discipline without ever building upon one another. For example,
Banning and Kaiser’s (1974) idea of the transactional relationship between students and their
environment, and Banning and Bartels (1997) taxonomy of campus artifacts, were similar to
Peterson et al.’s (1978) indicators (philosophical, ideology, intent, behavior, and psychological)
of attitudinal or perceptual climate on campus, and Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) four
categories of organizational culture—geospatial and myths, artifacts, and symbolism; behavioral
patterns and processes; and espoused versus embedded values and beliefs. Both of these evolving
frameworks examined the implicit messages of campus artifacts, the organizational elements of
campus ecology, and the psychological and behavioral components of campus climate.
It could be argued that this theoretical disconnect between the two frameworks may serve
as the catalyst for the methodological limitations of Hurtado’s (1994) model for assessing
campus racial climate. As mentioned previously, Hurtado (1994) only incorporated Peterson et
al.’s (1978) framework into their perceptual dimension. Additionally, as Hurtado’s (1994) model
continued to evolve (Hurtado et al., 1998; Milem, Chang, & antonio, 2005; Hurtado et al., 2012),
the valuable concepts embedded within Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) framework were
relatively lost and/or exclusively utilized within organizational leadership/culture (Tierney,
1988; Berger & Milem, 2000; Bolman & Deal, 2003) and institutional/organizational change
(Eckel & Kezar, 2003; Williams, Berger & McClendon, 2005) research rather than campus
racial climate research.
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For example, to construct the DEL model, Hurtado et al. (2012) explained how Peterson
and Spencer’s (1990) three categories of organizational climate (objective, perceived and
psychological) helped them “emphasize the pervasiveness of the [institutional] climate” for their
analytical sensemaking, but completely disregarded Peterson and Spencer’s four categories of
institutional culture (Hurtado et al., p. 47). Earlier campus climate research building from
Hurtado’s (1994) model have also included Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) climate categories
(Mayhew, Grunwald & Dey, 2006), but did not examine organizational culture. Milem, Chang
and antonio (2005) incorporated a “fifth dimension” of campus racial climate,
“organizational/structural diversity,” into Hurtado’s (1994) model, but the addition still did not
utilize concepts from Banning & Kaiser’s (1976) campus ecology framework or Peterson and
Spencer’s (1990) framework for organizational culture and climate. Furthermore, Renn and
Patton (2016) recently defined campus racial climate as “a component of campus culture,” but
the relationship between the two categories was not extensively addressed (p. 22, emphasis
added).
Even with the numerous modifications to Hurtado’s (1994) model, it is still unclear how
campus ecology and organizational culture and climate influence campus racial climate. Along
with numerous other advantages that I elaborate upon in a future section, situating Banning and
Kaiser’s (1976) and Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) frameworks within the context of campus
racial climate research would help redefine and reconstruct a critical but incomplete variable of
Hurtado’s (1994) model—the structural dimension.
Dimensions Redefined

Throughout my review of literature, I noticed that many of the concepts and frameworks
from campus ecology research and campus racial climate research tremendously encompassed
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the varying elements of the campus climate; however, it was evident that the concepts were in
need of reorganization and redefinition in certain areas. First, I describe why I believe it is
analytically appropriate to aggregate Hurtado et al. (2012) and Milem, Chang, and antonio’s
(2005) “organizational/structural diversity,” “compositional diversity,” and “historical”
dimensions into one dimension of campus climate, the “organizational dimension.” Then I
introduce the “geospatial dimension” which combines concepts from campus ecology research
and research focused on the intersection of race and space. These modified dimensions will be
embedded within a new campus climate assessment model—the Nested Contexts Ecological
Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC)—that I introduce in the next section.
To summarize Milem, Chang, and antonio’s (2005) “organizational/structural diversity”
dimension discussed in Chapter 2, this “fifth dimension” was introduced alongside the
“compositional diversity” dimension as a way to assign the “structural dimension” terminology
of Hurtado’s (1994) assessment model to something the authors believed was more of an
accurate descriptor of the characteristics it denotes. The “compositional diversity” of an
institution refers to the numerical representation of various racial and ethnic groups on a campus
(Milem, Chang, & antonio, 2005). The policies and procedures that inherently determine the
numerical representation of these groups were renamed the “organizational/structural diversity”
dimension (Milem, Chang, & antonio, 2005). These organizational elements, or “structures,” of
the institution are reflected in various campus decision-making processes, including hiring and
tenure decisions, admissions practices, and budget allocations (Milem, Chang, & antonio, 2005).
This dimension has the power to delineate who receives and has access to certain institutional
benefits, which has led to the “pervasive, systemic, and ordinary nature of racism in American
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institutions, and perpetuate[d] inequity through status quo processes in education” (Hurtado et
al., 2012, p. 60).
As I described in Chapter 2, there is an apparent nexus between the historical dimension
and the structural dimension that has not been clearly extricated. Milem, Chang, and antonio’s
(2005) addition of the “fifth dimension” was intended to provide this clarity, but I do not believe
this extension of Hurtado’s (1994) original model was the last phase of the decades-long
methodological evolution (Hurtado et al., 1998; Hurtado et al., 2012). The reason for separating
“compositional diversity” and “organizational/structural diversity” into two separate dimensions
was to demonstrate how the numerical composition of racial and ethnic groups was influenced
by the organizational practices and procedures that produce inequity (Milem, Chang, & antonio,
2005). Through this logic, the “historical dimension,” which refers to an institution’s history of
inclusion and exclusion (Hurtado et al., 1998), should also be considered as a component of the
fifth dimension rather than a separate entity. If the “organizational/structural diversity”
dimension refers to the practices and procedures of an institution, and the “compositional
diversity” refers to their tangible outcomes, this inherently implies that the organizational
processes are a part of the institution’s history. To assess inequitable outcomes, inequitable
outcomes must have already manifested.
Thus, I believe it is more useful to combine the “compositional diversity,”
“organizational/structural diversity,” and “historical” dimensions into one dimension, the
“organizational dimension.” Within this dimension, a historical analysis of organizational
processes is still embedded within the research methodology, as well as the contemporary
outcomes they create (the inequities produced by institutions do not arrive out of thin air; rather,
they are a byproduct of historical processes of inclusion and exclusion that consequently
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influence the present). Therefore, the new definition of the “organizational dimension” is the
following: an institution’s historical and contemporary organizational processes of inclusion or
exclusion, and the compositional diversity outcomes they create.
This is a possible solution to Hurtado et al.’s (2012) observation that “the historical
dimension is rarely assessed and as a consequence, there are minimal links established to
educational outcomes” (p. 59). My modification situates the historical analysis as a heuristic
requirement rather than a separate dimension that can be voluntarily examined, which will
hopefully encourage researchers to explore the historical “links established to educational
outcomes” throughout their analysis. By embedding the historical dimension within the
aggregated “organizational dimension,” I have removed the option for researchers to ignore the
critical element of history, and demanded that they devote appropriate methodological attention
to examining how history influences the present. To assess the present, one must assess the past.
In summary, the perceptual/psychological dimension and the behavioral dimension of
Hurtado’s (1994) original model have remained unchanged, and the “compositional diversity,”
“organizational/structural diversity,” and “historical” dimensions have been aggregated into the
“organizational dimension.” This leaves one dimension that still requires a redefinition: the
structural dimension. To redefine this dimension, I utilize existing frameworks from campus
ecology research, research focused the intersections of race and space, and Peterson and
Spencer’s (1990) framework for organizational culture.
The geospatial dimension: The intersecting elements of race and space. When
Hurtado et al. (2012) outlined the elements of the historical dimension, they briefly mentioned
how certain symbols around campus (confederate flags, statues, building names, etc.) signaled
implicit messages to students of color about the institution’s commitment to diversity. However,
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the historical dimension has primarily been referred to as an institution’s historical legacy of
inclusion or exclusion (which I redefined as a component of the aggregated “organizational
dimension”), but not an analysis of the actual physical structures (Hurtado, 1994; Hurtado et al.,
1998, Hurtado et al., 2012). To replace the structural dimension, the “geospatial dimension”
refers to the intersecting elements of race and space, and will serve as a link between campus
ecology and campus climate research.
In the previous section, I described how “ecology” captures the interrelated complexities
of both culture and climate (Kuh, 2009). However, campus racial climate research has primarily,
and arguably exclusively, focused on the latter. For example, Peterson et al.’s (1978) indicators
of attitudinal or perceptual climate on campus were embedded within Hurtado’s (1994)
perceptual dimension, but the four categories of organizational culture proposed by Peterson and
Spencer (1990) were not. Thus, by taking an ecological approach to campus climate research
(which encompasses both culture and climate), we can combine Peterson and Spencer’s (1990)
four categories of organizational culture, Banning and Bartels’ (1997) four-dimension taxonomy
for understanding cultural artifacts, and Hurtado’s (1994) campus racial climate assessment
model to create the “geospatial dimension.” This new dimension will be comprised of the
various concepts within organizational culture frameworks and campus ecology frameworks that
have been largely left out of campus racial climate research.
Within the context of campus ecology research, Kuh (2009) describes how “The ecology
frame (institutional size, location, facilities, open spaces, and other permanent attributes) can also
help interpret the influence of campus physical properties on behavior. The amount, locations,
and arrangement of physical spaces facilitate or inhibit social interaction and the development of
group cohesiveness” (Kuh, 2009, p. 72). To review, Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) four
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categories of organizational culture are (1) geospatial (tangible and visible physical elements of
an institution); (2) traditions, myths, artifacts, and symbolism (symbols that convey past and
current ideologies that organizational members deem important); (3) the behavioral patterns and
process (organizational operations that are defined by repeated organizational behavior)34; and
(4) the espoused versus embedded values and beliefs (institutional mission statements that
portray the institution in its most ideal but not actual form). Banning and Bartels (1997) four-
dimension taxonomy includes (1) the type of physical artifact responsible for the message (art,
signs, graffiti, and architecture), (2) the multicultural parameters relevant to the specific group on
campus (artifacts’ implicit messages about gender, race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation,
and disability), (3) the content of the message (messages of belonging, safety, equality, and role),
and (4) the evaluative impact of the message (negative, neutral, or positive).
An amalgamation of these concepts generates the definition for the geospatial dimension:
The amount, locations, and arrangement of physical structures and spaces on a college or
university campus (Kuh, 2009), and the cultural artifacts within them (Banning & Bartels, 1997),
that signal institutional beliefs and messages about multiculturalism, sense of belonging, safety,
equality, and the roles of institutional members (i.e., students, staff, faculty, and administrators)
(Peterson & Spencer, 1990). This new dimension is essentially the “best of all worlds,” as it fills
the incomplete components of Hurtado’s (1994) model with concepts from existing frameworks
that were designed to assess similar campus climate issues. There is no need to recreate the
wheel—all that was needed was to connect the different wheels onto the same car.
Since I am focusing on the influence of the sociopolitical environment on campus racial
climate, I would be remiss if I did not incorporate a deeper theoretical analysis of race and space

34 This element of organizational culture exists within the “organizational dimension” of campus climate that was
redefined in the previous subsection.
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into how I am approaching the geospatial dimension for this study. There is a growing body of
literature focusing on the links between race and space (Said, 1977; Soja, 1989; Harris, 1993;
Keith & Pile, 1993; Kobayashi & Peake, 2000; Delaney, 2002; Hoelscher, 2003; Knowles, 2003;
Sullivan, 2006; Lipsitz, 2007; McKittrick & Woods, 2007; McKittrick, 2011; Neely & Samura,
2011). This area of research helps us better understand the political contestations over the
meanings of race and space in various contexts and time periods35 (Neely & Samura, 2011). For
the purposes of this study, I do not engage too heavily with the historical formation of racial
space within my analysis36. However, in Chapter 6, I utilize Neely and Samura’s (2011) racial
space framework to interrogate how the intersections of race and space have produced
inequitable conditions for students of color at the University of Virginia (UVA). More
specifically, I examine how UVA’s geospatial layout and cultural artifacts have signaled implicit
messages to students of color about their sense of belonging, safety, inequality, and role at the
university (Banning & Bartels, 1997; Neely & Samura, 2011).
Now that I have redefined and reorganized the various dimensions of Hurtado’s (1994)
model, I now incorporate them into a new model for assessing campus climate that builds upon
Hurtado et al.’s (2012) Multicontextual Model for Diverse Learning Environments (DLE) and

35 As Neely and Samura (2011) note, “there are long-standing historical roots of the race-space connection in the
process of imperialism—racializing bodies and groups has always been linked to the theft of land and the control of
space” (p. 1934). For example, in Chapter 2, I situated race and space within the context of higher education to
illustrate how European territorial expansion influenced the production of knowledge by controlling academic
discourses that were designed to advance a colonial mission (Said, 1977; Adams, 1988; Noriega, 1992; Wilder,
2013; Bhambra, Gebrial & Nisancioglu, 2018). Contemporary analyses of race and space within the field of higher
education have primarily focused on statues, monuments, and architecture on college campuses that signal implicit
messages about the institutional ideologies of the past and present (Gusa, 2010; Cabrera, Watson, & Franklin, 2016).
Without an intentional focus given to the intersection of race and space, the matrices of power that determine and
influence the compiling intricacies of lived spatiality will go unchallenged.
36 In my methodological implications section in Chapter 7, I urge future researchers to expand on this new
geospatial dimension through in-depth qualitative case studies of higher education institutions. Every institution in
the United States was built on stolen land, thus, it is imperative for researchers to explore how the interrelated
relationship between race and space manifests on their respective campuses.
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Renn’s (2004) higher education adaptation of Bronfenbrenner’s (1976; 1977; 1979; 1994)
ecological model, and extends Bronfenbrenner’s ecological model one system further.
The Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC)

This three-study dissertation demands a robust methodological model to assess the
internal and external dimensions of campus racial climate. Thus, I have constructed the Nested
Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC) (Figure 3) that builds
upon existing frameworks to establish a more cohesive lens for this line of inquiry. The primary
difference between the NCEMACC and Hurtado et al.’s (2012) DEL model is that the DEL is
designed to examine diverse learning outcomes while the NCEMACC is focused on assessing
campus climate. Although they overlap in many ways, the broader scope of the NCEMACC
allows for campus climate researchers to examine other issues that do not necessarily pertain to
learning outcomes.
For example, while the NCEMACC can, in fact, be utilized to examine diverse learning
outcomes, Figure 3 illustrates that the student is also the most central component of the
NCEMACC. This particular dissertation study is specifically focused on how the sociopolitical
environment (macrosystem—sociopolitical context) influences the internal dimensions of
campus racial climate (the microsystem—historical and contemporary institutional context), and
how this process affects college students’ racialized experiences. While their racialized
experiences may influence their learning outcomes, this relationship is not the analytic focus of
this study37.

37 Existing models have been intentionally designed to examine the educational outcomes of students (Williams,
Berger & McClendon, 2005; Hurtado et al., 2012; Museus, 2014; Kiyama, Museus, & Vega, 2015; Museus, Zhang
& Kim, 2016). For example, Williams, Berger and McClendon (2005) constructed the Inclusive Excellence Change
Model which posits that “educational excellence cannot be envisioned, discussed, or enacted without close attention
paid to inclusion” (p. 29). Along with Hurtado et al.’s (2012) DEL model, I gladly welcome all researchers
interested in this area of research to utilize these brilliantly constructed methodological models, or even combine
various elements from all three to achieve the desired heuristic objectives.
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Golash-Boza and Valdez (2018) recently developed the nested contexts of reception
framework to examine the experiences of undocumented students who enrolled in a California
university after the passage of the California Dream Act. The framework identifies how
undocumented students confront a “context of reception” upon arrival that is comprised of
“government policies that pertain to the group; the societal reception context they face upon
arrival and settlement, including the size of the group’s community and their relationship to the
dominant cultural group; and the institution’s in which they participate, such as the educational
system or the labor market” (Golash-Boza & Valdez, 2018, p. 536). The authors argue that
undocumented student experiences are not monolithic; rather, the national, state, and local
contexts (nested contexts) each present nuanced circumstances that varyingly influence their
academic and holistic well-being. The framework is another tremendous methodological
resource to analyze the racialized experiences of undocumented students. However, the main
difference between Golash-Boza and Valdez’s (2018) nested contexts of reception framework
and the NCEMACC is that it is primarily focused on undocumented students’ interconnected
experiences with immigration and education, while the NCEMACC can be employed to explore
issues that are not immigration-specific.
Davis (2019) builds upon Golash-Boza and Valdez’s (2018) nested context of reception
framework to create the nested contexts of protest policy reception, which is specifically
designed to interrogate how anti-activist policies affect student activists within multiple (nested)
legislative contexts (national, state, and local). Davis (2019) found that “As policies were found
to overlap across hierarchical governance structures in public higher education…student
activists’ rights to intra-institutional due process, defense, and jurisdictional appeal are likely to
be extremely limited and infringed upon, if not completely suppressed” (p. 113). The NCPPR
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framework also differs from the NCEMACC since it is primarily structured toward examining
how student activist organizations, students within activist organizations, and individual student
activists who are not formally affiliated with an organization are impacted by punitive protest
policies (Davis, 2019). As I explain in the “microsystem” subsection, the bidirectional arrows of
the NCEMACC account for how student activists can influence the institutional dimensions of
campus racial climate. However, Davis’ (2019) framework would be far more useful for
researchers who are specifically interested in exploring issues related to protest policy and
student activism.
The conceptual elements of the NCEMACCC include the perceptual/psychological and
behavioral dimensions of Hurtado’s (1994) model; the addition of my modified organizational
(Milem, Chang, & antonio, 2005) and geospatial (Hurtado, 1994; Peterson, 1990; Banning &
Bartels, 1997; Neely & Samura, 2011) dimensions; and the extension of the external domains
introduced by Hurtado et al. (1998). The methodological elements of the NCEMACC
incorporate the five systems of Bronfenbrenner’s (1976; 1977; 1979; 1994) ecological model,
and Renn’s (2004) higher education adaptation of Bronfenbrenner’s model, as well as an
additional “universal system” that allows for an insertion of theoretical principles (theoretical
cosmology) that can be adjusted according to the theoretical, conceptual or analytical approach
to a particular research topic (which, in the context of this study, is defined by the principle
assumptions embedded within various critical theories of race and my analytical/conceptual
framework). The universal system exists within the abstract, intangible atmosphere of the nested
contexts model, while the other systems represent the various tangible elements of campus
climate (i.e., institutional characteristics, federal and state policies, student perceptions and
behavior, etc.). Although this particular study is an examination of campus racial climate, the
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NCEMACC can be utilized to interrogate other compelling educational issues as well. The
NCEMACC is comprised of Bronfenbrenner’s five ecological systems: the microsystem,
mesosystem, exosystem, macrosystem, and chronosystem. By integrating this ecological model
into a higher education campus climate context (Renn, 2004; Hurtado et al., 2012), I have
defined the parameters for each system below.
Figure 3 Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC)

Microsystem (Historical and Contemporary Institutional Context)

When Renn (2004) adapted Bronfenbrenner’s (1976) ecological systems model into a
higher education context, they defined “microsystems” as the academic settings, residential and
family settings, formal curricular and community settings, and informal social settings. A
student’s microsystems were the “setting of the proximal processes central to development”
(Renn, 2004, p. 36). However, in an institutional-level context, the microsystems can be more
broadly defined by Hurtado’s (1994) dimensions of campus climate, as demonstrated by Hurtado
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et al. (2012). Thus, the microsystem of the NCEMACC is comprised of Hurtado’s (1994)
perceptual/psychological and behavioral dimensions, my modified organizational dimension
(Milem, Chang, and antonio, 2005), and the newly constructed geospatial dimension.
Furthermore, the microsystem level also refers to the historical and contemporary
context38 of one higher education institution, which means that all institutional members
(students, staff, faculty, and administrators) within the microsystem are located within that circle.
Students are located in the innermost circle, and institutional actors (not labeled) are outside of
the student circle but still within the microsystem. This illustrates how studies utilizing the
NCEMACC can engage in an institutional-level analysis (i.e., an analysis of institutional actors
and the institution itself) while concurrently engaging in a student-centered analysis as well.
The smaller, bidirectional arrows illustrate how student experiences are influenced by
each of the four dimensions, but also have the ability to influence each one as well. For example,
students influence the perceptual and behavioral dimensions of an institution (through their own
perceptions and behavior), and are also influenced by both dimensions (interactions between
students, perceptions shared by students, etc.). This is illustrated by a bidirectional arrow.
Similarly, student experiences are influenced by the geospatial and organizational dimensions
(the influence of racial space on student experiences, the influence of the organizational
processes on the compositional diversity of the institution, etc.), but students can also influence
both dimensions through their activism. I elaborate on this point when I describe each individual
dimension of the microsystem in this subsection.

38 As mentioned in my redefinition of the organizational dimension, all campus climate assessments should
incorporate a historical analysis of the dimension(s) under investigation. Thus, I have labeled the microsystem,
“historical and contemporary institutional context.”
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To reiterate, the perceptual/psychological dimension refers to “an individual’s view of
institutional responsiveness to diversity issues” (Hurtado, 1994, p. 23). To remain consistent with
Hurtado’s (1994) original model, this dimension draws from Peterson et al.’s (1978) indicators
of the attitudinal or perceptual climate on campus. These indicators include “measures that
reflected the respondents’ views on the philosophical role of colleges with regard to minorities;
the ideology of the institutions, represented by institutional goal commitments to minority
concerns; the intent of the institution, reflected in support for minority programs; perceptions and
actual behavior on campus, characterized by racial and interracial activity; and a psychological
measure of the climate, or measures of the degree of trust and hostility among groups” (the
behavioral element will be separately examined as its own dimension) (Peterson et al., 1978, as
cited in Hurtado, 1994, p. 24). It is important to note that a campus climate assessment can
engage various members of higher education institutions, including students, staff, faculty, and
administrators. Thus, the perceptual dimension can be assessed through a concentrated analysis
of one or more of these groups. Though, for this particular study, I exclusively engage with
students.
According to Hurtado et al. (1998), the behavioral dimension of the campus climate
refers to the “(a) actual reports of general social interaction, (b) interaction between and among
individuals from different racial/ethnic backgrounds, and (c) the nature of intergroup relations on
campus” (p. 293). Similar to the perceptual dimension, this definition of the behavioral
dimension will remain unchanged. In the next section, I describe how this dimension has been
heavily influenced by dramatic shifts in the macrosystem (i.e., the Trump presidency). This has
led to an increase in racial violence on college campuses across the nation that I thoroughly
investigate in Chapter 4.
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The modified organizational dimension will refer to an institution’s historical and
contemporary organizational processes of inclusion or exclusion, and the compositional diversity
outcomes they create. This modified definition is an amalgamation of Milem, Chang, and
antonio’s (2005) “organizational/structural diversity” and “compositional diversity” dimensions,
and Hurtado’s (1994) original “historical” dimension. An assessment of this dimension should
engage in both a historical and contemporary analysis of the organizational processes/outcomes
of the institution. For example, possible research questions could include: How do the
organizational processes of the past influence the compositional diversity of the present? How
are the organizational processes of the present informed by policy decisions of the past? In what
ways have current tenure decision-making processes followed a historical pattern of racial
exclusion?
The organizational dimension is primarily comprised of institutional actors. However, as
illustrated by the small, bidirectional arrows, students can also influence this dimension as well.
For example, Stokes and Miller (2019) conducted a case study at the University of California,
Los Angeles, and found that Black student activists were able to successfully alter the
organizational processes of the institution by mobilizing and organizing through a mediated
social media campaign called, “the Black Bruins.” Through a collaborative effort with
administrators, faculty, staff, and student activists, they were able to strategically influence the
university into implementing a general education (GE) diversity requirement for all incoming
first-year students, and hire the University’s first-ever Vice Chancellor for Diversity and Equity
(Stokes & Miller, 2019). This is an example of the bidirectional relationship between students
and the organizational dimension, as all institutional members collectively participated in helping
to improve the campus racial climate of UCLA.
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The geospatial dimension refers to the amount, locations, and arrangement of physical
structures and spaces on a college or university campus, and the cultural artifacts within them,
that signal institutional beliefs and messages about multiculturalism, sense of belonging, safety,
equality, and the roles of institutional members (i.e., students, staff, faculty, and administrators)
(Peterson & Spencer, 1990; Banning & Bartels, 1997; Kuh, 2009). While this dimension has
been found to influence student lives in racialized ways (Banning & Kaiser, 1974; Banning,
1997; Banning & Bartels, 1997; Banning & Kuk, 2005; Kuh, 2009; Cabrera, Watson, &
Franklin, 2016), student activists have also influenced the geospatial dimension of their
institutions as well.
For example, at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, student activists helped
tear down a statue of Confederate soldier, “Silent Sam,” that was located at the center of campus
(Romo, 2018; Wamsley, 2020). A crowd of about 250 students marched onto campus with
banners and signs condemning white supremacy before tying ropes around the statue and tearing
it from its base (Romo, 2018). Before resigning to become the President of the University of
Southern California, former UNC Chapel Hill Chancellor Carol Folt authorized the removal of
the pedestal that the statue was once erected upon (Michaels, Baier & Philip, 2019). This
demonstrated the bidirectional relationship between students and the geospatial dimension of
their university.
Finally, the large cycling arrows illustrate how each of these dimensions are
interconnected with one another (Milem, Chang & antonio, 2005). While it is entirely reasonable
to examine each dimension individually, campus climate researchers should acknowledge the
interrelated relationship between each microsystem dimension. Furthermore, it is always
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important to remember that even an institutional-level analysis of the microsystem should
acknowledge the impact that the actions of institutional actors have on student lives.
Mesosystem (System Context)

Bronfenbrenner (1994) describes the mesosystem as a “system of microsystems” (p. 40).
This ecological system “comprises the linkages and processes taking place between two or more
settings containing the developing person,” or, in a higher education context, settings containing
the developing institution (Bronfenbrenner, 1994, p. 40). The methodological advantages of
engaging in a mesosystem analysis is that it not only introduces “a comparative perspective, but
it also calls attention to the importance of investigating joint effects and interactions between
settings…and thereby highlights the possibility that events in one milieu may influence” an
institution’s microsystem is another (Bronfenbrenner, 1976, p. 10).
Renn (2004) defines the mesosystem as the “mechanism by which campus peer cultures are
created,” adding that “peer culture sends powerful messages about the desirability and
acceptability of certain identities, attitudes, and behaviors” (p. 38). When applied to an
institutional-level context, the mesosystem can also be represented by the institutional culture
shared between institutions. For example, in the context of campus racial climate, a structural
undercurrent and sustainer of racism on college campuses is the standardization of institutional
isomorphism (DiMaggio & Powell, 1983). Isomorphism refers to when “bureaucratization and
other forms of organizational change occur as the result of processes that make organizations
more similar without necessarily making them more efficient” (DiMaggio & Powell, 1983, p.
147).
Garbes (2019) recently expanded this concept to coin the term white institutional
isomorphism, referring to how “white institutional isomorphic pressures are racialized norms that
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shape the standards and practices adopted across organizations within a given field, particularly
when such standards were adopted in an era of legally sanctioned racial exclusion” (p. 3). It is
not only a form of institutional homogenization; it is also the homogenization—and
normalization—of white supremacy. Gusa (2010) explains how “today’s PWIs do not have to be
explicitly racist to create a hostile environment. Instead, unexamined historically situated white
cultural ideology embedded in the language, cultural practices, traditions, and perceptions of
knowledge allow these institutions to remain racialized” (Gusa, p. 465). Consequently, if
“racialized” institutions morph into the structural configurations of other “racialized”
institutions, higher education as a field will remain entrapped within these inequitable
circumstances. The mesosystem provides a lens for which researchers can interrogate these
cross-institutional phenomena within a higher education “system context.”
Exosystem

Bronfenbrenner (1994) defines the exosystem as the “linkages and processes taking place
between two or more settings, at least one of which does not contain the developing person, but
in which events occur that indirectly influence processes within the immediate setting in which
the developing person lives” (p. 40). To place this in a higher education context, one can simply
substitute “person” with “institution.” This ecological system is possibly the most difficult
system to identify for a campus climate assessment, particularly because the linkages between
the two settings do not directly involve the institution under investigation.
However, an example of an exosystem-level issue is how the policy implications of an
institution that is not the institution under investigation can influence the policies of the entire
higher education system (mesosystem). For example, in Chapter 5, I describe how one of the
most pivotal court cases concerning the constitutionality of campus speech codes, Doe v.
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University of Michigan (1989), addressed whether it was appropriate for the university to
implement speech codes that alleviated alleged verbal abuse of minority students (Zollinger,
1991). When the Supreme Court eventually ruled against the university’s speech codes, this
established a system-wide legal precedent that impacted all public higher education institutions
(Zollinger, 1991). Thus, if a researcher was conducting a campus racial climate assessment at a
different public university like the University of Virginia (UVA), the outcomes of the court case
involving the University of Michigan (a microsystem within the mesosystem of UVA) and the
Supreme Court (macrosystem) would still impact what occurs at UVA even though UVA was
never directly involved. What is more, the exosystem arrow in Figure 3 illustrates how the
exosystem overlaps the mesosystem and macrosystem, but does not directly reach the
microsystem level.
Macrosystem (Sociopolitical Context)

The macrosystem can be thought of as “a societal blueprint for a particular culture or
subculture” (Bronfenbrenner, 1994, p. 40) that is dictated and represented by policies at local,
state, and federal levels (Hurtado et al., 2012). Renn (2004) describes how “in the United States,
macrosystem influences include patterns of social stratification and mobility, the economic
system and capitalist ideology, a belief in the ideal of meritocracy and achievement of individual
potential, as well as cultural understandings of gender, race, and ethnicity” (p. 40). Thus, this
system exists within a sociopolitical context, as the political ramifications influence the social
culture or subculture of a society. Since the NCEMACC is built from the foundation of
Hurtado’s (1994) model, and subsequent evolutions (Hurtado et al., 1998; Milem, Chang, &
Antonio, 2005; Hurtado et al., 2012), I once again turn to Hurtado et al.’s (1998) external
domains to help define the macrosystem of this new model.
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The external dimension of Hurtado et al.’s (1998) revised campus climate assessment
model is separated into two domains: (a) the impact of governmental policy, programs and
initiatives, and (b) sociohistorical/sociopolitical forces that impact the campus racial climate.
Hurtado et al. (2012) describes the first domain by explaining that
Educational policies at local, state, and federal levels create an important external context
that shapes campuses and student outcomes. Institutions operate within the policies and
practices of the states in which they are situated, as well as those at the federal level,
which impacts the actions that institutions can take to support student success. Although
the federal government delegates the responsibility of regulating and financing
postsecondary education to states, key federal policies have impacted access to higher
education largely through financial aid, whereas state policies have addressed issues of
affirmative action, in-state tuition for undocumented students, merit aid, and the structure
of public higher education systems including their transfer functions. Unique aspects of
higher education, such as academic freedom and professional autonomy, typically limit
the direct influence of policies on the educational environments of colleges and
universities…Scholars have examined how the broader policy context exerts pressure on
institutions to act in specific ways, which in turn impact student experiences in college
and postsecondary educational outcomes. (p. 93)

This particular domain has been widely examined (O’Brien, 1949; Bell, 1980; Harris, 1993;
Austin, 2004; Tate, 2004; Katznelson, 2005; Schmidt, 2007; Dynarksi & Scott-Clayton, 2013;
Perna, 2015; Goldrick-Rab, Kelchen, Harris & Benson, 2016; Ayoub & Beydoun, 2017), which
is understandable considering how local, state, and federal policies are objective elements of
society that produce outcomes that are measurable and quantifiable. However, for this particular
study, I am more concerned with the second domain. The second domain refers to the
sociopolitical forces that influence how people perceive racial diversity on a microsystem level
(Hurtado et al., 1998).
As I discussed in the three examples from Chapter 2, presidential rhetoric has served as a
powerful mechanism for which ideological justifications for the implementation of policy are
firmly established. In my third example where I compared President Roosevelt’s Executive
Order 9066 to President Trump’s Executive Order 13769, I demonstrated how the national
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perception of race and nationalism were influenced by the way each President and their
constituents negatively framed people of Japanese ancestry (Roosevelt) and Muslim-majority
countries (Trump). As a result, anti-Japanese and anti-Muslim sentiments became an element of
the culture or subculture of the U.S., which was institutionalized and substantiated by an
exclusionary legislative agenda. This is an example of how the macrosystem is comprised of
both the ideological and tangible influences of the sociopolitical environment, which is a vastly
important element of this particular dissertation study.
Throughout my three-study methodological sequence (that I describe in the next section),
I specifically interrogate how the drastic shifts in the macrosystem during the Trump presidency
have influenced college students’ racialized experiences. Through the implementation of
racialized policies, the macrosystem of the current sociopolitical era has inherently influenced
the ecological systems nested within it. Thus, the sociopolitical forces within the macrosystem
are largely dependent upon sociohistorical forces (Hurtado et al., 1998), as each presidential
administration is accompanied by new shifts in the macrosystem, as well as ideological changes
to the culture and subculture of the United States. Bronfenbrenner’s (1976; 1977; 1979; 1994)
ecological model perfectly encompasses this interrelated relationship between Hurtado et al.’s
(1998) two external domains through the chronosystem.
Chronosystem (Sociohistorical Context)

Bronfenbrenner (1994) explains that “time appears not merely as an attribute of the
growing human being, but also as a property of the surrounding environment not only over the
life course, but across historical time” (p. 40). Hurtado et al. (2012) identified how “to date, only
a handful of studies have linked changes in the larger sociohistorical context with changes in the
institution” (p. 99). In Figure 3, the chronosystem is not located within the NCEMACC; rather, it
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is an external, abstract element of the model that represents the sociohistorical era in which the
assessment is taking place. In other words, imagine that the NCEMACC was an input/output
machine. If you were to change the chronosystem to the Obama presidency, the generated
outcomes of the machine would reveal a transformation of the macrosystem, mesosystem,
exosystem, and microsystem, as they would all change according to the tangible fluctuations in
the sociopolitical environment (i.e., local, state, and federal policies) and the intangible shifts in
the racial subculture and culture of the United States (i.e., colorblind politics).
This particular research study exists within the chronosystem of the Trump presidency. I
examine how Trump’s presidential rhetoric and executive decision-making has influenced the
various ecological systems within the NCEMACC, and more specifically, how they have
influenced campus racial climate (microsystem) and college students’ racialized experiences
(innermost circle of the microsystem). Though, in order to comprehensively achieve an
assessment of campus climate during this sociohistorical era, it would require an analytical,
conceptual, or theoretical framework that is specifically designed the identify the contemporary
nuances of the present moment (i.e., my analytical/conceptual framework).
Universal System (Theoretical Cosmology)

As a final component of the NCEMACC, I expand Bronfenbrenner’s (1976; 1977; 1979;
1994) ecological systems model to include the “universal system.” The universal system is
defined as the analytical, conceptual, or theoretical framework used to investigate the specific
phenomenon of campus climate under investigation. The “universe” exists in the outermost layer
of the NCEMACC, illustrating how—just like the chronosystem—it is an abstract and intangible
element of a campus climate assessment, but it also surrounds the nested contexts within it
(hence, the dotted line as opposed to a solid line). This new ecological system provides a
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heuristic structure for researchers to directly insert their underlying principle assumptions and
definitions into the methodology rather than approaching it as a separate entity. For example, in
the previous chapter, I described my composited analytical/conceptual framework that is
specifically designed to critically interrogate the racial elements of presidential rhetoric. This
composited framework can generate a series of principle assumptions, or “universal principles,”
that will help guide my analytical sensemaking.
I have labeled this ecological system “theoretical cosmology” to metaphorically illustrate
how the tangible elements of the macrosystem, and the nested contexts within it, are all situated
within a larger universe that is theoretically constructed by the researcher. Cosmology refers to
an account or theory of the origin of the universe (Merriam-Webster, n.d.). Similarly, the
theoretical framework chosen by an empirical researcher is also a representation of what they
believe is the origin or explanation of the phenomenon under investigation. For example, one of
the tenets of my analytical framework (CRT) is endemic racism, which posits that race and
racism are ontological givens that are indelible elements of society (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001).
Thus, this theoretically implies that all of the ecological systems are inherently racialized
constructs that exist within a universe where race and racism influence all phenomena under
investigation39.
Furthermore, my definition of racism that was constructed in Chapter 2—racism is a
mechanism for creating and maintaining a hierarchical social order through a system of white
supremacy (and processes of racialization) that has been operationalized to achieve the goals of
nationalism and racial capitalism (i.e., European dominion and national superiority)—asserts a

39 Other theoretical cosmologies may incorporate the principles assumptions embedded within critical feminism,
queer theory, conflict theory, or any other analytical, conceptual, or theoretical framework whose definitions help
guide the researcher’s assessment of campus climate issues.
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series of universal assumptions that will dictate how I engage with campus racial climate issues
throughout this dissertation. As illustrated in Figure 3, this meticulously developed theoretical
cosmology is directly embedded within my methodological approach to this particular research
topic. Thus, in the next section I describe my three-study methodological sequence for
examining the influence of the Trump presidency on campus racial climate, and explain how
these three separate methods will be utilized to critically investigate each of the ecological
systems of the NCEMACC.
Three-Study Methodological Sequence for Examining the Influence of the Trump
Presidency on Campus Racial Climate
To examine the influence of the Trump presidency on campus racial climate, I employed
three methodological strategies that helped answer one central research question: How might the
influence of the Trump presidency on college student experiences help us better understand the
interrelated relationship between the internal dimensions of campus racial climate and the larger
sociopolitical environment (external domains)? The three-study methodological sequence
consisted of the following: (1) analyzing a dataset of racist incidents on college campuses from
2013-2018, (2) a phenomenological study at four colleges and universities in California, and (3)
an instrumental case study analysis at the University of Virginia (UVA). These three
methodological strategies helped me comprehensively examine how the Trump presidency has
influenced the various ecological systems of the NCEMACC, and in turn, have affected college
students’ racialized experiences.
Figure 4 illustrates how my three-study methodological sequence is embedded within the
NCEMACC. Each of these studies were conducted within the context of President Donald
Trump’s 2016-2020 presidential term (chronosystem). In the first study (A), I examined a
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national dataset of racist incidents that occurred on college campuses from 2013-2018 to
interrogate whether Trump’s presidential rhetoric and executive decision-making (macrosystem)
has influenced the influx of racial violence on college campuses across the nation (mesosystem).
In the second study (B), I employed phenomenological methods to examine whether Trump’s
presidential rhetoric and executive decision-making (macrosystem) has influenced students’
racialized experiences at four college and universities in Southern California. This study
Figure 4 Three-Study Methodological Sequence for Examining the Influence of the Trump
Presidency on Campus Racial Climate

examines how the macrosystem has affected individual microsystems (each of the four colleges
individually) and the mesosystem (the cross-institutional patterns found in the data). Finally, the
third study (C) was an instrumental case study at the University of Virginia (UVA). This study
took place at one specific institution (microsystem), so I was able to thoroughly engage each
individual dimension of UVA’s campus racial climate. I specifically explored how the Trump
presidency (sociopolitical and sociohistorical context) influenced the historical and
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contemporary institutional context of UVA. This methodological sequence helped to provide a
comprehensive assessment of campus racial climate during the Trump presidency by
systematically tapering the methodological scope from a macrosystem-level to a microsystem-
level analysis.
A: Analyzing a Dataset of Racist Incidents on College Campuses From 2013-2018: A
Theory-Based Data Analysis Approach to Exploring the Association Between the Trump
Presidency and Campus Racial Violence
A team of research associates at the USC Race and Equity Center and I collaboratively
constructed a dataset of news articles from Diverse Issues in Higher Education, The Chronicle of
Higher Education, and Inside Higher Ed, that reported on racist incidents that have occurred on
college campuses from 2013-2018. The research team found that there was a significant increase
in reported racist incidents after the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign on June 16, 2015,
reaching a rate of over 100 reported incidents per year by 2018. The number of reported
incidents has remained at a remarkably high rate throughout his presidential term, which is a
phenomenon deserving of further examination.
As I have detailed in the previous section, the “Trump Effect” has been referred to by
researchers as the influence of Donald Trump’s presidential rhetoric and political decision-
making on the nation, and more specifically education (Costello & Cohen, 2016; Korostelina,
2017; Rogers et al., 2017). However, the term “effect” assumes a level of causality that I wish to
avoid. Thus, I analyzed the aforementioned dataset of reported racist incidents to examine
whether the “Trump presidency”—an aggregated term referring to Trump’s presidential rhetoric
and political decision-making (macrosystem)40— has affected campus racial climate to a

40 The similar labeling of macrosystem and chronosystem may be confusing. Thus, to clarify, the “Trump
presidency” macrosystem refers to Trump’s presidential rhetoric and executive decision-making, while the “Trump
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significant degree. I am placing emphasis on this distinction in order to demonstrate that while I
may anticipate an association between the Trump presidency and the influx of reported racist
incidents on college campuses—especially considering the findings from the various studies I
have presented—I am not proposing any causal inferences.
As illustrated in Figure 4, this particular study (A) examines how the Trump presidency
(macrosystem) has influenced (arrow) racial violence on higher education campuses across the
nation (mesosystem) by investigating each individual incident (microsystem). More specifically,
this study demonstrates how the sociopolitical environment affects the behavioral dimension
(racial violence involving students, staff, faculty and administrators) of campus racial climate.
The research sub-question for this study is the following: Is there a focal relationship between
the Trump presidency and the recent influx of reported racist incidents occurring on college
campuses since the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign? This sub-question will allow me
to more accurately answer the central research question as well.
Aneshensel (2012) provides a theory-based data analysis approach for social science
research, however, their methodology is primarily structured for quantitative data. Thus, I
repurpose their analytic approach to fit the qualitative design of my study, shifting their
statistical procedures into a more content-driven method (i.e., the articles reporting on racist
incidents). Aneshensel’s (2012) method is based on the “elaboration model”—an explanatory
model that accounts for an observed association between two variables to explain why one
variable is correlated with another. The model entails “comparing theory-based expectations
about a relationship or observed associations” (Aneshensel, 2012, p. 10). These theory-based

presidency” chronosystem refers to the sociohistorical context for when this dissertation study was conducted. Since
the entire three-study methodological sequence was conducted within the sociohistorical context (chronosystem) of
the Trump presidency, I will essentially be treating it as a given. From this point forward, the Trump presidency will
simply refer to the macrosystem-level context unless stated otherwise.
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expectations are referred to as a “focal relationship.” The focal relationship refers to the
theoretical link that connects the two original variables. The first analytic step is to “establish
that the focal relationship is feasible…by demonstrating that the two variables are empirically
associated with one another. After establishing association, further analysis serves to evaluate
whether the focal relationship is indeed a relationship or merely an association” (Aneshensel,
2012, p. 11). The “focal relationship” in this particular case will be the Trump presidency
(macrosystem) and the occurrence of racist incidents on college campuses (microsystem).
Aneshensel’s (2012) data analysis approach also requires systematically introducing
“third variables” to assess the impact of the original association. This will be a difficult process
to emulate for a qualitative study, as there is no “dependent variable” in a traditional quantitative
sense. However, in repurposing Aneshensel’s (2012) model for qualitative inquiry, the dependent
variables for this study will be both the volume and type of racist incidents that occur on college
campuses. To account for the “third variables,” I compared the institutional characteristics of the
incidents to observe the degree to which they are associated with variation in the dependent
variable. I employed Aneshensel’s (2012) “exclusionary strategy” to establish the focal
relationship as an associative type of relationship. This analytic strategy involves the analysis of
control variables and the introduction of additional independent “third variables” (Covariates41)
to demonstrate that they do not account for the observed association between the independent
(Trump presidency) and dependent variables (racist incidents). However, it does allow for
flexibility when analyzing the associative relationship. For example, the exclusionary strategy
takes into consideration that “other independent variables and control variables usually account
for some of the variation in the dependent variable…[but] the inference of relatedness is

41 For example, the racial demographics, geographic location, and population of the institution.
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supported when other explanations do not account for all of the covariation between the focal
independent and dependent variables” (Aneshensel, p. 12). In other words, it would be
unreasonable to assume that the Trump presidency is the singular cause of every racist incident
in the database, but the phenomenon can still be significantly associated with the dependent
variable. As I have illustrated from the literature, there is nothing contemporaneously novel
about racism on college campuses. Thus, this particular analysis is simply meant to demonstrate
that the recent influx of reported racist incidents on college campuses can be conceptually
explained as a possible byproduct of the sociohistorical/sociopolitical (i.e., the Trump
presidency) context.
To efficiently organize and analyze the dataset, I employed Yin’s (2011) five-phased
cycle for qualitative analysis: (1) compiling, (2) disassembling, (3) reassembling (and arraying),
(4) interpreting, and (5) concluding. As described above, I have already completed the compiling
phase of the data alongside research associates at the USC Race and Equity Center. I
downloaded each article and uploaded the documents into a computer assisted qualitative data
analysis software (CAQDAS)—NVivo 12. The second phase consisted of disassembling the
completed dataset of racist incidents by assigning deductive codes and establishing preliminary
themes. This included the institutional characteristics of where the racist incident occurred.
These “general codes” were comprised of 6 categories: institution setting (city, suburb, rural, or
town), institution type (2-year public, 4-year private, or 4-year public), the racial demographics
of the institution (PWI or not PWI), the U.S. state where the incident occurred, the size of the
student population of the institution (small, midsize, or large), and the year when the incident
occurred (2013-2018).
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I then proceeded to the third phase where I reassembled the dataset of incidents into more
substantive inductive codes, which consisted of a total of 33 themes including citizenship, white
supremacy/nationalism, anti-Semitism, or attacks on specific groups of color. For example, when
an article specifically mentioned President Donald Trump’s name, his presidential rhetoric, or
references to a particular policy implemented by the Trump administration, I categorized the data
into a code labeled, “Trump mentioned.” I presented the reassembled codes graphically to
provide a visual depiction of the thematic patterns of the data. This concluded the organization
portion of data analysis process.
The fourth phase initiated the interpretation of the organized data. I evaluated the data to
determine the “narrative” that it represents, and engaged in the analytical sensemaking process
before drawing my conclusions (Aneshensel, 2012). This led me to the final phase where I made
my conclusions about the results. I was able to answer a few key questions: What is particularly
unique about the themes derived from the dataset? Are the incidents associated with the Trump
presidency as the literature suggests (i.e., Trump Effect)? Are there are specific groups that have
been targeted more than others? Are there specific groups who are the main perpetrators of the
racist incidents? This five-phased process (Yin, 2011)—along with Aneshensel’s (2012) theory-
based data analysis approach—helped me examine the extent to which campus racial climate
(meso- and microsystem) may have been affected by the Trump presidency (macrosystem). This
study served as a conceptual point of departure—and exploratory rationale—for two additional
studies: a phenomenological study at four colleges and universities in California and an
instrumental case study at the University of Virginia (UVA).
Limitations

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There are several limitations of this study that I attempted to circumvent to the best of my
abilities. One significant limitation involves the level of content provided within each article of
the dataset. There is a noticeable variation of detail in the articles covering the racist incidents.
While some authors provide names, quotes, and police reports, others only provide a surface-
level account of the incidents. Thus, I engaged in an additional investigative process to find as
much information as possible for my analysis by utilizing any relevant hyperlinks within the
articles, and searching the internet for additional coverage of the incidents.
Similarly, another limitation is that the dataset does not include every racist incident that
occurred on a college or university campus from 2013-2018. The dataset is comprised of articles
from three specific websites. While the dataset includes all of the articles from 2013-2015, there
was a substantial increase in reported racist incidents after the launch of Trump’s presidential
campaign that made it extremely difficult to collect all of the articles. Thus, we decided to limit
the sample to 350 reported racist incidents to make the dataset more analytically manageable.
By introducing additional independent variables, the researcher can discern whether the
observed association between the two original variables (i.e. Trump presidency and racist
incidents on college campuses) can be explained by something other than the focal relationship
(Aneshensel, 2012). I introduced a number of covariates into my analysis, including institution
type, racial demographics of the college or university, geographic location, and population size,
but I am well aware that these will not entirely account for the wide array of possible covariates
that could be included. However, to reiterate, Aneshensel’s (2012) “exclusionary strategy” states
that there is a certain level of flexibility that is permitted when analyzing the observed
association. While it is expected for the additional independent variables to account for some of
the variation in the dependent variable (racist incidents), their degree of relatedness does not
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interfere with the focal relationship as long as they do not account for all of the covariation
between the focal independent and dependent variable (Aneshensel, 2012).
Another limitation of the “covariates” component of Aneshensel’s (2012) data analysis
approach involves the unpredictability of human behavior. “Third variables,” or “covariates” are
used to limit the possibility that the association between the two original variables is an anomaly.
By ruling out alternative explanations for an empirical association, it is more feasible to infer an
associative type of connection exists between the two variables (Aneshensel, 2012). This is
difficult to imitate with a qualitative dataset of racist incidents because I am essentially
evaluating the behaviors of the perpetrators. There are infinite possibilities to explain why these
perpetrators act in racist ways (childhood upbringing, social environment, family dynamics, etc.),
which makes it unlikely to declare a direct causal relationship between racial violence on college
campuses and any phenomenon at all. However, as I have demonstrated in Chapter 4, there was a
significant amount of evidence that allowed me to draw conclusions from the data despite these
limitations.
B: A Phenomenological Study Examining the Relationship Between the Trump Presidency
and College Students’ Racialized Experiences
The second methodological strategy for exploring the relationship between the Trump
presidency and campus racial climate is a phenomenological study at four colleges and
universities in California. As illustrated in Figure 4, this study examines how the macrosystem
(Trump presidency) has influenced the mesosystem (four colleges and universities) nested within
it. While some of my analysis focuses on one specific institution (microsystem), the primary
objective of this study is to identify patterns between students’ racialized experiences across the
four colleges and universities (the mesosystem, or, the “system of microsystems”)
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(Bronfenbrenner, 1994, p. 40). Therefore, I did not engage in a thorough investigation into the
microsystem dimensions (perceptual, behavioral, organizational, and geospatial) of any specific
institution out of the four; rather, I concentrated on whether there were cross-institutional trends
between the four microsystem dimensions under investigation. This study helped answer the
central research question, as well as some additional sub-questions:
1. What is the relationship between the Trump presidency and students’ racialized
experiences on campus?
2. How do students perceive and experience the influence of Trump’s presidential
rhetoric on campus?
3. Does the Trump presidency affect student behavior? If so, how?
A phenomenological study was an appropriate method for engaging these research
questions because perception and sensemaking are core components of the methodological
approach. Phenomenology refers to the “the science of describing what one perceives, senses,
and knows in one’s immediate awareness and experience” (Moustakas, 1994, p. 30).
Phenomenological studies search beyond descriptive analyses to engage in an evaluation of
consciousness—the realm of experience and meaning-making (Polkinghorne, 1989; Moustakas,
1994). The core principle of phenomenology involves the role of the participant, as it requires a
participant sample that has experienced the phenomenon under investigation. Polkinghorne
(1989) explains how this type of experiential data differs from “commonsense descriptions that
are aimed at depicting things or happenings as they exist independently of a person’s experience
of them [because] the production of phenomenological protocols requires that subjects’
awareness be redirected toward their own experiencing” (p. 46, emphasis added). In other words,
while the phenomenon is a shared experience, it is experienced in various ways.
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In phenomenological studies, the researcher is asked to abstain from making
suppositions, and instead focus on specific topics “freshly and naively” (Moustakas, 1994, p. 46).
Rather than having a predetermined hypothesis, phenomenologists investigate the essential
attributes of phenomena and relay the results in a descriptive manner (Polkinghorne, 1989). The
phenomenon is then discovered through the data as the researcher formulates common themes
and narratives. This is different than my “universal system” context illustrated in Figure 4. While
my analytical/conceptual framework provided me with an experimental lens for my analysis, it
did not affect the phenomenological findings (i.e., the collection of the data). Polkinghorne
(1989) separates phenomenologically based inquiries into two basic types: (a) those that ask how
objects are present to the various modes of conscious experience, such as perception or memory,
and (b) those that ask how meaning presents itself in experience. While this study did require the
participants to reflect on their experiences in retrospect, it is primarily structured toward
examining the second type—meaning-making derived from experience.
Study Sites

The study was conducted at four colleges and universities in California (institution names
have been given pseudonyms): Clearview College (CVC), a private liberal arts college; Central
City University (CCU), a large private university; El Camino State University (ECSU), a large
public state university; and Los Angeles Southern University (LASU), a large public university.
The racial demographics of the four institutions are as follows:
Clearview College (CVC): White (41%), Undocumented (16%), Hispanic (15%), Asian
(11%), Race/Ethnicity Unknown (6%), Two or More Races (6%), Black or African
American (4%), Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander (0%), American Indian or
Alaska Native (0%).
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Central City University (CCU): White (31%), Undocumented (24%), Asian (17%),
Hispanic (15%), Black or African American (6%), Race/Ethnicity Unknown (4%), Two
or More Races (4%), Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander (0%), American Indian
or Alaska Native (0%).
El Camino State University (ECSU): White (31%), Undocumented (24%), Asian
(17%), Hispanic (15%), Black or African American (6%), Race/Ethnicity Unknown
(4%), Two or More Races (4%), Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander (0%),
American Indian or Alaska Native (0%).
Los Angeles Southern University (LASU): White (28%), Asian (25%), Hispanic (19%),
Undocumented (16%), Two or More Races (5%), Black or African American (3%),
Race/Ethnicity Unknown (3%), Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander (0%),
American Indian or Alaska Native (0%).
A multiple-institution approach is beneficial for understanding that the sociopolitical
phenomenon under investigation is not unique to any particular institution-type (Yin, 2014).
Bronfenbrenner (1976) describes the importance of “replication,” which refers to how “the
finding of significant difference from one classroom or peer group to the next has important
methodological as well as substantive implications” (p. 11). In the context of this study, this
statement can be interpreted as: the different findings between one institution and another can
render substantive methodological and analytical implications. For example, if the racialized
experiences of students at CVC (microsystem) differed from those at LASU (microsystem within
the same mesosystem), it could provide valuable insight into how the Trump presidency
(macrosystem) can varyingly influence campus racial climate across settings. This is also the
case for similarities within the data, as “the inclusion of more than one setting in the research
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design…can not only alert the investigator to unwarranted conclusions but, more importantly,
can illuminate relationships existing both within and between settings that may profoundly
influence” the students’ racialized experiences (Bronfenbrenner, 1994, p. 11).
Furthermore, these Southern California institutions are each located in a unique
geographic environment near the U.S.-Mexico border where students are highly exposed to the
possible consequences of strict immigration policy implemented by the Trump administration. I
anticipate that the locations of these study sites will provide a rich avenue for substantive
analysis of the phenomenon under investigation. Additionally, the findings from Chapter 4
illustrated that California had one of the highest state-level frequencies of reported racist
incidents on college campuses. This phenomenological study helped supplement these findings
by exploring how the Trump presidency has significantly influenced the racialized experiences
of college students living through the Trump presidency (chronosystem).
Participant Sample

The participant sample was chosen through a process of criterion sampling (Patton,
2002). Criterion sampling refers to including participants who meet some predetermined criteria,
specifically those who can provide insight into a particular phenomenon (Patton, 2002). As
stated previously, a phenomenological study requires that the participants have experienced the
phenomenon under investigation. Thus, the criteria for this participant sample was to be an
undergraduate student who has been in college throughout any of Donald Trump’s 2016-2020
presidential term. The total sample was comprised of 83 undergraduate students who were
recruited from racially homogenous student groups on campus. I recruited the students by
emailing digital flyers to nearly every student organization on each of the four study sites. Each
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participant signed up for a focus group interview time slot through an online sign-up website that
I specifically customized for this study.
This methodological approach also aligns with my analytical framework (Critical Race
Theory). In what I describe below, my data collection consisted of focus group interviews where
I invited college students to share their perspectives about the campus racial climate at their
respective institutions. The participant sample consisted of a diverse range of racial identity
groups who were asked to reflect on their racialized experiences throughout the last four years.
Phenomenological research requires that the researcher avoid projecting any preconceived
assumptions into their data collection process (Moustakas, 1994). Similarly, one of the CRT
tenets included in my analytical framework, “hegemonic Whiteness,” frames racism as
“probabilistic as opposed to deterministic” (Cabrera, 2018, p. 225). Under this paradigmatic
approach, the researcher acknowledges that students of color may have increased levels of racial
awareness compared to their white counterparts, but this is not assumed (Cabrera, 2018). The
principles of hegemonic Whiteness allow for a “greater heterogeneity of voices to emerge” when
exploring the racialized experiences of students of color (Cabrera, p. 227). Thus, conducting
interviews with a diverse range of students helped alleviate the possibility of treating students of
color as a monolithic group. This point is specifically important for how I engaged the findings
from my focus group interviews with politically conservative students of color and politically
liberal students of color.
Data Collection

I utilized Polkinghorne’s (1989) three sources of generating descriptions of experiences for
phenomenological inquiry: (1) the researchers’ personal self-reflections, (2) interviewing the
participants of the study about how they personally experience the phenomenon, and (3)
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depictions of the experience from outside the context of the research project. The first of these
descriptions has been provided in my introductory chapter where I described my experience as a
graduate resident assistant at the University of Pennsylvania during the aftermath of the election.
Having experienced how the arrival of the new presidential administration impacted the campus
racial climate at my alma mater, I was able to build upon my own experiential knowledge as the
source of my intellectual curiosity. Additionally, in one particular section of Chapter 5, I reflect
on my personal relationship with some aspects of the data. I was personally criticized in a book
written by Heather Mac Donald, a conservative commentator whose speaking engagement
sparked controversy between students at Clearview College (CVC). I reflected on how her
criticism helped frame the student participants’ responses and provide important context behind
the incident.
The second of Polkinghorne’s sources was acquired through experiential data derived from
semi-structured focus group interviews. Semi-structured interviews and focus groups incorporate
both open-ended and more theoretically driven questions that are grounded in the experience of
the participant (Galletta, 2013). By approaching the interviews in a semi-structured manner, I
was not bound by a strict, inflexible interview protocol. Rather, I had the opportunity to probe
the participants with additional questions related to their individual responses. Lastly,
Polkinghorne’s third source involved my data triangulation strategy (political discourse analysis
and critical textual analysis) which will be further explained in the data analysis section.
I spent one week at each of the four study sites facilitating a series of one-hour focus group
interviews with undergraduate students (Yin, 2014). There were 21 focus groups total, and each
of the focus groups comprised of three to ten students. The students were asked to reflect on how
their racialized experiences have been influenced by the Trump presidency throughout their time
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in college. The students were also asked to respond to specific quotes from President Trump’s
speeches and interviews, as well as policies implemented by the Trump administration. For
example, some of the questions that the participants were asked include:
1. When President Trump said that the Mexican immigrants crossing the border were
“criminals” and “rapists,” how did you react?
a. Did any of your close friends feel a particular way about it?
2. When President Trump said that “Islam hates us,” how did this make you feel?
a. Did any of your close friends feel a particular way about it?
3. Has there ever been something that Trump said in a speech or interview that made you
feel a certain way?
a. If so, when were your emotions most intense?
b. If not, how would you feel if others were offended?
4. Has the presidential rhetoric of Donald Trump been mirrored in any way on campus?
a. If so, can you provide an example?
I have provided the complete interview protocol in Appendix A.
Data Analysis

To analyze the focus group and interview data, I utilized several methods prescribed by
Strauss and Corbin (1998) and Saldaña (2016). In Phase I of my analysis, I read through the
transcripts from each interview to gain a better understanding of the racialized experiences of the
college students. I conducted a line-by-line coding of the transcripts; however, Phase I was not
devoted to any close examination of the text. Instead, I circled, highlighted, bolded, or
underlined any significant participant quotes or passages that I felt were worthy of further
analysis in the subsequent phases (Layder, 1998; Saldaña, 2016).
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When Phase I was complete, I then began Phase II of my analysis where I categorized the
data through “open-coding” (Strauss & Corbin, 1998). Strauss & Corbin (1998) describe open-
coding as when data are broken down into discrete parts, closely examined, and compared for
similarities and differences. Certain components of the data that are found to be conceptually
similar in nature are grouped under more abstract categories/themes (Strauss & Corbin, 1998).
For example, if a student experienced a racist incident that involved Trump’s governmental
decision-making (i.e., the “Muslim Ban,” the threat of rescinding Deferred Action for Childhood
Arrivals, or the “‘Zero Tolerance’ Immigration Enforcement Policy”), I coded the passage as
“Trump Policy Implications.”
After the open-coding of the transcripts in Phase II was completed, I then moved on to
Phase III where I read through the transcripts again to generate initial themes through the use of
“axial-coding.” Axial-coding refers to the contextualization of a phenomenon, that is, “to locate
it within a conditional structure and identify the ‘how’ or the means through which a category is
manifested” (Strauss & Corbin, 1998, p.127). I searched through my preliminary codes to
establish relationships amongst the various code categories which allowed me to deductively
identify subcategories that helped describe the various elements of the racialized experiences
described by the college students.
However, to augment the axial-coding process, it was helpful to utilize the constant
comparative method described by Glaser (1965). Each of the significant passages from the
transcript were not examined in isolation, rather, I concurrently compared them to other excerpts
in the same coding category to ensure that they aligned with the same conceptual properties. I
then was able to integrate the separate categories to show how they were all interconnected
components of an overarching conceptual scheme (i.e., my analytical/conceptual framework).
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Next, I continued to “delimit the theory” by establishing the boundaries for which my data was
confined. This step is further described in Phase IV as my “central category” (Strauss & Corbin,
1998). Finally, Phase IV consisted of “selective coding,” which is the process of integrating and
refining the coding categories (Strauss & Corbin, 1998). During this phase, I eliminated any
extraneous concepts that were not associated with the specific study to ensure that my database
only contained relevant data to answer the research questions. To efficiently organize the
selective codes, I developed code reports using NVivo 12. When the categorical findings reached
a point of data saturation (Glaser & Strauss, 1967; Kolb, 2012), I was then ready to connect
significant passages from the transcripts to related literature.
After the four phases were completed, I engaged in an additional data analysis strategy
where I triangulated the focus group interview data with supplementary information. While the
phenomenological study was the primary methodology, it seemed appropriate to incorporate a
sub-component of discourse and textual analysis given that this is a study involving the
examination of presidential rhetoric. Discourse analysis is a particular view of language as an
element of social life which is closely interconnected with other elements (e.g. social identities
and practices, relationships between people, ideologies, etc.) (Fairclough, 2003). Discourses vary
in “how social events are represented, what is excluded or included, how abstractly or concretely
events are represented, and how more specifically the processes and relations, social actors, time
and place of events are represented” (Fairclough, 2003, p. 17). Textual analysis is an essential
part of discourse analysis. Fairclough (1995) separates textual analysis into two complementary
types of analysis: linguistic analysis and intertextual analysis. Linguistic analysis focuses on
phonology, grammar, vocabulary and semantics, while intertextual analysis “crucially mediates
the connection between language and social context” (Fairclough, 1995, p. 189). For the purpose
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of this study, I incorporated intertextual analysis to understand how the textual elements of
Trump’s presidential rhetoric affected students’ racialized experiences. However, both textual
and discourse analysis are limited in that researchers cannot conclude anything causal when
analyzing the residual ramifications of, for example, a transcript of a conversation or a verbalized
speech (Fairclough, 1995). To assess the causal and ideological effects, one would need to “link
the `micro' analysis of texts to the `macro' analysis of how power relations work across networks
of practices and structures” (Fairclough, 2003, p. 15). Therefore, I engaged in a political
discourse analysis and a critical textual analysis that helped offset this limitation.
Both critical textual analysis and political discourse analysis are built upon the
assumption that spoken words and texts are often representations of ideologies (Fairclough,
2003). Ideologies are modalities of power that contribute to establishing, maintaining and
changing social relations of domination and exploitation (Fairclough, 2003). In the unique case
of presidential rhetoric, however, the dynamic of power is already assumed given the ethos of the
political position (Zarefsky, 2004). Political discourse analysis is therefore understood as the
“analysis of political discourse from a critical perspective, a perspective which focuses on the
reproduction and contestation of political power through political discourse” (Fairclough &
Fairclough, 2012, p. 17). Similarly, critical textual analysis situates texts within a broader social
context (Fairclough, 2003). Texts are inseparably linked to various social elements—they are
representations of ideologies and worldviews that structure the behaviors and actions of people
in society (Fairclough, 2003). Thus, by including Trump’s quotes as a component of the
interview protocol, the students’ responses (microsystem) served as evidence to the broader
systemic influence of both the textual and spoken properties of presidential rhetoric
(macrosystem). Through a political discourse analysis and critical textual analysis approach, I
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was able to better understand how and why these students’ racialized experiences were
influenced by the Trump presidency in varying ways.
Limitations

There were several limitations to consider for this study. One limitation was that the
student participants had no prior knowledge as to what the institution was like before the election
of Donald Trump. Without a past to compare their experiences with, it was difficult for the
students to decipher what is uniquely different about the campus racial climate of their respective
institutions compared to previous years. However, phenomenological inquiries are not theory-
bound (Polkinghorne, 1989). Thus, by approaching the data without any preconceived notions,
the success of the study was not dependent upon the results aligning with my
analytical/conceptual framework. The participants’ perspectives about the campus racial climate
of their college or university provided valuable insight into the racialized experiences of college
students regardless if they believed they had been impacted by the Trump presidency. For
example, if the participants felt that the Trump presidency had no influence on their college-
going experiences, I was able to investigate how and why these results differed from their peers.
This study also presented a limitation involving the data collection methods. When
conducting focus groups interviews, there is always a risk of the participants being influenced by
the “focus group effect” (Patton, 2002). The focus group effect refers to when participants with
unpopular or minority points of view feel discouraged to offer their perspectives in focus groups
in fear of being judged or criticized (Patton, 2002). I attempted to create a welcoming and
inclusive environment that allowed for the perspectives and experiences of all participants to be
fully accepted and appreciated. However, given that the topic under investigation often generated
fervent responses from the participants, the “focus group effect” may have discouraged students
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with certain political ideologies from speaking. Though, this only appeared to be an issue in one
particular focus group at El Camino State University (ECSU). In Chapter 5, I describe how I
navigated through this issue to the best of my abilities.
C: An Instrumental Case Study Investigating the Relationship Between the Trump
Presidency and Campus Racial Climate at the University of Virginia (UVA)
My third methodological approach for examining the relationship between the Trump
presidency and campus racial climate was an instrumental case study analysis at the University
of Virginia (UVA). As illustrated in Figure 4, this study examines how the macrosystem (Trump
presidency) has influenced one specific microsystem (UVA). The primary difference between
this study and the phenomenological study described in the previous section is that an
instrumental case study approach allowed me to thoroughly engage each institutional dimension
of UVA (microsystem). This included a comprehensive analysis of UVA students’ perceptions
and behavior, the organizational processes and procedures of institutional actors at UVA, and the
unique geospatial dimension of UVA. Hurtado et al. (2012) identified how “the organizational
dimension of the campus racial climate is not often examined empirically across campuses
because it requires a good deal of information about various structures and practices within
institutions and across a large number of institutions” (p. 63). This instrumental case study
allowed for a close examination of the “various structures and practices” of UVA, which the
phenomenological study from the previous section was not designed to accomplish. While
answering the central research question was the primary focus of this study, I also answered a set
of additional sub-questions:
1. What is the relationship between the Trump presidency and the campus racial climate at a
four-year institution in the South?
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2. How do students perceive and experience Trump’s presidential rhetoric and political
decision-making on campus?
3. How do the geospatial and organizational dimensions of the University of Virginia help
us better understand student perceptions, behaviors, and racialized experiences?
This methodological approach aligned with the goals of this study for a variety of
reasons. Case studies are particularly helpful for analyzing both the structural and interpersonal
aspects of a phenomenon (Yin, 2003). Case study is an empirical inquiry that “investigates a
contemporary phenomenon in depth and within its real-world context, especially when the
boundaries between phenomenon and context may not be clearly evident” (Yin, 2003, p. 75).
Thus, the sociohistorical context (chronosystem) of the study is a vitally important variable.
However, Yin (2014) emphasizes that “case studies are not the best method for assessing the
prevalence of phenomena” (p. 159, emphasis added). To “assess the prevalence” in this way
would require an “impossibly large sample of cases” and yield a “large number of potentially
relevant variables” to consider (Yin, 2014, p. 159). Thus, while I hoped to achieve this goal
through the two previous studies, for this methodological approach I was more interested in how
the Trump presidency (macrosystem) influenced the institutional dimensions of UVA, and how
this interrelated relationship affected students’ racialized experiences (innermost circle of the
microsystem).
More specifically, I utilized an instrumental case study (Stake, 2005) analysis for this line
of inquiry. Instrumental case studies are deliberately designed to illustrate how the results are a
byproduct of broader systemic issues rather than an institutionally-specific phenomenon (Stake,
2005). Therefore, while some of the results provided nuanced information that was specific to
the microsystem of UVA, the overall purpose of the study was to provide an analytic
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generalization—a generality based on the advancement of theoretical concepts that are
referenced in designing a specific case study (Yin, 2003). In this context, these theoretical
concepts were incorporated into the three-study methodological sequence through my
analytical/conceptual framework.
Study Site

The University of Virginia’s history with slavery has been scrupulously interrogated by
various scholars (Bruce, 1920; Graves, 2012; Faulkner, 2013; Wilder, 2013; Stein, 2016). When
construction began in 1817, the university utilized slave labor to erect buildings, haul supplies,
and maintain the campus grounds (Wilder, 2013; Stein, 2016). University professors and
administrators owned the majority of enslaved persons, including the founder of the university,
Thomas Jefferson (Faulkner, 2013; Stein, 2016). By 1829, the university instituted a slave patrol
to monitor and control the enslaved persons on UVA’s campus (Stein, 2016). Slave labor was an
integral component of UVA’s campus structure until nearly eight years after the university
officially opened in 1819 (Stein, 2016). One hundred years later, the President’s Commission on
Slavery and the University of Virginia produced a multi-year research project to examine this
unfortunate legacy (President’s Commission on Slavery and the University Report, 2018). In the
final report, the authors admit that “they learned very quickly that it is a mistake to understand
UVA (or any other university) as walled off from the community in which it is embedded”
(President’s Commission on Slavery and the University Report, 2018, p. 6). This deeply rooted
historical legacy of racism positions UVA as a profoundly germane site for analytical
sensemaking. However, as if haunted by this reprehensible past, the blatant saliency of racism is
still evident on campus.
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On August 11, 2017, the University of Virginia garnered national media attention when
hundreds of white nationalists marched and rallied on campus, carrying torches and chanting,
“Jews will not replace us,” “White Lives Matter,” and “Blood and soil”—a Nazi slogan (Jaschik,
2017a). The rally was organized by various white nationalist groups under the name, “Unite the
Right,” who were outraged over the City of Charlottesville’s plans to remove a statue of
Confederate soldier Robert E. Lee from a local park (Nelson & Harold, 2018). The white
supremacists clashed with a group of brave counter-protesters, many of whom were students, at
the base of the statue of Thomas Jefferson (Nelson & Harold, 2018). The event resulted in a
number of students being injured, both physically and psychologically, as the university failed to
protect them (Nelson & Harold, 2018). Following the event, President Trump said at a press
conference, “I think there is blame on both sides… You had a group on one side that was bad.
You had a group on the other side that was also very violent. Nobody wants to say that. I’ll say it
right now” (Trump, as cited in Shear & Haberman, 2017). The historical literature has illustrated
that institutional racism has been an integral component of the university since it was founded,
thus revealing how the events on that August night did not unearth something not yet discovered.
Instead, it provided valuable insight into how a sociopolitical phenomenon has potentially
capitalized upon a structural vulnerability that has existed for over a century.
Participant Sample
Similar to the phenomenological study, I approached the instrumental case study through
a process of criterion sampling (Patton, 2002). However, the rationale for this sampling method
is slightly different. Patton (2002) describes how “the point of criterion sampling is to be sure to
understand cases that are likely to be information rich because they may reveal major system
weaknesses that become targets of opportunity for program or system improvement” (p. 238).
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The Vice President for Diversity, Equity and Inclusion at UVA granted me permission to
conduct a campus racial climate assessment at UVA to interrogate the racialized realities of
current students in the context of the Trump presidency. The findings from the study will be
translated into a detailed report for the university faculty, staff, and administrators to utilize for
improving their campus racial climate. Thus, for this instrumental case study analysis at UVA,
my aim was to find students who could provide this valuable information about the university’s
infrastructure and campus racial climate.
I mainly focused on recruiting students from racially homogenous student groups on campus.
I sent out recruitment emails with a link to an online sign-up sheet to nearly every student
organization at UVA. The total sample was comprised of 81 undergraduate students ranging
from first year students to fifth year seniors. The majority of my interviews were conducted in
the basement of Newcomb Hall (UVA Student Union) where the Multicultural Student Center
(MSC) was previously located. As I describe in Chapter 6, the location of these interviews was
an intentional heuristic decision as well.
Data Collection
I spent a week at the University of Virginia in the fall of 2019 facilitating a series of one-
hour focus group interviews (Yin, 2014) with students about the campus racial climate. There
were 24 focus group interviews total, each consisting of three to ten students. The students were
asked to reflect on whether they believed their racialized college-going experiences have been
influenced by the Trump presidency. The students were also asked to respond to specific quotes
from President Trump’s speeches and interviews. However, the interview protocol differed from
the previous focus groups at the Southern California schools in that I also incorporated
institution-specific questions. For example, the participants were asked to share their
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perspectives on how the sociopolitical environment, geographical location, university policies,
the university’s historical legacy of racism, and the university administration and faculty all
contribute to generating their campus racial climate (macrosystem sociopolitical context and
microsystem-level institutional dimensions). Some of these questions included:
1. How would you describe the campus racial climate of UVA?
a. Do you think the Trump presidency has changed it in any way?
i. If so, can you provide an example?
ii. If not, why do you think others may feel this way?
2. In August of 2017, a “Unite the Right” rally took place on your campus that garnered
national media attention. What were your thoughts and feelings after this happened?
a. Do you believe there was something specific to UVA that provided space for this
event to take place?
b. Do you believe there is something specific to the state of Virginia, and the city of
Charlottesville specifically, that provided space for this event to take place?
c. Did this personally affect you?
i. If so, in what ways?
d. Did this impact other students on your campus?
i. If so, in what ways?
3. The University of Virginia has a history of slavery that has recently been addressed by
university administrators. Do you believe this history influences the current campus racial
climate in any way?
a. If so, how?
b. If not, why do you feel the university has been able to move past this?
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The complete interview protocol can be found in Appendix B.
Data Analysis

To analyze the data, I engaged in the same four phase process prescribed by Strauss and
Corbin (1998) and Saldaña (2016) that I employed for the phenomenology study. Similarly, I
triangulated the interview data with a critical textual analysis and political discourse analysis
(Fairclough, 1995, 2003) of Trump’s presidential rhetoric. There were several incidents that
occurred at UVA throughout the past few years that led to university officials sending out
campus-wide emails/statements to the UVA community. Thus, as an additional component of my
triangulation process, I analyzed some of the campus-wide emails and statements that were sent
out by university staff and administrators as well. These emails and statements were forwarded
to me by the student participants in the study.
Limitations

Similar to the phenomenological study described in the previous chapter, a limitation of
this study is that the student participants had no prior knowledge as to what the institution was
like before the election of Donald Trump. Another limitation of the instrumental case study is
that UVA has a campus racial climate that is not necessarily similar to other institutions
throughout the country (especially given the events that have recently unfolded). The
instrumental case study design is meant to demonstrate that a phenomenon is a byproduct of a
broader systemic issue rather than institutionally-specific (Stake, 2005). However, with UVA’s
historical past and unusually tumultuous present, the results of the study may be perceived as
exclusive to the institution rather than applicable to a broader sample. Thus, throughout Chapter
6, I compared and contrasted the results from this study with existing literature to account for
external validity (Yin, 2014). I further elaborate on this method in the next section. This study
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also utilized focus groups interviews as the primary data collection method. Thus, there was also
a risk of the participants being influenced by the “focus group effect” as well (Patton, 2002).
Ethical Considerations, Trustworthiness and Validity

I made an intentional effort to remain cognizant of maintaining an ethnical approach to
the data collection and analysis of this study. I maintained confidentiality throughout the study
by giving each participant a pseudonym (Yin, 2014). Any characteristics that could be traced to a
specific individual were not be included in the study. For example, if a participant was a member
of a student organization on campus, I did not disclose the particular details about the individual
or the organization. The institutions from Chapter 5 were also given a pseudonym.
Phenomenological studies are primarily concerned with the shared experiences of the
participants, not necessarily their institutional affiliation. Thus, I did not feel it was appropriate
to name the institutions as a strategy to avoid the possibility of my findings not being perceived
as generalizable to a broader systemic issue.
However, for Chapter 6, I specifically named the University of Virginia for my
instrumental case study. It would have been fairly difficult to hide the identity of UVA given the
distinct racist incidents that have occurred in the last few years. I made references to the recent
incidents throughout the interview protocol as well, so it was nearly impossible to analyze the
findings without acknowledging the institutionally-specific issues. There was only once student
who was specifically named in the study, and she granted me permission to use her name via
email. Furthermore, the findings from this study provide UVA with a detailed campus racial
climate report that their faculty and administrators can utilize for improving their institution.
Thus, in Chapter 7, I provided recommendations that were also institutionally-specific to UVA.
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I also took special precautions to protect the confidentiality and privacy of “vulnerable
groups,” which included students who identify as undocumented, LGTBQ+, or victims of racist
campus violence (Yin, 2003). I gained informed consent from each participant by educating
them about the nature of the study, formally soliciting their participation, and obtaining a written
signature on the consent forms that I provided (Appendix C). I also ensured that my data
collection approach was equitable by recruiting students from a variety of student groups and
organizations. A formal approval of this study was obtained from the USC institutional review
board (IRB).
Yin (2014) emphasizes that researchers must devote explicit attention to establishing the
quality of empirical social research. Therefore, I ensured trustworthiness and validity throughout
the study by adhering to Yin’s (2014) four design tests for case study research: (1) construct
validity, (2) internal validity, (3) external validity, and (4) reliability.
Construct Validity

Construct validity refers to the operational process of the study. This entails using
multiple sources of evidence, thoroughly organizing data, maintaining a chain of evidence and
exercising care throughout the data collection and analysis process. The multiple sources of
evidence were provided by my triangulation method. As mentioned previously, the critical
textual analysis and political discourse analysis of Trump’s presidential rhetoric was one
component of the data triangulation for both the phenomenology study and the instrumental case
study. However, some aspects of the data triangulation processes for the two studies were
executed differently. For the phenomenology study, I conducted cross-institutional comparisons
between the focus group responses from each of the four college and universities to obtain
thematic coding patterns from multiple sources of information. For the instrumental case study, I
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included institution-specific information about UVA that helped supplement the focus group
participants’ responses. This included archival records, information about university policies,
geographical information about the campus environment, or other relevant documents
specifically related to UVA.
I thoroughly organized the data so that the analysis process was separate from the main
database (Yin, 2014). For example, since I used NVivo 12 for my data analysis, I kept a separate
folder that only included the focus group transcripts, archival data, and other relevant documents.
This ensured that if another researcher needed access to the data, my own analysis will not be
included, nor would the identities of the participants. I also maintained a comprehensive chain of
evidence by providing a detailed account of my methodological process. In doing so, it will be
clear how I arrived at my observations (Yin, 2014). Lastly, I safeguarded my data by backing it
up onto an external hard-drive that I have sole access to. My NVivo 12 account is password
protected as well.
Internal Validity
I established internal validity through “pattern matching” and rival independent variables
(Yin, 2014). Pattern matching refers to when a researcher delimits a set of patterns that arise
throughout the data that may align with theoretical predictions (Yin, 2014). For example, while I
anticipated that there was an association between the participant responses about the campus
racial climate and the Trump presidency, I relied entirely on the “patterns” derived from the data
to come to any conclusions (Yin, 2014). To help eliminate personal biases throughout this
process, I also considered rival independent variables that may have contradicted my findings
(Yin, 2014). I remained open to contrary evidence and did not exclude any from my analysis for
the sake of convenience or preconceived hypotheses.
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External Validity

External validity was established through my literature review and continued analysis of
research related to the topic under investigation. For example, I have included examples for how
previous studies have been conducted regarding the impact of the “Trump Effect” on K-12
schools (Costello & Cohen, 2016; Rogers et al., 2017). The various interpretations of the “Trump
Effect” theory were used to augment my analysis. However, I did not allow the results of
previous research to determine the outcomes of this particular study. Existing literature merely
served as further justification for why this particular study is needed in the context of higher
education. Furthermore, I ensured that I remained updated with any relevant research that was
published throughout the duration of this dissertation study.
Reliability

Reliability refers to when another researcher can examine the same data and come to a
similar conclusion (Yin, 2014). I am hoping that my extensive review of literature, thorough
analytical/conceptual framework, and detailed methodological protocol will provide another
researcher with the tools to arrive at the same outcomes.
Role of the Researcher

Strauss and Corbin (1998) highlight an unavoidable dilemma that arises when pursuing
qualitative research— “which is the more problematic—maintaining objectivity or developing
sensitivity”? (p. 43). Researchers carry with them a set of knowledge that is relied upon for
finding solutions to the problems they encounter in everyday life, and making meaning of the
world in which they live. As I have outlined above, I took appropriate measures to minimize the
intrusion of subjectivity in my analysis through various methods of maintaining validity,
confidentiality, and trust. However, Strauss and Corbin (1998) also recognize that “a state of
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complete objectivity is impossible” (p. 43). Objectivity does not entail the absolute control of the
variables, rather, it means allowing the space for contradictory evidence, providing equitable
opportunities for a diverse range of identity groups to contribute their perspectives, and
presenting the results of the studies as accurately as possible (Strauss & Corbin, 1998).
Charmaz (2006) describes two different approaches to grounded theory which I translated
into my phenomenological study and instrumental case study methodologies: objectivist and
constructivist. An objectivist approach, which aligns with the positivist tradition, “erases the
social context from which data emerge, the influence of the researcher, and often the interactions
between grounded theorists and their research participants” (Charmaz, 2006, p. 131). This
approach directly conflicts with phenomenology and case study research because it assumes that
“the data represent objective facts about a knowable world” (p. 131). This leaves no space for a
researcher’s unique interpretation of the data, which for this study, was an integral component of
the conceptual and analytical framing. Instead, I employed a constructivist approach which
allowed for a reflexive process to take place between the researcher and research participants
(Charmaz, 2006). Rather than assuming there was an objective truth to be discovered,
“constructivists study how—and sometimes why—participants construct meanings and actions in
specific situations” (Charmaz, 2006, p. 130, emphasis added). Constructivists place priority on
the phenomena under investigation and understand that the data is created from “shared
experiences and relationships with participants and other sources of data” (p. 130). The
researcher situates the data within a larger social context and allows room for subjective
interpretation as long as the necessary precautions have been taken (Charmaz, 2006).
My role as the researcher is to provide insight into the relationship between the broader
sociopolitical environment and campus racial climate. I am motivated by a goal to provide
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university administrators, staff and faculty with the tools to accurately identify key issues on
their campus, which will subsequently help them find appropriate solutions for improving their
institutions. My unique positionality as a person of color (Black, Chinese, and Native American),
a student activist, and now as a scholar-activist (Davis, Harris, Stokes & Harper, 2019), allowed
me to bring unique insight into the analytical process of each study. I was vigilant in taking the
appropriate measures for limiting any personal bias in my interpretation of the data. I also
allowed space for evidence that possibly complicated the research process. Nonetheless, my past
experiences have taught me the importance of understanding this particular research topic in
more depth. Students deserve to have their experiences considered and appreciated throughout
the process of improving higher education institutions, and I hope the results of this dissertation
study will support such an endeavor.
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Chapter 4: Analyzing a Dataset of Racist Incidents on College Campuses From 2013-2018:
A Theory-Based Data Analysis Approach to Exploring the Association Between the Trump
Presidency and Campus Racial Violence
The first methodological approach to help answer the central research question is a
theory-based data analysis of a dataset of racist incidents on college campuses that occurred from
2013-2018. The total sample of articles is comprised of 350 reports of racist incidents that
occurred on a college or university campus from 2013-2018, and were reported by The Chronicle
of Higher Education, Inside Higher Ed, or Diverse Issues in Higher Education42. I analyzed each
individual article to determine if there is a “focal relationship” (Aneshensel, 2012) between the
Trump presidency and the influx of campus racial violence that transpired after the launch of his
presidential campaign on June 16, 2015. The key terms used in the search were “race,” “racist,”
“racism,” “racist incident,” “college campus,” and “university.” None of the key terms used
throughout the search were specifically related to President Trump to ensure that there would not
be any selective bias in the data collection process. The research sub-question for this study is
the following: Is there a focal relationship between the Trump presidency and the recent influx of
reported racist incidents occurring on college campuses since the launch of Trump’s presidential
campaign?
As illustrated in Figure 4, this particular study (A) examines how the Trump presidency
(macrosystem) has influenced racial violence on higher education campuses across the nation
(mesosystem) by investigating each individual incident from the sample (microsystem). More

42 This also includes hyperlinks that were used in the reports as well. For example, if one of the 3 article sources
mentioned an incident using a hyperlink, we downloaded the article from the redirected source. The hyperlinks often
provided more detailed information of the incident which was more helpful for identifying thematic patterns (Figure
12).
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Figure 4 Three-Study Methodological Sequence for Examining the Influence of the Trump
Presidency on Campus Racial Climate

specifically, this study demonstrates how the sociopolitical context affects the behavioral
dimension (racial violence involving students, staff, faculty and administrators) of campus racial
climate.
Before delving into the findings, it is important to recognize that there is a strong
possibility of reporting bias that may have influenced the sample. Existing literature has already
suggested that President Trump’s rhetoric and political decision-making have impacted the
behaviors and ideologies of the general public, leading to an increase in violence and racial
tensions in schools across the country (Costello & Cohen, 2016; Korostelina, 2017; Rogers,
Franke, Yun, Ishimoto, Diera, Geller, Berryman & Brenes, 2017). Thus, the increased attention
devoted to investigating racism in educational contexts during the Trump presidency may
influence the frequency of reporting compared to past years. I was not able to identify the exact
terminology to describe this type of frequency bias; however, I reached out to a journalist from
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The Chronicle of Higher Education to ask whether he was aware of any terms or phrases that
could be used to describe the influx of racist incidents that have been reported by their website.
He mentioned that he and his colleagues could be subconsciously participating in what has been
referred to as the “Baader-Meinhof phenomenon.” The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon,
also known as frequency illusion, is a phenomenon in which a newly-learned word or
concept begins to appear more frequently in everyday life. The term originates from the
online message board of a St. Paul, MN-based newspaper, in which a commenter stated
that upon learning of the West German militant group called the Baader-Meinhof Gang43,
the name was overheard in conversations multiple times in the next 24 hours. The
psychological basis of this phenomenon is likely related to selective attention of the
newly learned concept and the confirmation bias that follows reinforces this selectivity.
(Purohit, 2019, p. 1).

Purohit (2019) repurposes the term in the field of radiology to describe how they started
to discover an unusual influx of patients who had a specific medical condition after it was
suggested by another radiologist. It was not that the condition did not exist prior to the discovery,
as it was estimated to be found in 7-21% of the population; rather, Purohit began specifically
testing for the condition which resulted in what was perceived as an unusual inflation. Similarly,
I anticipate that there is a strong possibility that the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon may also
apply to the increase in reported racist incidents on college campuses. As I elaborate upon in this
chapter, incidents of campus racial violence across the nation have been reported by journalists
from a variety of news outlets. Although racism on college campuses is not a new phenomenon
to any extent, there may be a higher frequency of reporting these incidents that may have
influenced the data collection process. Nonetheless, while the primary objective of this study is

43 The Baader-Meinhof Gang, also known as the “Red Army Faction,” was a German “urban guerilla” group that
“engaged in armed resistance against a state it saw as being fascist in nature” (Schiller , 2009, p. xi). Founded by
Ulrike Meinhof, Andreas Baader, Gudrun Ensslin, and Horst Mahler in 1970, “Baader-Meinhof members saw the
freedom of ex-Nazis as a direct affront to democracy and revolution, and this provided a powerful impetus to their
struggle” (p. xi). The group executed a series of attacks, including bombing, assassinations, kidnappings, bank
robberies, and shoot-outs with police (Schiller, 2009).
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to interrogate the influx of racist incidents that occurred after the launch of Trump’s presidential
campaign, an equally important component of this study is to also explore the type of racist
incidents that have taken place on college campuses as well.
Figure 5 shows the number of reports of racist incidents for each individual year.
However, while we were able to collect nearly the entire collection of articles of reported racist
incidents on college campuses from 2013-2015, we found that the drastic influx of incidents that
were reported in 2016-2018 were far more than we originally anticipated. Thus, I decided to
limit the sample to 350 incidents to make it more analytically manageable.
Figure 5 Racist incidents that were reported each year between 2013-2018 (N=350)

For this expansive follow-up study, I coded the individual articles into two primary
categories: General Codes (institutional characteristics) and Specialized Codes (thematic
patterns). First, I present the findings from my analysis of the 350 racist incident reports using
Aneshensel’s (2012) methodological approach as an analytical roadmap. I share the results from
the “general code” categories, each of which is a deductive code that will serve as a “covariate,”
or “third variable” in my analysis. The general codes were comprised of demographic
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information taken from the IPEDS database that included the institutional setting, institution
type, student population, geographic location, and race of the perpetrator. I then present the 18
inductive codes, or “specialized codes,” that I developed using Yin’s (2011) five-phased cycle
for qualitative analysis. The specialized codes provide for a more nuanced examination of the
dataset, including the unique thematic patterns of the incidents and additional comparative
analyses that explore the data before and after the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign.
After presenting the results of the study, I engage in a thorough analysis of the findings
to determine how they may help answer my central research question—How might the influence
of the Trump presidency on college student experiences help us better understand the interrelated
relationship between the internal dimensions of campus racial climate and the larger
sociopolitical environment?—and sub-question—Is there a focal relationship between the Trump
presidency and the recent influx of racist incidents occurring on college campuses since the
launch of his campaign? Recommendations and implications for research will be provided in
Chapter 7.
Findings: General Codes (Institutional Characteristics)

Geographic Heat Map of Racist Incidents

I constructed a geographic heat map to provide a visual representation for where the
sample of racist incidents occurred throughout the nation (Figure 6). The heat map is color-coded
according to the number of incidents that were reported at an institution within each individual
U.S. state (including Washington D.C.)44. Figure 6 illustrates that California (29), New York
(24), Massachusetts (24), and Texas (21) had the most incidents per state out of the total sample,
with Pennsylvania (18), North Carolina (16), and Missouri (15) not far behind.

44 Hawaii and Alaska are excluded from Figure 6 because they both had zero reported incidents.
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Table 1 shows the complete list of institutions that are represented in the sample. Many
institutions had multiple incidents happen on their campuses, including San Jose State University
and San Diego State University which comprised of nearly a quarter of the California sample (7
out of 29). Table 1 shows a list of other institutions with multiple incidents (3 or more) that
included the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa (6), Arizona State University (3),
Northwestern University (3), University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign (3), DePauw University
(3), Purdue University (3), Kansas State University (3), University of Kansas (3), University of
Louisville (3), University of Michigan (4), University of Saint Thomas (3), University of Mississippi
(3), University of Missouri (4), Duke University (7), Oberlin College (3), University of Oregon (4),
Clemson University (3), Texas State University (4), University of Texas at Austin (5), University of
Virginia (3), and American University in Washington D.C. (5). The University of Wisconsin had
the most incidents in the country according to our sample, encompassing 90% of Wisconsin’s
state-level data with the highest incident rate of nine. It was also interesting to find that 25 of the
incidents from the sample occurred at an Ivy League Institution, with Yale University, Harvard
University, University of Pennsylvania, and Cornell University having four incidents each.
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Figure 6 Geographic heat map of the total sample of racist incidents (N=350)

Table 1 Complete list of institutions within the sample of racist incidents (N=350)
Racist Incidents by State
(N=350)

Alabama
Alabama State University
Auburn University (2)
Samford University
University of Alabama at
Tuscaloosa (6)
University of South
Alabama

Alaska
No incidents in sample

Arizona
Arizona State University (3)
University of Arizona

Arkansas
University of Arkansas-
Fort Smith
University of Central
Arkansas

California
American River College
California Polytechnic State
University, San Luis
Obispo (2)
Claremont McKenna
College
California State University
at Long Beach
California State University
at Sacramento (2)
California State University
at San Marcos
Humboldt State University
Orange Coast College
Pomona College
Sacramento City College
San Diego State University
(3)
San Jose State University
(4)
Stanford University
University of California,
Berkeley (2)
University of California,
Davis
University of California,
Irvine
University of California,
San Diego
University of California,
Los Angeles (2)
University of Southern
California (2)

Colorado
Colorado College
Colorado State University
(2)
University of Colorado

188
Connecticut
Quinnipiac University
Southern Connecticut State
University
University of Hartford (2)
Wesleyan University
Yale University (4)

Delaware
University of Delaware

Florida
Florida Atlantic University
Florida Gulf Coast
University
University of Central
Florida
University of Florida

Georgia
Emory University (2)
Kennesaw State University
(2)
Mercer University

Hawaii
No incidents in sample

Idaho
Idaho State University

Illinois
John A. Logan College
Northwestern University (3)
Southern Illinois University
(2)
University of Chicago (2)
University of Illinois at
Chicago
University of Illinois at
Urbana-Champaign (3)

Indiana
DePauw University (3)
Grace College & Seminary
Indiana University (2)
Purdue University (3)
University of Evansville

Iowa
Drake University (2)
Iowa State University

Kansas
Kansas State University (3)
University of Kansas (3)
Wichita State University

Kentucky
University of Kentucky
University of Louisville (3)
Western Kentucky
University

Louisiana
Louisiana State University
(2)
Tulane University

Maine
University of Southern
Maine

Maryland
Goucher College
Towson University (2)
University of Maryland (2)

Massachusetts
Amherst College
Boston College (2)
Boston University
Emerson College (2)
Framingham State
University
Hampshire College
Harvard University (4)
Massachusetts College of
Art and Design
Northeastern University
Smith College (2)
Suffolk University
Tufts University
University of Massachusetts
at Amherst (2)
Wellesley College
Westfield State University
Wheaton College
Wheelock College

Michigan
Eastern Michigan
University (1)
Hillsdale College
Kettering University
Michigan State University
Michigan Technological
University
Spring Arbor University
University of Michigan (4)
Wayne State University

Minnesota
Minneapolis Community
College
St. John’s University
St. Catherine University
St. Olaf College
University of Saint Thomas
(3)

Mississippi
Hinds Community College
University of Mississippi (3)

Missouri
College of the Ozarks
Lindenwood University
Northwest Missouri State
University
St. Louis University
Southwest Baptist
Theological Seminary
University of Central
Missouri
University of Missouri (4)
University of Missouri at
Kansas City
Washington University in
St. Louis (2)
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Webster University (2)

Montana
Montana State University at
Billings

Nebraska
University of Nebraska

Nevada
University of Nevada, Reno

New Hampshire
Dartmouth College
University of New
Hampshire

New Jersey
Felician University
Kean University
Princeton University (3)
Stockton University

New Mexico
No incidents in sample

New York
Colgate University (2)
Columbia University (3)
Cornell University (4)
Hebrew Union College-
Jewish Institute of Religion
Ithaca College
Nassau Community
College
New York University (2)
St. John Fisher College
St. John’s University
State University of New
York (SUNY) at Brockport
State University of New
York (SUNY) at Buffalo
State University of New
York (SUNY) at Geneseo
State University of New
York (SUNY) at New Paltz
State University of New
York (SUNY) at Purchase
Syracuse University
University of Rochester
Utica College

North Carolina
Davidson College
Duke University (7)
Elon University (2)
North Carolina Central
University
North Carolina State
University
Salem College
University of North
Carolina, Chapel Hill
Wake Forest University (2)

North Dakota
University of North Dakota

Ohio
Kenyon College
Miami University, Oxford
Oberlin College (3)
Ohio University
University of Cincinnati
University of Dayton (2)
Xavier University

Oklahoma
Cameron University
Oklahoma State University
University of Oklahoma

Oregon
Mt. Hood Community
College
Reed College
University of Oregon (4)

Pennsylvania
Albright College
Bryn Mawr College
Bucknell University
Cabrini University
Elizabethtown College
Franklin & Marshall
College
Lebanon Valley College
Lehigh University (3)
Shippensburg University
Temple University
University of Pennsylvania
(4)
Villanova University

Rhode Island
Brown University (2)
Providence College

South Carolina
Clemson University (3)
College of Charleston (2)
Columbia College
University of South
Carolina (2)
Winthrop University

South Dakota
South Dakota State
University

Tennessee
Belmont University
East Tennessee State
University
Lee University
Lipscomb University
University of Memphis
University of Tennessee (2)
University of Tennessee at
Knoxville
Vanderbilt University (2)

Texas
Abilene Christian
University
Baylor University (2)
Our Lady of the Lake
University
Prairie View A&M
University
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Rice University
Southern Methodist
University (2)
Texas A&M University
Texas State University (4)
Trinity University
University of St. Thomas
University of Texas at
Arlington
University of Texas at
Austin (5)
University of Texas at San
Antonio

Utah
Brigham Young University
Weber State University

Vermont
University of Vermont (2)

Virginia
College of William and
Mary
Old Dominion University
Randolph-Macon College
Sweet Briar College
University of Virginia (3)
Virginia Commonwealth
University
Virginia Tech University

Washington
Evergreen State College
Seattle University
University of Washington
(2)
Western Washington
University

West Virginia
Bethany College
Wisconsin
Lawrence University
University of Wisconsin (9)

Wyoming
University of Wyoming

Washington D. C.
American University (5)
George Washington
University
Georgetown University
Howard University
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Institutional Characteristics

Figure 7 Institutional setting of racist incidents that were reported from 2013-2018 (N=350)

The second general code narrows the geographic data from Figure 6 to examine the
specific institutional setting where the racist incidents occurred. Using the institutional setting
categorizations provided by IPEDS, the institutions were labeled as one of 12 setting
classifications: City—large, midsize or small; Suburb—large, midsize, or small; Rural—distant,
fringe, or remote; or Town—distant, fringe, or remote. Figure 7 shows that out of the sample of
350 reported incidents, 110 occurred at an institution located in a large city, 73 were in midsize
cities, 58 were in small cities, and 53 occurred at institutions located in large suburbs. There
were far fewer incidents that occurred at institutions located in towns, smaller suburbs, and rural
areas.
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Figure 8 Type of institution where racist incidents were reported from 2013-2018 (N=350)

Figure 8 displays the number of institutions from the sample that are public/private four-
year institutions or public two-year institutions. While only 10 of the incidents were located on
the campus of a two-year public institution, 184 happened at a four-year public institution and
156 happened at a four-year private institution. There does not appear to be a substantial
difference between the number of incidents occurring at public and private four-year institutions.
However, the significantly lower number of incidents that occurred at two-year public
institutions should not be perceived as an implication that racist incidents do not happen in
similar rates on these campuses. It could be possible that two-year public institutions may not be
given the same journalistic attention as private and public four-year institutions. I elaborate on
this possibility when I provide implications for future research in Chapter 7.
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Figure 9 Student population of the institutions where racist incidents occurred (N=350)

Figure 9 divides the reported incidents into three categories according to the student
population of the institution. I have classified small populations as institutions that have fewer
than 5,000 total students, midsize populations having between 5,000 and 15,000 total students,
and large populations as institutions with over 15,000 total students. Institutions with large
student populations were the sites of over 194 incidents out of the total sample, with only 90
occurring at midsize population institutions and 66 occurring at small population institutions.
After running a matrix code analysis between student population and institution setting, I
also found that out of the 194 large population institutions, 76 (39%) of them are located in large
cities, which is 69% of the total number of institutions located in large cities from the sample
(City Large total: 110). I ran an additional matrix code analysis between student population and
institution type and found that 144 of the 194 (74%) large population institutions are four-year
public institutions as well (~78% of the total of four-year public institutions in the sample). Thus,
while student population appears to be a contributing factor to the occurrence of racist incidents,
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the environment surrounding the institution (i.e., large cities) and the level of public access (i.e.,
four-year public colleges and universities) to the campuses may also influence the frequency of
incidents at these particular sites. For example, when I describe the results from Figure 11 and
Figure 12, there is a noticeable number of incidents that involved vandalism; flyers, symbols and
signs; social media, and unknown perpetrators. The anonymity of these particular incidents is an
integral component to consider. By integrating the results from Figure 7, Figure 8, and Figure 9,
along with the additional matrix coding of the categories, it is possible that some of the racist
incidents occurring on these college and university campuses may be executed by anonymous
perpetrators who are not directly affiliated with the institutions (e.g., local hate groups,
community members, etc.).
Figure 10 shows the percentage of institutions from the total sample that had a
predominantly white student population. I utilized IPEDS enrollment data to find the racial
composition of each college and university in the sample, and classified an institution as a
predominantly white institution (PWI) if over 25% of the student population was white. The
results in Figure 10 show that 93% (325 out of 350) of the institutions in the dataset are PWIs,
with only 7% (25 out of 350) considered non-PWIs. Of the institutions that are non-PWIs, 15 are
colleges and universities located in California, and three are historically Black colleges and
universities (HBCUs).
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Figure 10 Percentage of Racist Incidents That Occurred at Predominantly White Institutions
(PWIs)

Perpetrators

The final variable I tested from the General Codes category was the race of the
perpetrator. Out of the total sample of racist incidents, 230 of the reports included the race of the
perpetrator. Figure 11 shows that 219 of the incidents were executed by someone who is white,
120 are unknown, six are Black, three are Latinx, and two are Asian. As I previously mentioned,
many of the incidents from the “unknown” category involved vandalism; flyers, symbols and
signs; or social media, texts, emails or phone calls. However, a further investigation into these
specific reports revealed that 34 of the incidents involved another theme, “white supremacy,”
including white supremacist graffiti (i.e., messages containing “KKK,” Nazi slogans, swastikas,
etc.), promotional flyers for white supremacist groups, and racist emails sent to students and
staff. Thus, while Figure 11 shows 219 of the incidents were perpetrated by white people, there
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is a strong possibility that this number could be much higher. I return to the “white supremacy”
category in the next section.
Figure 11 Race of the perpetrators of racist incidents reported on college campuses from 2013-
2018

Findings: Specialized Coding

Throughout the specialized coding process, I identified 18 thematic patterns of racist
incidents that occurred on college campuses from 2013-2018: anti-Asian; anti-Black; anti-
Latinx; anti-Native American; Anti-Semitism; incidents that involved faculty or administration;
flyers, signs and symbols; incidents involving a fraternity or sorority; Halloween costumes;
immigration/citizenship; Islamophobia; physical violence; police; social media, texts, emails, or
phone calls; vandalism; white supremacy/nationalism (both pre-launch of Trump campaign and
post-launch of Trump campaign); and if President Trump’s name was specifically mentioned in
the article. Figure 12 displays the frequency of incidents for each theme.

2 6 3
120
219
0
50
100
150
200
250
As ian Black Latinx Unknown White
Race of the P erpetrator (N=350)
197
Figure 12 Thematic patterns of racist incidents that occurred on college campuses from 2013-
2018 (N=350)

According to Figure 12, themes that were least prevalent within the sample were
incidents that were specifically directed towards Asian (12), Native American (3), Latinx (32),
and Jewish (50) students; reports that mentioned fraternities or sororities in the article (31); racist
incidents that were motivated by immigration/citizenship (24) or Islamophobia (11); racist
incidents that involved a racially motivated physical attack (38); racist incidents that involved
culturally inappropriate Halloween costumes (12); or racist incidents perpetrated by law
enforcement (both campus police and external divisions) (28).
It is possible that there were many more incidents that were not reported by The
Chronicle of Higher Education, Inside Higher Ed, or Diverse Issues in Higher Education that
would have been categorized under these specific themes. However, this particular sample shows
that the significant number of reported incidents were specifically directed towards Black
students (216); involved members of the faculty or administration (69); contained the usage of
flyers, signs and symbols (72), or social media, texts, emails, and phone calls (81); involved
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vandalism/destruction of property (66); specifically mentioned white supremacy and nationalism
(78), or President Donald Trump’s name in the report (73). I have provided a more detailed
display of these themes since they each encompass over 15% of the total sample of racist
incidents.
Anti-Blackness on College Campuses

Out of the sample of 350 reported racist incidents, 216 (62%) specifically targeted
African Americans. From the sample of anti-Black incidents, 56 involved racist social media
posts, texts, emails, or phone calls; 53 were either received or perpetrated by members of the
faculty or administration; 39 were incidents of racist vandalism; 27 included physical violence;
26 were incidents with racist flyers, signs or symbols; 24 involved either campus or community
law enforcement; 22 mentioned white supremacy or nationalism in the report; 20 involved
fraternity or sorority members; and 8 were incidents regarding culturally offensive Halloween
costumes. Some incidents were categorized into multiple themes as well. For example, in a 2014
incident at Arizona State University (ASU) involving both the “police” and “faculty” themes, a
Black professor was body-slammed by an ASU campus police officer after she was stopped for
jaywalking (Jaschik, 2014a). Ethnic Studies Professor Ersula Ore explained how she was trying
to avoid construction (which was later proven by photo evidence) and was one of many
individuals who were crossing the street in places other than the designated cross-walk (Jaschik,
2014a). She verbally identified herself as a professor but was asked by the officer to present her
identification. When she refused, video evidence showed that the officer body-slammed her to
the ground. During the altercation, Ore can be seen kicking the officer, which law enforcement
classified as an assault. According to an Inside Higher Ed report by Jaschik (2014a), ASU
released the following statement:
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ASU authorities have reviewed the circumstances surrounding the arrest and have found
no evidence of inappropriate actions by the ASUPD officers involved….The Maricopa
County Attorney's Office has reviewed all available evidence, including the police report,
witness statements, and audio and video recordings of the incident, and decided to press
criminal charges of assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, refusing to provide
identification when requested to do so by an officer, and obstructing a highway or public
thoroughfare. (Arizona State University, as cited in Jaschik, 2014a).

Another incident categorized into multiple themes took place at Lehigh University in
2018, where a Chinese international student, Yukai Yang, was charged with attempted murder
after allegedly attempting to poison his Black roommate. According to Redden’s (2018) report,
prosecutors claim that “Yang put small quantities of thallium – an odorless and colorless
chemical used as rat poison – and possibly other chemicals into his roommate’s food, drink and
mouthwash over a period of several months” (para. 2). In a detailed report by The Morning Call,
Yates (2018) explains how Yang was previously arrested for ethnic intimidation after he
allegedly wrote the “N-Word” and “GET OUT OF HERE” on his roommate’s desk.
Throughout the data collection process, I began to notice the “N-Word” component of the
incident as a fairly common trend. Thus, I created a subcategory, “N-Word,” that included all of
the anti-Black incidents that involved the racial slur. Upon further examination, 73 out of the 216
(33.6%) anti-Black incidents involved the “N-Word.”
The “N-Word” on campus. After running a matrix code analysis of the “N-Word”
subcategory (not listed in Figure 12), 7 of these particular incidents involved flyers, signs and
symbols; 10 involved members of the faculty or administration saying the “N-Word” in a
classroom setting or another academic environment; 13 were through social media, texts, emails
or phone calls; and 23 of the incidents involved vandalism where the racial slur was spray-
painted or written on student residences or institutional property.
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One of the social media related incidents occurred in 2018 at the University of Alabama
where Harley Barber, a member of Alpha Phi sorority, posted numerous videos on Instagram—
one of which was posted on the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday— where she was heard saying, “I
love how I act like I love Black people because I fucking hate niggers” (Bauer-Wolf, 2018a,
para. 6). In a second video, the student addressed the public backlash for her initial post by
saying, “Nigger, nigger, nigger. I don’t care if it’s Martin Luther King Day. I’m in the South now
nigger so everybody can fuck off. I’m from New Jersey so I can say nigger as much as I want”
(Bauer-Wolf, 2018a, para. 7). University President Stuart R. Bell released a statement to confirm
that Barber was no longer enrolled at the university, however, this decision was heavily criticized
by multiple legal experts who claim the student had her First Amendment rights violated (Bauer-
Wolf, 2018a). Erwin Chemerinsky, a constitutional scholar and dean of UC Berkeley School of
Law, was quoted saying, “I think the student would have a strong case for suing the University
of Alabama for violating her First Amendment rights…her speech is protected…though it is
offensive and uses epithets” (Bauer-Wolf, 2018a, para. 5). Former officials with the American
Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) also shared this stance, writing in a letter to President Bell, “…if
the First Amendment allows the state to punish someone for ugly remarks that are profoundly
offensive… then it acquires the power to do the same for other speech that is offensive to those
in power” (Bauer-Wolf, 2018a, para. 25). A thorough analysis of racist hate speech will not be
explored in this chapter. However, in Chapters 5 and 6, I explore the intersections of activism,
free speech, and power in the context of the Trump presidency.
Other incidents involving the racial slur involved faculty members as well. According to
a 2018 report by The Chronicle of Higher Education, Anthropology Professor Lawrence Rosen
of Princeton University used the slur three times in one lecture for their course on “hate speech,
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blasphemy and pornography” (Kerr, 2018a, para. 1). It was reported that he asked students
“whether it was worse for a white man to punch a Black man, or a white man to call a Black man
the N-Word” (Kerr, 2018a, para. 2). When students expressed their discomfort with his usage of
the racial slur, the professor allegedly responded by saying, “It’s supposed to deliver a gut punch,
so that’s why I use it…I don’t think I need to apologize, I did not oppress anyone” (Rosen, as
cited in Kerr, 2018a, para. 6). In a similar report by Inside Higher Ed, a Mercer University Law
School professor, David Oedel, was said to have used the word up to 10 times during his
constitutional law course (Jaschik, 2014b). Oedel’s rationale was that the academic context of
the discussion warranted the use of the slur. The professor then attempted to apologize to the
class, but continued to use the word throughout his apology (Jaschik, 2014b).
There were multiple incidents where notes and flyers using the racial slur were posted
around campus. For example, at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville, a Black sophomore
student returned from dinner to find a note on her door that read, “Filthy Nigger” (Bauer-Wolf,
2017a). Similar incidents occurred at the University of Dayton (Jaschik, 2016d) and St. Olaf
College (Associated Press, 2017) where students found threatening messages attached to the
notes as well. What is more, nearly a third of the incidents within the “N-Word” subcategory
were related to vandalism on student residences or institutional property. Several Black students
had the word written on their doors and walls with spray-paint or permanent marker, including at
The College at Brockport, State University of New York (SUNY), where someone wrote
“Niggers deserve to die” on a whiteboard in a college dorm (Jaschik, 2016d). Similarly, there
was such an abundance of these instances occurring at Michigan State University that it was
reported in 2017 that white boards were banned from the dormitory room doors in an effort to
limit racist and sexist bullying (Jaschik, 2017b).
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Blackface on campus. Due to the relatively high frequency of anti-Black incidents, I
decided to also create an additional subcategory within “Anti-Black” that specifically coded for
the 25 incidents that involved either students of faculty members donning “blackface.” In a 2016
Inside Higher Ed report, Jaschik (2016e) reported on a blackface incident that occurred at
Albright College where a female student posted a video on Snapchat where she painted her face
black with makeup, called herself “Carlisha,” placed padding in her pants to enlarge her behind,
and said disparaging words about the Black Lives Matter movement. In a detailed report of the
incident by the Reading Eagle, Yoder (2016) describes how Albright College President Lex O.
McMillan III condemned the video, and then proceeded to cite the “school’s reputation for
diversity among its student body, pointing to a recent announcement in U.S. News & World
Reports’ annual best college rankings, placing it 30th out of 219 national liberal arts colleges in
the ‘Campus Ethnic Diversity’ category” (Yoder, 2016, para. 8)45.
Another notable blackface incident occurred in 2018 at Purdue University, where
Professor Lisa Stillman posted a Halloween picture from 1974 where her and her friend could be
seen wearing black face paint, black clothing, and bones in their hair (Flaherty, 2018). In the
Facebook comments, her friend, Wendy Smith, wrote, “Haha! We would be sooooooo NOT
politically correct these days! That was soo much fun that year dressing up!!” To which
Professor Stillman replied, “Nobody knew who we were!” (Flaherty, 2018). The university
responded with a statement saying, “[in] any event, what we can say firmly is that, at Purdue, we
do not punish speech, particularly when off-campus speech is expressed by an employee
speaking as a private citizen” (Flaherty, 2018, para. 1).

45 In Chapter 6, I will explain how these uncritical responses to racial violence align with my performative equity
framework.
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These examples of anti-Black racism on college campuses were consistent throughout the
2013-2018 sample. With 62% of the total sample involving racist attacks towards Black people,
it undoubtedly serves as the most significant finding from this particular analysis. However, for
blackface incidents in particular, 64% also involved some form of multimedia.
Racism and Multimedia: Social Media, Text Messages, Emails, and Phone Calls

I aggregated any reports that involved social media, text messages, emails, or phone calls
into one thematic category, which yielded 81 (23.1% of total sample) “multimedia” related
incidents. Sixty-three of the perpetrators within this category were white, 16 were unknown, one
was a Latina student, and one was a Black student. Further examination into this category
revealed that 16 of the 25 blackface incidents involved multimedia as well. Similar to the
incident mentioned in the previous section that took place at Albright College, many of the
reports described instances where students dressed up in blackface and posted a picture of
themselves on social media. A report by Diverse Issues in Higher Education described an
incident at California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo, where the university
suspended all fraternities and sororities after photos surfaced of a fraternity member and others
dressed up as “gang members” while donning blackface (Associated Press, 2018).
A matrix code analysis also revealed that 14 of the 81 multimedia incidents (17.2%)
specifically mentioned Trump in the report. An article by The Chronicle described an incident at
the University of Kansas that occurred a week after the 2016 election. A University of Kansas
white female cheerleader posted a photo on Snapchat with the caption, “Kkk go trump,” where
three white male cheerleaders were lined up, side-by-side, wearing sweaters with the letter “K”
for Kansas (Dreid & Najmabadi, 2016). The female cheerleader claimed that someone else
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posted the photo after her phone was taken at a party (Dreid & Najmabadi, 2016). The university
later announced that all four cheerleaders involved were suspended from performing.
A few weeks after Trump’s inauguration, another Trump related social media incident
occurred where a white woman who was allegedly a student at Old Dominion University posted
a video on YouTube titled, “White Gal —White Power,” where she also partook in white
supremacist behavior (Jaschik, 2017c). The beginning of the video showed the woman wearing
an Old Dominion shirt before she changed into another T-shirt with the words, “My President is
White” with a picture of Trump on the front. Throughout the video, the woman “uses racial slurs,
encourages the killing of Black people, holds what appears to be a gun at one point, and puts out
a cigarette on a ‘Black Lives Matter’ napkin” (Jaschik, 2017c, para. 4). University police were
not able to identify the student in the video.
Racism and Anonymity: Vandalism, Flyers, Signs and Symbols

Unlike many of the incidents in the sample, the racial identity of the perpetrator was not
always provided by the individual reports. For example, the sample of 72 incidents involving
racist flyers, signs and symbols consisted of 45 (62.5%) unknown perpetrators, 23 (31.9%) white
perpetrators, and only 3 (4.2%) Black perpetrators. From the sample of 67 incidents involving
vandalism, 52 (77.6%) were committed anonymously and 11 (16.4%) were committed by a
white person (Asian, Black, and Latinx each had one incident per racial group).
Throughout the data collection process, I found numerous reports related to a specific
flyer that read, “It’s okay to be white,” that were spread across multiple college campuses. The
phrase—which has now been closely associated with white nationalism—was created through an
organized campaign started by users of 4chan, an anonymous online chat forum that has become
well known for its “controversial and often incendiary content” (Yoon-Hendricks, 2018, para. 5).
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The participants of the campaign placed the flyers at various locations across the nation in an
effort to “garner reaction from both those on the left and right of the political spectrum” (Yoon
Hendricks, 2018, para. 5). Jaschik (2018a) reported that the flyers were found at American River
College, University of Vermont, Champlain College, Duke University, North Carolina State
University, Tufts University, University of Delaware, University of Denver, and University of
St. Thomas. The signs have become an annual Halloween-night tradition where students are
asked to post the signs on their respective campuses while in their costumes to maintain
anonymity.
Similarly, many of the incidents involving vandalism were also related to white
nationalism and anti-Semitism. For example, an Inside Higher Ed article reported that about 50
Idaho State University students from Kuwait and Saudi Arabia had their homes burglarized over
a period of several weeks (Redden, 2016). In several of the incidents, racist messages were left
behind, including one that read, “Learn how to drive or go back to your land of camels—raghead
Muslims!” (Redden, 2016, para. 7). The majority of these types of incidents from the sample
occurred after the 2016 election, and 22.3% specifically mentioned Trump in the report.
At American University, a swastika was found drawn on a classroom white board
alongside the words, “Go Trump” (Dreid & Najmabadi, 2016). The same words were drawn
inside of a bathroom stall at the College of William and Mary, however, the “T” in “Trump” was
replaced by a swastika (Hammond, 2016). Faculty members were also the targets of some of
these incidents as well. A Jewish professor at Oberlin College described how they heard tapping
noises outside of their home early one morning. When they opened their front door, they
discovered “smashed seashells and a note behind their mezuzah… The note read...‘GAS JEWS
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DIE” (Flaherty, 2016, para. 2). The frequency of racist incidents involving faculty and
administration was also a significant finding from this study.
Racism Involving Faculty and Administration

Figure 12 shows that 69 of the reported incidents in the sample involved members of the
faculty or administration. From the sample of 69 incidents, 14 were incidents where the
faculty/administrator was the victim, while 55 were incidents where the faculty/administrator
was the perpetrator. One of these incidents involved a white professor teaching at Howard
University in 2017. It was reported that the professor asked his class to engage in a “mock slave
auction,” where he proceeded to ask two Black men in the class to be “examined because he
looked ‘healthy’” (Flaherty, 2017, para. 1). In a statement to the Caged Bird blog, one of the
students described the disturbing incident:
He asked me to show my butt to the class so that he could get a better sense of my worth
and had the audacity to say that it was uncomfortable for him, too, because he’s a white
man…He started propping my body up as if we were on a slave auction block.
(Anonymous student, as cited in Flaherty, 2017, para. 2).

Two other incidents involving faculty happened immediately after the 2016 election.
Students at the University of Rochester organized a protest through a Facebook event titled, “Not
My America,” where they planned to engage in a demonstration on campus to express their
displeasure with the election results. A lecturer in computer science, Ted Pawlicki, wrote on the
event’s Facebook page, "A bus ticket from Rochester to Canada is $16. If this is not your
America, then I will pay for your ticket if you promise never to come back" (Jaschik, 2016f).
Pawlicki resigned shortly after.
On November 16, 2016, it was reported that an adjunct professor of accounting at Lehigh
University, Daniel Bayak, asked a Mexican student in his class, “What about you? Are you
staying or are you going back to your country?” (Bayak, as cited in Jazwinska, 2016). He then
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asked an Indian student whether he had stayed up late the night before because his eyes “looked
like slits” (Dreid & Najmabadi, 2016). A detailed report released by The Brown and White also
described how the professor bragged at the start of class that he won $10,000 for betting that
Donald Trump would win the election (Jazwinska, 2016).
Racism and President Donald J. Trump

As shown in Figure 12, there was a significant amount of reports that directly mentioned
President Trump’s name. More specifically, the current President was mentioned in 73 out of the
296 (24%) incidents that occurred after the launch of his campaign on June 16, 2015. Some of
the incident reports revealed that Trump’s campaign rhetoric was also a contributing factor. In a
2016 incident at Bethany College, Trump’s “Make American Great Again” campaign slogan was
changed to “Make Lindsborg white again” (in reference to the town where the college is located)
(Jaschik, 2016g). The message was written in chalk on campus along with the outlines of dead
bodies with the words “rest in peace my friend” (Jaschik, 2016g). According to Jaschik’s
(2016g) report, Bethany College President William Jones received an anonymous call from
someone who claimed to have written the messages. He described the details of the call through
a Facebook post, writing:
What do you do when a white supremacist writes racist and hateful messages directed at
your children and at the students you work to serve? (…) He stated that the chalk
messages were written in response to the makeup of my family (I have two adopted,
biracial children), to some of the things that have been written and posted online and in
the press about my work at the college, and in response to the students of color that
Bethany College is recruiting. (Jones, as cited in Jaschik, 2016g, para. 4).

It was reported that the perpetrator was a member of a local white supremist group that targets
young adults in college.
Another incident related to Trump’s rhetoric took place in 2016 at Lindenwood
University, where a Latina student returned to her dorm room to find that her roommate, Isabel
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Manu, had constructed a makeshift wall in the middle of the floor made out of clothes, shoes,
and other stray items (Bauer-Wolf, 2016). In a detailed report by the New York Times, it was also
revealed that a note was posted in the room that read, “Trump won so here is a little preview of
what’s to come #wall” (Dickerson, 2016). Similarly, a fraternity at Baylor University was
suspended after throwing a “Mexican Party” (Jaschik, 2017d). It was reported that students
“wore sombreros, some were in painted brown faces dressed as construction workers and others
chanted ‘build the wall’” – a reference to President Trump’s campaign pledge to build a wall
along the U.S.-Mexico border (Jaschik, 2017d).
Pre/Post-Launch of Presidential Campaign. The results found by the USC Race and
Equity Center research team (Figure 5) shows a drastic influx of reported racist incidents
beginning in 2016. However, I decided to disaggregate the 2015 data to explore the frequency of
reported incidents occurring before and after the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign on
June 16, 2015. The data revealed that only 11 incidents happened before the launch, while the
remaining incidents within the 2015 sample (28) occurred after the launch. Thus, the sample of
pre-launch incidents garnered a total of 54 reports, with post-launch incidents culminating in a
total sample of 296 reports. Therefore, I explored the state-level frequency data according to
these parameters (incidents occurring after June 16, 2015) to provide for a more concentrated
analysis.
Figure 13 shows the total number of racist incidents from the sample that occurred in
each U.S. state from June 16, 2015 (launch of Trump campaign)-December 31, 2018. California
(7.1%), Massachusetts (7.1%) and New York (7.4%) accounted for the most racist incidents per
state from the concentrated sample, with Texas (6%) also landing in the top four highest in
incident rate. However, three of the incidents in California (from the Figure 13 sample) were
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from one institution, San Diego State University, and six of incidents in New York were from
two institutions, Columbia University (3) and Cornell University (3). Similarly, four of the Texas
incidents occurred at Texas State University, and four of the incidents in Massachusetts occurred
at Harvard University.
Figure 13 Total number of incidents that occurred in each U.S. state from June 16, 2015-
December 31, 2018 (N=296) (Pre/Post launch of Trump campaign)

The primary reason for narrowing the data from Figure 6 into mid-2015 to 2018 (Figure
13) is to triangulate the data with a preexisting study that focused on national hate crime statistics
that occurred during the Trump campaign and presidential term. As a way to quantitatively
measure whether Trump’s presidential rhetoric is linked to reported hate crime and extremist
activity, Feinberg, Branton and Martinez-Ebers (2019) examined whether there was a correlation
between the counties that hosted one of Trump’s 275 presidential campaign rallies in 2016 and
increased incidents of hate crimes in subsequent months. They utilized the Anti-Defamation
League’s Hate, Extremism, Anti-Semitism, Terrorism map data (HEAT map), an interactive
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online data map that details extremist and anti-Semitic incidents around the nation (Anti-
Defamation League, 2019). The research team aggregated hate-crime incident data and Trump
rally data to the county level and found that the counties that hosted a Trump rally experienced a
226% increase in hate crimes compared to counties that did not46 (Feinberg, Branton &
Martinez-Ebers, 2019).
Although I did not juxtapose the campus racial violence data with the Trump rally data,
my findings are relatively consistent with the results displayed by the ADL HEAT map. The map
shows that California (14.7%) and New York (14.7%) accounted for the most hate crimes in the
nation from 2016-2018, combining for nearly 30% of all hate crimes within the three-year span
(Anti-Defamation League, 2019). The ADL HEAT map also shows that Massachusetts
accounted for 7% of the national total of hate crimes, which is the exact same percentage
illustrated in Figure 13 (21 out of 296) (Anti-Defamation League, 2019). Similarly, Pennsylvania
accounted for 4.6% of national hate crimes displayed by the ADL HEAT map, and 4.7% of the
sample shown in Figure 13 (Anti-Defamation League, 2019). Despite the fact that my sample of
296 racist incidents on college campuses is much smaller than the sample of 6,852 national hate
crimes displayed by the ADL HEAT map, the ratio similarities between the two datasets are still
noteworthy findings.
White supremacy/nationalism on college campuses. Using the same parameters as
Figure 13, I examined the number of times that “white supremacy” or “white nationalism” were
mentioned in the reports before and after the launch of Donald Trump’s presidential campaign.

46 An article by Politifact examined the accuracy of this finding, emphasizing how there is an integral factor of
“statistical noise” when dealing with small sample sizes. Jacobson (2019) notes that “a 226% difference sounds
massive, but in many locales, that may mean only a small numerical difference, especially the types of low-
population counties that tended to host Trump rallies. The difference between one hate crime and three is 200%, but
with numbers like that, a small difference in the reporting of crimes or police investigations could cloud the question
of whether Trump’s rallies had an effect” (p. 6). Thus, exclusively focusing on increases in percentages should be
met with proper hesitation.
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Figure 14 shows that out of the sample of 54 incidents that occurred before June 16, 2015, only
two (3.7%) mentioned white supremacy or white nationalism in the report. However, from the
sample of 296 incidents that occurred after the launch of Trump’s campaign, 76 (25.7%)
specifically mentioned white supremacy or white nationalism in the report. As previously
mentioned, 73 out of the total sample of reports specifically mentioned Trump’s name. After
running a matrix code analysis between “white supremacy/nationalism” and “Trump
mentioned,” I also discovered that nearly 30% (21 out of 73) of the reports that mentioned
Trump were also coded for “white supremacy/nationalism.”
Figure 14 Number of times that “white supremacy” was mentioned in the reports of racist
incidents before and after the launch of President Donald J. Trump’s campaign on June 16,
2015

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Some of these incidents involving white supremacy were closely tied to sentiments of
xenophobia and white nationalism. An Inside Higher Ed article reported on an incident at
Wichita State University in 2016, where two students—one Muslim and one Hispanic—were
attacked at a nearby gas station by a man who was shouting Trump’s name and campaign
rhetoric (Logue, 2016). In a detailed report of the incident by The Wichita Eagle, Morrison
(2016) describes how the perpetrator walked toward the students saying, “brown trash, go home.
Trump will win.” When the exchange became more animated, the man punched the Hispanic
student to the ground and continued to kick him before the other student called the police. As the
perpetrator got back on his motorcycle, the student said that he heard him yelling, “Trump,
Trump, Trump, we will make America great again. You losers will be thrown out of the wall”
(Morrison, 2016, para. 6). The Wichita police described the suspect as a white man about 30
years of age (Morrison, 2016).
Edwards and Rushin (2018) use hate crime data released by the Federal Bureau of
Investigations (F.B.I.) to evaluate the relationship between Donald Trump’s election and the
increase in reported hate crimes in the fourth quarter of 2016. After running formal time series
regressions with a full set of control variables, they concluded that “no alternative variable seems
to explain [the] spike in hate crimes,” especially since the number of reported hate crimes
typically declines between the third and fourth quarter of each year since 1992 (Edwards &
Rushin, 2018, p. 2). The most recent edition of the annual hate group report by the Southern
Poverty Law Center (SPLC) found that there was a 50% increase in total white nationalist groups
in 2018, an estimated 40 people killed in North America in radical right terrorist attacks, and
1,234 hate group flyering incidents (Southern Poverty Law Center, 2018). This upsurge was in
large part due to the “significant increase in incidents in schools and college campuses, which
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nearly doubled for the second year in a row” (ADL, 2018). Romero (2017) claims that white
supremacists specifically target college campuses for various reasons. For example, white
supremacist hate groups “have tried to provoke violence by going to the places they consider as
‘liberal nests’ (colleges and universities) to provoke physical clashes with people more likely to
fall into the trap of engaging into street fights with hate groups. Also, they see universities as
places where they can demonstrate their anti-intellectualism” (Romero, 2017, para. 9).
To conceptualize the apparent emergence of white supremacy on college campuses after
the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign in 2015 (Figure 14), it is important to place the
general institutional characteristics in conversation with the thematic patterns derived from my
analysis. A logical connection can be drawn between the results: if the majority of the colleges
and universities in the dataset are predominantly white institutions (PWIs) (Figure 10), and white
people disproportionately serve as the main perpetrators of the incidents (Figure 11), it is
understandable how white supremacy can remain uncontested, and even encouraged on college
campuses. Thus, it is not necessarily surprising that recent reports have revealed similar trends
on a national scale.
The increase in white supremacy-related incidents after the launch of Trump’s
presidential campaign is a strikingly significant finding. While Figure 5 demonstrates the influx
of racist incidents that occurred, Figure 14 illustrates how there was a specific thematic pattern
underlining these incidents that requires further interrogation. In the next section, I
contextualized my general codes and specialized codes findings in conjunction with one another
to investigate whether there is a “focal relationship” between the Trump presidency and the
influx of racist incidents that occurred after the launch of his presidential campaign. First, I
employed Aneshensel’s (2012) “exclusionary strategy” to explore whether the “third variables”
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(covariates) from the general code categories account for a significant amount of the covariation
between the focal independent (Trump presidency) and dependent variables (racist incidents). I
triangulated the Trump-related data with existing literature to determine whether there is a “focal
relationship” between the two primary variables (the theoretical link between the Trump
presidency and the influx of reported racist incidents on college campuses) (Aneshensel, 2012).
This will help answer my research sub-question: Is there a focal relationship between the Trump
presidency and the recent influx of racist incidents occurring on college campuses since the
launch of his campaign? I explain how the results help provide valuable insight into the central
research question of the overall study as well.
Discussion

An integral component of Aneshensel’s (2012) methodological approach is determining
whether the third variables account for a significant amount of the variability between the focal
independent and dependent variables. In other words, for this particular analysis I am examining
whether the variables from the “general code” categories (institutional setting, geographical
location, student population, etc.) can explain the influx of racist incidents on college campuses
that occurred after the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign. Although I anticipate a focal
relationship between the Trump presidency (independent variable) and the influx of racist
incidents (dependent variable), I cannot draw any substantive conclusions until I assess the
impact of the additional independent variables introduced into the model.
General Code Analysis

I examined the frequency variability of incidents throughout the six-year period (2013-
2018) to determine if there were any significant differences within the general information
categories. To begin, I analyzed the state-level incident rate by individual year (Table 2) and
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found that there were no substantial geographical differences from year-to-year. California, New
York, and Massachusetts were consistently one of the highest in incident rate each year.
However, in 2016, Wisconsin (8), Pennsylvania (8), and Texas (7) were also leading the nation
in incident rate as well. Given the small sample size, no definitive conclusions can be drawn
from this analysis other than the fact that the data aligns with the trends illustrated by the
geographical heat map in Figure 6.
Table 3 illustrates the remaining general code information for each individual year. I
divided the incident rate for each code by the total number of incidents within the specific year to
generate the percentages located in the far-right column of Table 3. There was not any significant
variability in the institutional settings of the incidents. Large cities had the highest percentage of
incidents per year, comprising roughly 25%-35% of the total year sample47. This is consistent
with the data shown in Figure 7 where large cities comprised of 31.43% of the total sample.
Midsize cities had the second highest incident rate per year, aside from 2013 and 2016 where
small cities had a slightly higher percentage.
There was also no significant variability in institution types throughout the six-year
sample. Both 4-year public and 4-year private institutions only deviated a maximum of 12
percentage points per year. Similarly, the data for student population did not yield any substantial
differences from year-to-year. The largest variability occurred from 2013 to 2015, where the
percentage of institutions with large student populations fluctuated from 56% to as high as 70%.
However, the three-year period from 2016-2018 consistently remained within 5 percentage
points of the total sample average of 55.43% (Figure 7). Likewise, the 2016-2018 data for
institutions with midsize or small student populations only deviated less than six percentage

47 With the exception of 2013 where large cities comprised of 56.52% of the total year sample.
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points per year. Table 3 also shows that the incidents occurred at a predominantly white
institution above 90% of the time for each year, with the exception of 2013 where 78.26% of the
incidents happened at a PWI.
Table 2 Number of racist incidents on a college or university campus per state for each
individual year (2013-2018) (N-350)

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The cross-year analysis reveals that the institutional setting, geographical location,
institution type, student population, and racial composition of the institutions may contribute to
the occurrence of racist incidents in a general sense. For example, it is reasonable to argue that a
2013 (N=23) # of incidents per code % of year sample 2014 (N=20) # of incidents per code % of year sample 2015 (N=39) # of incidents per code % of year sample
Institution Type Institution Type Institution Type
2-Year Public 1 4.35% 2-Year Public 0 0% 2-Year Public 1 2.56%
4-Year Private 10 43.48% 4-Year Private 8 40% 4-Year Private 16 41.03%
4-Year Public 12 52.17% 4-Year Public 12 60% 4-Year Public 22 56.41%

PWI/Not PWI PWI/Not PWI PWI/Not PWI
PWI 18 78.26% PWI 18 90% PWI 37 94.87%
Not PWI 5 21.74% Not PWI 2 10% Not PWI 2 5.13%
Institutional Setting Institutional Setting Institutional Setting
City Large 13 56.52% City Large 7 35% City Large 10 25.64%
City Midsize 1 4.35% City Midsize 5 25% City Midsize 9 23.08%
City Small 2 8.69% City Small 3 15% City Small 6 15.38%
Rural Distance 0 0% Rural Distance 0 0% Rural Distance 0 0%
Rural Fringe 0 0% Rural Fringe 0 0% Rural Fringe 0 0%
Rural Remote 0 0% Rural Remote 0 0% Rural Remote 0 0%
Suburb Large 3 13.04% Suburb Large 2 10% Suburb Large 5 12.82%
Suburb Midsize 0 0% Suburb Midsize 1 5% Suburb Midsize 1 2.56%
Suburb Small 1 4.35% Suburb Small 0 0% Suburb Small 3 7.69%
Town Distant 1 4.35% Town Distant 1 5% Town Distant 2 5.13%
Town Fringe 1 4.35% Town Fringe 0 0% Town Fringe 1 2.56%
Town Remote 1 4.35% Town Remote 1 5% Town Remote 2 5.13%
Student Population Student Population Student Population
Large (15,000+) 13 56.52% Large (15,000+) 14 70% Large (15,000+) 25 64.10%
Midsize (5,000-15,000) 4 17.39% Midsize (5,000-15,000) 3 15% Midsize (5,000-15,000) 9 23.08%
Small (0-5,000) 6 26.09% Small (0-5,000) 3 15% Small (0-5,000) 5 12.82%
Race of Perpetrator Race of Perpetrator Race of Perpetrator
Asian 0 0% Asian 0 0% Asian 0 0%
Black 0 0% Black 1 5% Black 2 5.13%
Latinx 0 0% Latinx 0 0% Latinx 0 0%
Unknown 7 30.43% Unknown 9 45% Unknown 9 23.08%
White 16 69.57% White 10 50% White 28 71.79%
2016 (N=120) # of incidents per code % of year sample 2017 (N=77) # of incidents per code % of year sample 2018 (N=71) # of incidents per code % of year sample
Institution Type Institution Type Institution Type
2-Year Public 5 4.17% 2-Year Public 0 0% 2-Year Public 3 4.23%
4-Year Private 49 40.83% 4-Year Private 40 51.95% 4-Year Private 33 46.48%
4-Year Public 66 55% 4-Year Public 37 48.05% 4-Year Public 35 49.29%
PWI/Not PWI PWI/Not PWI PWI/Not PWI
PWI 111 92.50% PWI 75 97.40% PWI 66 92.96%
Not PWI 9 7.50% Not PWI 2 2.60% Not PWI 5 7.04%
Institutional Setting Institutional Setting Institutional Setting
City Large 41 34.17% City Large 19 24.68% City Large 20 28.17%
City Midsize 20 16.67% City Midsize 17 22.08% City Midsize 21 29.58%
City Small 23 19.17% City Small 14 18.18% City Small 10 14.08%
Rural Distant 0 0% Rural Distance 0 0% Rural Distance 0 0%
Rural Fringe 1 0.83% Rural Fringe 1 1.29% Rural Fringe 0 0%
Rural Remote 0 0% Rural Remote 0 0% Rural Remote 0 0%
Suburb Large 20 16.67% Suburb Large 11 14.29% Suburb Large 12 16.90%
Suburb Midsize 2 1.67% Suburb Midsize 2 2.60% Suburb Midsize 0 0%
Suburb Small 4 3.33% Suburb Small 5 6.49% Suburb Small 3 4.23%
Town Distant 4 3.33% Town Distant 5 6.49% Town Distant 3 4.23%
Town Fringe 4 3.33% Town Fringe 1 1.29% Town Fringe 0 0%
Town Remote 1 0.83% Town Remote 2 2.60% Town Remote 2 2.81%
Student Population Student Population Student Population
Large (15,000+) 63 52.50% Large (15,000+) 39 50.65% Large (15,000+) 40 56.34%
Midsize (5,000-15,000) 38 31.67% Midsize (5,000-15,000) 20 25.97% Midsize (5,000-15,000) 16 22.54%
Small (0-5,000) 19 15.83% Small (0-5,000) 18 23.38% Small (0-5,000) 15 21.12%
Race of Perpetrator Race of Perpetrator Race of Perpetrator
Asian 1 0.83% Asian 0 0% Asian 1 1.41%
Black 0 0% Black 1 1.30% Black 2 2.81%
Latinx 3 2.50% Latinx 0 0% Latinx 0 0%
Unknown 49 40.83% Unknown 26 33.77% Unknown 20 28.17%
White 67 55.83% White 50 64.94% White 48 67.61%
Table 3 Cross-year analysis of general code categories (2013-2018)
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public institution in California which is located in a large city, contains a large student
population, and has a predominantly white student body is more likely to have a racist incident
reported on its campus compared to a community college in rural New Mexico with a small,
diverse student population. The consistency of the general code data shows that this assumption
could be applied to any of the individual years represented in the sample. However, this does not
indicate that the variables in the general code categories can explain the influx of reported
incidents that occurred after Trump was elected. Therefore, applying Aneshensel’s (2012)
“exclusionary strategy” to the data does not eliminate the possibility that there is a focal
relationship between the Trump presidency and the reported racist incidents that occurred since
the launch of his presidential campaign. This leads me to my analysis of the “specialized codes”
where I examine the frequency and type of racist incidents that occurred within the sample.
Specialized Code Analysis

Now that I have established that the focal relationship between the Trump presidency and
the influx of racist incidents is a feasible possibility, the final analytic step of Aneshensel’s
(2012) methodological approach is to incorporate an analysis of the specialized code categories
to “evaluate whether the focal relationship is indeed a relationship or merely an association”
(Aneshensel, p. 11). However, investigating each of the 18 inductive codes is beyond the scope
of this particular study. Thus, I have narrowed my analysis to explore racism and social media,
anti-Black violence, Islamophobia, and anti-Semitism on college campuses. These four specific
thematic patterns coincide with existing studies, which has allowed me to triangulate the data for
a more comprehensive analysis. I utilize tenets of my analytical framework and themes from my
conceptual framework to compositely generate various principle assumptions that will inform
my theoretical sensemaking (Figure 2).
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Figure 2 Analytical/Conceptual Framework

First, I employ my analytical/conceptual framework to examine how Trump’s
presidential rhetoric on social media contributes to the maintenance and normalization of white
hegemony. By utilizing social media platforms as his primary means of communication, I argue
that his conduct on social media has persuaded and validated his followers—many of whom are
college students—to exude racist behavior online.
Following my analysis of racism on social media, I analyze two additional specialized
codes that were not given considerable attention in my findings due to the low frequency (<14%)
in the sample: Islamophobia and anti-Semitism on college and university campuses. While this
particular sample of 350 reports did not consist of a significant amount of these targeted
incidents, recent reports suggest that they warrant a more extensive analysis. I employed my
analytical/conceptual framework to specifically examine the national increase in Islamophobic
violence to demonstrate how Trump’s presidential rhetoric has attempted to justify
220
discriminatory policies against Muslims, alienate Muslims as perpetual enemies of the nation,
and justify racial attacks against Muslim people.
I then concentrate my analysis of anti-Semitic incidents to examine the specific type of
racial violence that Jewish students are experiencing. Utilizing various tenets and themes from
my analytical/conceptual framework as investigative tools, I explain how Trump’s anti-Semitic
rhetoric has excluded Jewish people from American nationalism and has possibly influenced the
national increase in anti-Semitic violence. I illuminate why the majority of the recent attacks
against Jewish people have been executed anonymously by situating anti-Semitic violence within
a historical context of Jewish racial formation in the United States.
Finally, I deviate from my analytical/conceptual framework to examine the longstanding
history of anti-Black violence on college and university campuses using Inwood’s (2018) white
counter-revolutionary politics and McKittrick’s (2011) plantation logics. These frameworks help
identify why and how anti-Black violence has consistently remained the most prevalent form of
racial violence within the context of higher education institutions (as illustrated in Figure 12).
Within each sub-section, I make a determination for whether there is a focal relationship between
the Trump presidency and the frequency and type of racist incidents that occurred after the
launch of his presidential campaign.
The era of social media racism—white supremacy frontstage. In Chapter 2, I
described Enli’s (2017) fourth phase of political communication, “the era of social media,”
which refers to the way political leaders now have the ability to communicate instantaneously
with a national audience through various multimedia platforms. President Trump has used
Twitter to directly communicate with his millions of followers without having to utilize the
traditional mainstream mediums of communication. Since the launch of Trump’s presidential
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campaign, researchers have extensively analyzed how he utilized social media to win the election
(Cowls & Schroeder, 2018), exude authoritarian behavior (Turner, 2018), and attack his political
opponents (Giroux, 2017). Researchers have also explored how Trump’s presidential rhetoric on
social media has influenced the behavior of his followers in racialized ways (Korostelina, 2017;
Shafer, 2017). The findings from this study revealed that 14 of the 81 multimedia incidents
(17.2%) specifically mentioned Trump’s name in the report, and 66 of the 81 (81.5%) occurred
after the launch of his presidential campaign.
My analytical/conceptual framework (Figure 2) is designed in such a way that allows for
a critical examination of the racial elements of presidential rhetoric in its varying forms. Two of
the main themes from my conceptual framework—the ability of presidential rhetoric to persuade
the American people to think and behave in certain ways, and the ways in which presidential
rhetoric is consumed, understood, and debated through various mediums of communication—
will be applied to examine Trump’s rhetoric on social media and the rhetoric of his online
followers. Augmented by two tenets of CRT—critiques of whiteness and colorblindness—my
analytical framework will also provide a racialized interpretation of these themes of presidential
rhetoric.
President Trump has posted several messages on Twitter that are directly targeted at
people of color. For example, on June 2, 2019, he tweeted,
People have been saying for years that we should talk to Mexico. The problem is that
Mexico is an ‘abuser’ of the United States, taking but never giving. It has been this way
for decades. Either they stop the invasion of our Country by Drug Dealers, Cartels,
Human Traffickers....(cont.) Coyotes and Illegal Immigrants, which they can do very
easily, or our many companies and jobs that have been foolishly allowed to move South
of the Border, will be brought back into the United States through taxation (Tariffs).
America has had enough! (Trump, 2019, retrieved from Twitter account).

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While on the campaign trail, he tweeted anti-Muslim rhetoric while also insulting his political
opponent, stating, “Incompetent Hillary, despite the horrible attack in Brussels today, wants
borders to be weak and open-and let the Muslims flow in. No way!” (Trump, 2015, retrieved
from Twitter account).
In Chapter 2, I argued that Leonardo’s (2015) concept of “whiteness as bully” is
exemplified by how Trump utilizes social media. Karpf’s (2017) study on digital politics in the
age of Trump addressed how there are “crowds of vocal adherents that [assemble] on social
media to promote…Trump and verbally accost [those] who [oppose] him” (p. 4). Through the
hashtag #MAGA (“Make America Great Again”), Trump supporters are able to organize and
mobilize on social media to harass and threaten those who publicly oppose Trump online (Karpf,
p. 4). Both Karpf (2017) and Giroux (2017) argue that Trump’s “weaponizing” of Twitter against
critics and political opponents gives legitimacy to his followers to mirror his behavior.
It could be argued that Trump’s public display of racism via social media has allowed for
his supporters to find solace in their prejudicial beliefs, as the example set by the nation’s leader
provides a vital element of validity. In conjunction with my analytical/conceptual framework, I
turn to Goffman’s (1956) “frontstage-backstage” theory, and Picca and Faegin’s (2007)
racialized reinterpretation of the theory, to conceptualize how Trump’s rhetoric via social media
has validated and inspired his supporters to engage in racist behavior online. Goffman’s (1956)
theory—originally used as an analogy to describe the similarities between theatrical performance
and social interaction—posits that humans have a public (frontstage) and private (backstage)
persona that often differ in how they are presented. The behaviors that are usually suppressed to
the backstage are those that would be deemed unacceptable by the general public, while
frontstage behaviors are those that present an individual in the most favorable manner (Goffman,
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1956). Picca and Faegin (2007) apply Goffman’s theory to the racialized U.S. context,
demonstrating how “in the multiracial frontstage, whites typically [attempt] to conceal racist
beliefs and [defer] to neoliberal language,” while white performance in the backstage serves as
space where overt racism and bigotry can go unchallenged amongst white and “white-minded”
people (p. 3). The primary element of the frontstage is legitimacy, and few things can make
something more legitimate than the validation of the President.
Shafer (2017) utilizes Goffman’s (1956) “frontstage-backstage” theory, and Picca and
Faegin’s (2007) racialized reinterpretation of the theory, to conceptualize how Trump’s racist,
“anti-politically correct” rhetoric on social media has created a space where his supporters can
feel free to openly engage in racist behavior online. Shafer (2017) describes how Trump’s use of
the phrase “political incorrectness”
has become a signifier in President Trump’s political context as a means through which
backstage, overt white racism, and bigotry can be communicated in the public frontstage
of social media as supposed cathartic and, importantly, nonracially motivated truth
telling…This bringing back of backstage racist feelings to the frontstage is justified under
the guise of being honest and simply “telling it like it is,” which creates an illusion of
subtlety in expressing racist interpretations of issues. An important aspect of Trump’s
“political incorrectness” is this subtleness with which many white supporters believe they
can communicate about race. (p. 2-3)

Trump’s “politically incorrect” language on social media has, to an extent, normalized overt
racism in the public frontstage. What was once considered unacceptable, “backstage” rhetoric is
now welcomed and justifiable. Shafer (2017) conceptualizes this phenomenon as a social process
predicated upon “public shame,” stating:
…if white people are averse to discussing race productively in the frontstage, yet
comfortable making or allowing racist slurs, jokes, and stereotypes in the backstage,
possibly only the threat of public shame keeps whites from openly discussing and having
their deeply held racial beliefs exposed in the frontstage. Recent disavowals of “political
correctness” by figures like Trump, however, have emboldened backstage racism to
return to the frontstage…Bringing white racism to the forefront in this manner dismisses
continued structural inequality and normalizes racist thinking as logical. (p. 3).
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Trump has accomplished something unique in that his rhetoric has allowed white supremacist
ideologies to exist within public discourse as an arguable platform worth considering. White
supremacy has once again become a frontstage actor, and millions of his followers have a front
row seat.
The “critiques of whiteness” tenet of CRT that is included in my analytical framework is
an amalgamation of Cabrera’s (2018) “hegemonic Whiteness” and Harris’ (1993) “whiteness as
property.” For this particular analysis, it could be argued that “hegemonic Whiteness” is the
underlying ideological motivation for Trump’s online rhetoric. Hegemonic Whiteness posits that
white supremacy is continually reproduced through cultural and discursive practices that
normalize and naturalize racial inequities (Cabrera, 2018). This often allows for systemic white
supremacy to remain invisible, uninterrogated and unchallenged (Cabrera, 2018). Utilizing the
core principles embedded within analytical/conceptual framework, Trump’s presidential rhetoric
via social media could also be classified as a “discursive practice” that maintains white
hegemony and validates racist behavior exuded by his followers.
In conjunction with the two themes of presidential rhetoric—the ability of presidential
rhetoric to persuade the American people to think and behave in certain ways, and the ways in
which presidential rhetoric is consumed, understood, and debated through various mediums of
communication—it could be interpreted that Trump’s racialized rhetoric on social media has the
ability to persuade his online followers to think and behave in certain ways that contribute to the
maintenance of white hegemony. For example, Shafer (2017) argues that “Trump’s ‘political
incorrectness’ reflects a white-centric neoliberal reality and serves the dominant white US
hegemony. This sense of incorrectness as truth telling allows for backstage racist sentiments to
become normalized as logical in the public frontstage” (p. 4). As a result, Korostelina (2017)
225
argues that Trump supporters who are prejudiced against immigrants, Muslims, African
Americans, or other groups do not have to accept that their views may be biased or bigoted since
they can find confirmation and validation for their existing biases through Trump’s rhetoric.
Instead, these prejudicial ideologies are merely “politically incorrect” (Shafer, 2017)—a
euphemism to disguise blatant prejudice under the mask of acceptable terminology. This
normalization of white supremacy may have contributed to the 66 multimedia related incidents
perpetrated by college students that occurred after the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign.
At American University in 2017, Taylor Dumpson, the first Black woman to be elected as
American University’s student body president, was faced with online threats from Andrew
Anglin, founder of the Daily Stormer, a prominent neo-Nazi website (Brown, 2017). Anglin
encouraged his readers to “troll” Dumpson online with derogatory messages (Brown, 2017).
Additionally, on the first day Dumpson assumed office, several bananas in the shape of nooses
were found with the letters “AKA” written on them—a reference to Dumpson’s traditionally
Black sorority, Alpha Kappa Alpha—which may have had a connection with the online threats
(Brown, 2017). At Pomona College, a private Facebook group called “U PC BREAUX”
(pronounced “Are you PC, bro?”—a reference to Trump’s common critique of “political
correctness”) was discovered by university officials (Roll, 2017). The Facebook group
comprised of over 300 students, and included various memes and posts that were openly racist,
sexist, transphobic, and Islamophobic (Brooks, 2017). One of the memes included a photo of a
group of praying Muslims with the “Minesweeper” interface overlaid over their bodies (Brooks,
2017).
In a 2018 incident at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, white supremacists
using the social media platform, “Gab,” targeted a number of student activists (Bauer-Wolf,
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2018b). A user who goes by the name of “Jack Corbin” used both Gab and his Twitter accounts
to harass UNC students who had been advocating for the removal of the Silent Sam Confederate
monument on campus (Bauer-Wolf, 2018b). During one specific attack against a graduate
student, Corbin told the student that he would take her to a “lampshade factory”—a reference to
stories of Nazis who made lampshades out of human skin (Bauer-Wolf, 2018b). Some of his
other posts revealed that he would harass student journalists by using President Trump’s
common phrase, “fake news” (Bauer-Wolf, 2018b). It is speculated that Corbin also has close
ties with Robert Bowers, the alleged shooter who murdered 11 Jewish men and women at the
Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh in October of 2017 (Bauer-Wolf, 2018b).
Including the examples provided in my findings section, these were only a few of the
many racist social media incidents that involved college students throughout the Trump
presidency. Some of the reports specifically mentioned Trump’s name, and in several cases, the
perpetrators of the incidents made references to Trump’s common phrases including his usage of
“political correctness” and “fake news.” Each of these incidents were targeted towards students
of color and promoted white nationalism and white supremacy in some form. Furthermore, the
incidents at American University and UNC Chapel Hill demonstrate how this backstage to
frontstage process has consequently allowed racism in cyberspace to anthropomorphize from a
virtual entity into a tangible weapon that can be triggered by one’s fingertips without recoil. The
threats that students receive online have translated into physical consequences, demonstrating the
capacity of this form of racial violence to endanger student lives in material ways. While more
qualitative evidence is required to draw any substantive conclusions between the influence of
Trump’s racialized rhetoric and the occurrence of racial violence in postsecondary environments
(i.e., the core principles of my analytical/conceptual framework), these findings support the
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possibility that there is a focal relationship between the Trump presidency and the influx of racist
incidents online that occurred after the launch of his presidential campaign.
There was an additional finding that alludes to an important nuance within this category
of racist incidents. While the internet provides a level of anonymity that allows people to execute
racist behavior in the frontstage without fear of being identified, it appears that many of the
perpetrators opted not to shield their identities on social media, and instead uploaded videos and
photos on various social media platforms. Out of the 81 “multimedia” related incidents, 63 of the
perpetrators were white, but only 16 were anonymous. It was surprising to find that many of the
perpetrators of these incidents elected not to choose the available option of remaining
anonymous on social media while participating in racist behavior. For example, the majority of
the “blackface” incidents involved students who posted photos or videos of themselves on social
media. Similarly, the students at the University of Kansas posed for their “Kkk go trump” picture
without shielding their identities (Dreid & Najmabadi, 2016). Shafer (2017) argues that this
newfound confidence to participate in racist behavior on the frontstage can possibly be attributed
to the normalization of racial violence inspired by Trump’s conduct on social media:
On Twitter, the race of the user cannot be verified. The Snapchat live videos, on the other
hand, documented stark video footage of [Trump’s presidential campaign rallies] where
the racial make-up of the majority white crowd is difficult to ignore. Future research
could consider the implications inherent in users’ willingness to move from written
tweets to recorded videos, and how this willingness to show one’s face signifies how
neoliberal logic provides an increasingly comfortable rationalization for overt racist
behavior. (p. 9).

In Chapters 5 and 6, students reflect on how they believe Trump’s rhetoric has emboldened his
followers to behave in racist ways. Their responses provide qualitative evidence to support
Shafer’s (2017) suggestion for future research to explore people’s willingness to publicly
participate in overtly racist behavior on college and university campuses. However, in the next
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sub-section, I further interrogate the material consequences of racism and white supremacy
during the Trump presidency by exploring how students of color and other minoritized student
groups have been the primary targets of these racist attacks. More specifically, I examine how
Muslim students and Jewish students have experienced a drastic increase in racial violence since
the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign.
The Patriot Act and the Muslim Ban: The rationalization of Islamophobic violence
on college campuses. After the horrific events of September 11, 2001, President George W.
Bush signed the “Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required
to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act,” commonly known as the “USA Patriot Act,” a policy
that “[gave] government authorities far-reaching oversight powers to prevent and protect against
terrorist activities…[and] proposed to give federal agents the ability to detain noncitizens,
increase wiretaps, initiate e-mail and Internet surveillance, and intensify the monitoring of
student visas” (Domke, Graham, Coe, John & Coopman, 2006, p. 291). The policy was placed
under extreme criticism, as it was perceived that it conveyed a government-sanctioned fear
against Muslims that led to anti-Islamic violence across the nation. Byers & Jones (2007)
analyzed 2001 F.B.I. crime statistics and found that 27.2% of all hate crimes were anti-Islamic.
However, 455 out of the 546 (83.3%) anti-Islamic incidents occurred in the 3 months following
the September 11th attacks. For comparison, anti-Islamic hate crimes only accounted for 0.035%
of all offenses in the previous year. Furthermore, “Anti-Muslim and Islamophobic acts [were]
also occurring on college campuses,” which resulted in hostile campus racial climate for Muslim
students that left them vulnerable to racial violence (Ahmadi, 2011, p. 47).
Ahmadi (2011) states, “given the Patriot Act was enacted by an American public
responding to and still traumatized by the September 11th attacks, the Act may intrinsically
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reflect the idea of Muslims’ ‘racialization’ as terrorists” (p. 40). Muslims were immediately
thrust into the public sphere as visible threats to national security. As Shams (2017) describes,
“the post-9/11 terror-panic climate has irrevocably transformed Muslims from a relatively
invisible minority in America to hypervisible suspects of terrorism” (p. 73). Ahmadi cites
Volpp’s (2002) interrogation of racial profiling where they explain how “September 11
facilitated the consolidation of a new identity category that groups together persons who appear
‘Middle Eastern, Arab, or Muslim.’ This consolidation reflects a racialization wherein members
of this group are identified as terrorists, and are disidentified as citizens” (Volpp, p. 1576).
Similar to what Mosse (1995) refers to as the nationalism-racism “alliance” described in Chapter
2, nationalism and racism are inextricably linked in how Muslims are racialized. A nationalistic
agenda is advanced by the racialization—and subsequent denigration—of “inferior” racial
groups. Thus, in this context, anyone who is categorized as Middle Eastern, Arab, or Muslim, is
essentially characterized as the “‘outsider’ defined as the enemy both of nation and race”
(Mosse, 1995, p. 171).
Shams (2017) extends this notion, explaining how the term “Muslim” “homogenizes
South Asians, Arabs, Middle Easterners, North Africans, and Blacks, all of whom fall on a wide
spectrum of physical appearance. It also includes ‘Muslim-looking’ non-Muslims, such as Sikhs,
Arabs, and Middle Easterners who are Jewish or Christian, even agnostics. As such, increased
surveillance of ‘Muslims’ not only puts Muslim Americans in danger but also members of a
whole swath of categories” (p. 74). In Chapter 5, some of the Muslim students who are quoted
identified as Bangladeshi, Somali, Southeast Asian, and African American. Ahmadi, Sanchez
and Cole (2019) draw attention to the diversity of the Muslim community, highlighting that
Among Muslim immigrants in the United States, no single ethnic group has a majority.
Among U.S.-born Muslims, no single race has a majority. Although the Muslim
230
community is one of the most diverse communities in the United States, they are
constantly portrayed as a monolithic community from the Middle East. It is important to
note that the term ‘Middle East’ is a made-up term, the meaning and geographical
locations of which shifts depending on the social, political, or economic gains that it may
bring to those using term. (p. 101).

Nonetheless, Islamophobic, racialized stereotypes of Muslim people have been advanced
by governmental decision-making. Drawing from Michel Foucault’s understanding of power and
governance, Volpp (2002) describes how U.S. government was considerably responsible for the
widespread anti-Islamic sentiment that plagued the nation after the signing of the Patriot Act:
…simply because the state does not officially sponsor an activity does not mean that the
state does not bear a relationship to that activity. In simultaneously advocating policies of
colorblindness for citizenry while engaging in racial profiling for noncitizens…the
administration has, in the name of democratic inclusion, disingenuously excluded. Thus,
that an epidemic of hate violence has occurred within the context of ‘private’ relations
does not mean that such violence is without ‘public’ origins or consequences. (p. 1583).

In the context of anti-Islamic violence in higher education, the final sentence could be
paraphrased as such: the epidemic of hate violence occurring within the context of college and
university campuses (private relations) does not mean that such violence is without sociopolitical
origins (i.e., the Patriot Act and the Muslim Ban). When a national anti-Islamic fear is endorsed
by the government, the public’s response to that fear—albeit violent or not—is implicitly
endorsed as well.
There are endlessly consequential similarities between the outcomes of the Patriot Act
and President Trump’s “Muslim Ban” (Executive Order 13769), but the geneses of each are
vastly different. While the Patriot Act was a direct response to the horrific events of September
11, 2001 (which I still believe is not a justification for the implementation of the discriminatory
policy), the “Muslim Ban” was merely a response to one individual’s xenophobic sentiments that
were empowered and validated after they were given a platform of authority. Yet, both policies
established a government-sanctioned fear that allowed for hate crimes to become “convoluted
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incarnation[s] of patriotism,” or, quite literally, patriot acts (Ahmadi, 2011, p. 43). This
solidified a narrative that individual hate crimes were merely an acceptable effort to eliminate a
nationally-defined foe.
To situate my analytical/conceptual framework within the context of this sub-section, the
findings from this study and the evidence provided by existing studies exemplify three themes of
my conceptual framework—presidential rhetoric precedes governmental decision-making, has
the ability persuade the American people, and helps define an American national identity—and
two tenets of my analytical framework—"endemic racism” and “critiques of whiteness.” An
amalgamation of these tenets of CRT with the themes of presidential rhetoric generate the
following principle assumptions: racialized presidential rhetoric helps justify Islamophobic
discriminatory governmental policies; racialized presidential rhetoric has the ability to persuade
the American people to exude Islamophobic behavior; and racialized presidential rhetoric helps
define a white national identity that excludes Muslims and other minoritized groups. Each of
these compounding elements have collectively generated a hostile racial climate for Muslims in
the United States who have been frequent targets of racial violence throughout the last two
decades.
In Chapter 2, I provided examples of how past U.S. presidents have addressed national
identity in ideational terms by strategically using colorblind language to avoid racial or ethnic
essentialisms (Beasley, 2004). I described how President Nixon framed Black civil rights
activists as “lawbreakers” whose actions were antithetical to Southern white values (Lopez,
2014), President Cleveland referred to Native Americans as unfit for citizenship given the
“savagery of their natural state” (Cleveland, 1885), and President Reagan created the image of
the “welfare queen” which implicitly suggested that Black women were “lazy, greedy, black
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ghetto mother[s]” (Alexander, 2010, p. 49). Although each of these rhetorical approaches
possessed underlying racial connotations, none of the U.S. presidents explicitly mentioned a
particular racial group.
In contrast, Korostelina (2017) argues that there is an intentional absence of diplomacy in
Trump’s rhetoric that deviates from the polysemic rhetorical strategies of past presidents. Trump
has instead chosen to pontificate explicitly racist language that reinforces the xenophobic and
racist viewpoints held by many of his supporters (Korostelina, 2017). For example, Trump
explained his rationale for the initial version of the Muslim Ban during a 2016 interview with
CNN host, Anderson Cooper, where he stated, “I think Islam hates us” (Schleifer, 2016). During
his presidential campaign, he issued statement saying, “Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and
complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country’s representatives can
figure out what is going on” (Johnson & Hauslohner, 2017). It has also been documented that
Trump’s advisors have also said that “Islam is a ‘political ideology,’ a ‘malignant cancer,’ and
‘the most radical religion in the world’” (Ahmadi, Sanchez & Cole, 2019, p. 105). Each of these
statements employ racialized language that positions Muslims as perpetual enemies who deserve
to be ostracized from American citizenship and subjects of racially discriminatory policies. What
is more, recent statistics illustrate that there may be a strong association between Trump’s
racialized language against Muslims and the influx of Islamophobic violence on college
campuses and the nation as a whole.
According to a Pew Research Center analysis of hate-crime data from the F.B.I., anti-
Muslim assaults reached 9/11-era levels during Trump’s campaign (Kishi, 2016). There was a
total of 91 reported aggravated or simple assaults motivated by anti-Muslim bias in 2015, “just
two shy of the 93 reported in 2001” (Kishi, 2016, para. 1). Since 1990, SPLC has published an
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annual census of hate groups operating within the United States to monitor the level of hate
activity in the country in the previous year (SPLC, 2018). In the 2017 edition, the report states
that “the most dramatic growth was the near-tripling of anti-Muslim hate groups—from 34 in
2015 to 101 [in 2016]” (SPLC, 2017). Hate crimes against Muslims increased by 67% after
Trump launched his presidential campaign, which continued after his election as “867 bias-
related incidents [occurred within 10 days of his election], including more than 300 that targeted
immigrants or Muslims” (SPLC, 2017, para. 8). Although Figure 12 illustrates that there were
only 11 Islamophobic incidents within the sample for this study, the national data reveals that
there may also be a focal relationship between the Trump presidency (and Trump’s presidential
rhetoric more specifically) and Islamophobic violence.
From the sample of racist incidents collected in this study, one occurred at San Diego
State University where a Muslim student wearing hijab was pushed and verbally assaulted by
two men in a parking garage. The student told investigators that the two attackers made
comments about President Trump and the Muslim community before robbing her of her purse
and backpack (Stickney, 2016). A similar incident occurred at San Jose State University the day
after the 2016 election, where a Muslim student was walking back to her car when someone
grabbed her hijab from behind and yanked it backward. The student told investigators that she
struggled to breathe as the attacker refused to let go until she fell to her knees (Gomes, 2016).
Ahmadi’s (2011) analysis of post-9/11 Islamophobia highlighted how Muslim women
wearing hijab were an easily identifiable target for racist attacks within the first few days of 9/11.
They explain how “the visible marker of their hijab rendered them a prominent target for
retaliation” (Ahmadi, 2011, p. 45). More recently, Whitehead, Smith, Williams and McDaniel
(2019) situated Islamophobic violence within the context of the Trump presidency. They
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conducted a document analysis study at a public university in the South during the aftermath of
the Muslim Ban, and found that
Muslim women have felt the broader U.S. climate becoming increasingly hostile. A
report in the student newspaper noted that “many Muslim hijabi women have feared
traveling alone and have been advised to not wear their hijab in the time following the
election.” This fear stems from the high visibility of Muslim hijabi women who can be
“easily categorized as Muslim” and face higher levels of harassment. (Whitehead et al.,
2019, p. 205).

Fernandez (2009) describes how the hijab has become a “sign of inequality, hostility to a
democratic society…as well as the blurred line between Islam and terror…[it is a] tangible
embodiment of violence” (p. 274). Much to the demise of Muslim women, wearing hijab has
become antithetical to American values, and an anti-American political statement riddled with
negative stereotypes. Shams (2017) conducted a study of Muslims’ identification processes since
9/11 and the 2016 presidential election to examine how they navigate race, religion and
nationalism in a politically hostile climate. They found that many of the participants, some of
which were college students, “attempt[ed] to draw an explicit boundary between them and
Islamist extremists” by dressing “moderately” in “full sleeves, jeans, or long dresses” (Shams,
2017, p. 84). To avoid being a possible target of racial violence, they consciously adapted their
appearance and cultural practices to fit into an “acceptable,” non-threatening image.
Islamophobic sentiments that originated nearly 20 years ago have now resurfaced on
college campuses, as another Islamophobic policy has impacted the next generation of Muslim
students. In Chapter 5, current Muslim college students in California will share their perspectives
about how this new wave of Islamophobia has influenced how they perceive and experience their
campus racial climate. However, Muslims on college campuses were not the only religious group
that was disproportionately targeted after Trump’s election. A similar racialization process was
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imposed upon another religious group that has recently experienced an influx of racist incidents
on college campuses across the nation.
The surge of anti-Semitism. From the total sample of 350 racist incidents, 50 were
specifically targeted at Jewish people. A report by The Chronicle of Higher Education detailed
an incident that occurred at Davidson College in 2018, where Martha Gerdes, a student and
teaching assistant at the college, posted anti-Semitic messages on her Twitter account while
referring to the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting in October of 2018 (Quintana, 2018). One of the
tweets read, “I actually don’t give a shit about Jews getting shot up except insofar as it’s going to
make it a lot harder for a lot of white people to just exist” (Quintana, 2018). A report by Inside
Higher Ed described a chain of incidents that occurred at Stanford University, Vanderbilt
University, and UC Berkeley, where flyers featuring swastikas and the phrase, “Samiz.dat [a
reference to Soviet-era type of dissent]…It’s almost here, we take power on the 20th”
(Straumsheim, 2017). The “20th” is in reference to January 20, 2017—the day of Donald
Trump’s presidential inauguration. Another report by Inside Higher Ed involved an anti-Semitic
incident at Rice University, where someone chalked a swastika and “Trump” on a statue of the
university’s founder (Jaschik, 2017e).
Although anti-Semitic incidents only encompassed 14% of the total sample for this
study48, recent studies have discovered a rise of anti-Semitism on college campuses as a result of

48 The evaluation of anti-Semitism on college campuses was also systemically disregarded until fairly recently.
Marcus (2007) explains that “until late 2004, the U.S. Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights (OCR)
largely avoided anti-Semitism cases based on two concerns…First, Jews are not considered to constitute a distinct
‘race’ as that term is used in contemporary social science or in common public usage. Second, Congress elected not
to prohibit religious discrimination in Title VI [of the Civil Rights Act of 1964], and anti-Semitism is, among other
things, a form of religious discrimination” (p. 838). Marcus (2007) argues that beneath Congress’s decision to
exclude religious groups from Title VI protection, there was an intentional “reluctance to characterize Jews as a race
(with all of the nineteenth century pseudo-scientific and mid-twentieth century anti-Semitic connotations with which
that designation is laden)” (p. 839). A slight modification was made in late 2004, when OCR determined that Title
VI “prohibits anti-Semitic harassment at federally funded public and private universities, except to the extent that
the harassment is exclusively based on tenets of the student’s religious faith” (Marcus, 2007, p. 838). In other words,
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the Trump presidency. The Anti-Defamation League (ADL) conducted an audit of anti-Semitic
incidents on college campuses that occurred in 2017. At the University of Minnesota, white
supremacist flyers were posted around campus that read, “White Man, are you sick and tired of
the Jews destroying your country through mass immigration and degeneracy? Join us in the
struggle for global white supremacy” (ADL, 2017). At the University of California, San Diego, a
swastika and “Heil Trump” were written in a campus restroom. Several racist flyers and
instances of anti-Semitic vandalism were also found at Rutgers University, Drake University,
Wesleyan University, Weber State University, and Georgetown University, to name a few (ADL,
2017).
A supplementary report found that anti-Semitic incidents surged nearly 60% from 2016
to 2017, which was “the largest single-year increase on record and the second highest number
reported since ADL started tracking incident data in the 1970s (ADL, 2018a). For the first time
in U.S. history, there was an incident reported in all 50 states. For comparison, from January 1,
2017, to September 30, 2017, there were 1,299 anti-Semitic incidents reported across the United
States (1,986 total for the year). This amount already surpassed the total number of incidents that
occurred in all of 2016 (1,266) (ADL, 2018b). They found that the states with the highest
number of incidents were those with the largest Jewish populations (New York, California,
Massachusetts, Florida, and Pennsylvania) (ADL, 2018b). According to the 2018 F.B.I. Hate
Crime Statistics report, nearly 60% of the hate crimes motivated by religious bias were anti-
Jewish (ADL, 2018b).

“if Jews are deemed ‘just’ a religious group, then they are not covered by Title VI. Publicly funded
programs…could discriminate against Jews with impunity” (Schraub, 2019, para. 2). This distinction was met with
harsh criticism from Jewish people, as many believed the modification still disregarded anti-Semitism as a
legitimate issue.
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On December 11, 2019, President Donald Trump responded to the national increase in
anti-Semitic incidents by issuing an executive order titled, “Executive Order on Combating Anti-
Semitism,” which states,
Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (Title VI), 42 U.S.C. 2000d et seq., prohibits
discrimination on the basis of race, color, and national origin in programs and activities
receiving Federal financial assistance. While Title VI does not cover discrimination based
on religion, individuals who face discrimination on the basis of race, color, or national
origin do not lose protection under Title VI for also being a member of a group that
shares common religious practices. Discrimination against Jews may give rise to a Title
VI violation when the discrimination is based on an individual’s race, color, or national
origin. It shall be the policy of the executive branch to enforce Title VI against prohibited
forms of discrimination rooted in anti-Semitism as vigorously as against all other forms
of discrimination prohibited by Title VI. (Trump, 2019, para. 3).

Despite the perceived progress, many Jewish people believe that there is a dangerous subtext
hidden beneath the executive order that has far deeper implications (Alterman, 2019; Chakrabarti
& Martin, 2019; Schraub, 2019). The criticism involved the idea that Judaism could be
considered a nationality (therefore allowing them to receive national-origin-based protections
according to the executive order), which seemingly disregarded the “Americanness of American
Jews” (Schraub, 2019, para. 6). Past presidential administrations also came under scrutiny for
categorizing Jewish people in the same way (Schraub, 2019). Though, within the context of the
Trump presidency, there is evidence to an underlying anti-Semitic connotation behind the
executive order (Schraub, 2019).
For example, at the White House Hanukkah party in December of 2018, Trump told the
assembled American Jews that Israel was “your country” (Rosenberg, 2019, para. 2). A few
months later at the Republican Jewish Coalition’s annual gathering, “he referred to Israeli Prime
Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as ‘your prime minister’” (Rosenberg, 2019, para. 2). Thus,
classifying Jewish people under “national origin” was “perceived as a doubling-down, another
way of telling American Jews, ‘[America] is not your country’” (Schraub, 2019, para. 8). Along
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with the growing frustration amongst Jewish people regarding “Trumpist anti-Semitism—anti-
Semitism that frequently seems to question whether Jews are patriotic or loyal Americans,” the
fear is that the executive order “insofar as it encodes Jewish difference into American law, may
enable anti-Semitic hatred” (Schraub, 2019, para. 10).
Trump’s statements at the White House Hanukkah party, the Republican Jewish
Coalition’s annual gathering, and several other occasions that I incorporated into my analysis,
each personify various elements of my analytical framework—“colorblindness” and “critiques of
whiteness”—and my conceptual framework—presidential rhetoric precedes governmental
decision-making, helps define an American national identity, and has the ability to persuade the
American people to think and behave in certain ways. Within the context of this sub-section, an
amalgamation of the tenets of CRT with the themes of presidential rhetoric generate the
following principle assumptions: colorblind presidential rhetoric helps justify anti-Semitic
governmental policies; colorblind presidential rhetoric helps define a white national identity that
excludes Jews and other minoritized groups; and colorblind presidential rhetoric has the ability
to persuade the American people to exude anti-Semitic behavior. To conclude this subsection, I
explain how the first two of these composited tenets are interrelated within this particular
context. I then address how the last composited tenet has manifested in a rather unique way.
Since the launch of his campaign, Trump has engaged in anti-Semitic rhetoric on various
occasions. During his presidential campaign in December of 2015, Trump gave a speech before
the Republican Jewish Coalition in Washington D.C. where he furthered the anti-Semitic
stereotype about Jewish people that they are “rich and only care about money” (Rubin, 2019,
para. 3), stating, “I don’t want money, so, therefore, you’re not going to support me because,
stupidly, you want to give money…You want to control your own politician” (Trump, as cited in
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Levitz, 2015, para. 1). In 2016, Trump retweeted an image of 2016 presidential candidate Hillary
Clinton, where her face was superimposed next to the words “Most Corrupt Candidate Ever!”
which were written inside of an outline of the Star of David (Hellmann, 2016). Near the end of
his campaign, he released a statement that reinforced the anti-Semitic messaging of the retweeted
image:
Hillary Clinton meets in secret with international banks to plot the destruction of U.S.
sovereignty in order to enrich these global financial powers, her special interest friends
and her donors…It’s a global power structure that is responsible for the economic
decisions that have robbed our working class, stripped our country of its wealth, and put
that money into the pockets of a handful of large corporations and political
entities…We’ve seen this firsthand in the WikiLeaks documents in which Hillary Clinton
meets in secret with international banks to plot the destruction of U.S. sovereignty in
order to enrich these global financial powers, her special-interest friends, and her donors.
(Trump, as cited in Sykes, 2018, para. 2).

Many believe that this statement “resembled prejudicial language used by anti-Semites”
(Chokshi, 2016, para. 5). Jonathan Greenblatt, the chief executive of the Anti-Defamation
League, was quoted in a New York Times article stating, “Mr. Trump focused on the very issues
and themes that obsess conspiratorial anti-Semites: They believe that there is an elite group of
Jews who control the media, the government, and banking, and who are trying to destroy white
America…They also believe that most of Hillary Clinton’s donors are Jewish” (Greenblatt, as
cited in Chokshi, 2016, para. 7). Greenblatt added that white supremacists may interpret Trump’s
statement as “tacit encouragement” (Chokshi, 2016, para. 6).
Four years later, Trump has echoed his previous statements by further perpetuating these
same anti-Semitic stereotypes. Trump held a 2020 presidential campaign rally at The Diplomat
Conference Center for the Israeli-American Council Summit where he criticized 2020
presidential candidate Elizabeth Warren’s proposed wealth tax plan, stating, “A lot of you are in
the real estate business because I know you very well. You're brutal killers, not nice people at all.
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But you have to vote for me, you have no choice…You're not going to vote for the wealth tax.
...Yeah, let's take 100% of your wealth away. No, no. Even if you don't like me, some of you
don't. Some of you, I don't like at all actually. And you're going to be my biggest supporters
because you'd be out of business in about 15 minutes if they get it” (Trump, as cited in Duster &
Diamond, 2019, para. 3). At another campaign rally, Trump criticized Jewish democrats, stating,
“If you want to vote Democrat, you are being very disloyal to Jewish people and Israel” (Trump,
as cited in Levine, 2019, para. 2, emphasis added). He was referencing his online feud with
Democratic Representatives Ilhan Omar of Minnesota and Rashida Tlaib of Michigan, where he
accused the Congresswomen of being anti-Israel and anti-Semitic (Levine, 2019).
In Chapter 2, I described how U.S. presidents have implicitly sanctioned racially
exclusionary governmental procedures through the use of colorblind rhetoric (Beasley, 2004). By
framing the law as an objective mechanism to create and maintain an equal society, presidents
have claimed that racial problems must be resolved by the “impersonal and unprejudiced” court
system (Beasley, 2004, p. 107). This rhetorical strategy has allowed U.S. presidents to be
exonerated from their involvement and participation in racial matters (Beasley, 2004). According
to Schraub (2019), Trump continued this presidential tradition in the way he phrased the
“Executive Order on Combating Anti-Semitism.” The language used throughout Trump’s
executive order excluded Jews from American national identity by considering Judaism a
nationality belonging to Israel, which, as argued by Schraub (2019), positions American Jews as
incapable of being “American.”
Similarly, Rubin (2019) highlights how calling Jewish democrats “disloyal” perpetuates
“the anti-Semitic stereotype that Jews are guilty of dual loyalty” (para. 1). For example, anti-
Semitism has been historically institutionalized in the context of higher education. For much of
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the 20th century, “colleges and universities created quotas to reduce the numbers of Jewish
students admitted to their institutions” (Kushner, 2009, p. 31). These quotas were implemented
as a response to the “new immigration”—a term used to describe the influx of millions of East
European Jewish people after World War I that made Jewish people in the U.S. “visible as a
group for the first time” (Steinberg, 1971, p. 68). Narratives began to surface about America
having a “Jewish problem” that threatened traditional American values. Jewish people were seen
as an economic threat—as their success in education presented unwelcomed competition—and
social threats—as anti-Semitic stereotypes led some to believe that they “might diminish the
social standing of the college and its students” (Steinberg, p. 70). Eastern colleges, including
Columbia University, Harvard University, Yale University, and the City College of New York,
experienced drastic increases in their enrollment of Jewish students that was met with
institutional reluctance. As a result,
quotas were instituted, though concealed behind a number of subterfuges. Some colleges
set up alumni committees to screen candidates, a device that passed on the responsibility
of religious discrimination to agreeable alumni. Other colleges limited their total
enrollment and employed waiting lists that permitted a biased selection of students. Still
others, under the pretext of seeking a regional balance, gave preference to students
outside the [eastern states where Jewish immigration was most prevalent] and thereby
limited the number of Jews, almost all of whom lived in the [eastern states of the U.S.].
(Steinberg, 1971, p. 72).

Jewish students were also subjected to psychological exams that tested their
characteristics of “fair play,” “public spirit,” “interest in fellows,” and “leadership,” all of which
were subjectively decided by admissions boards who were often laden with members with anti-
Semitic beliefs (Steinberg, 1971). Although a precise measurement of the impact of these quotas
is not possible given their unofficial, secretive nature, “writers of the period give the impression
that by 1930 most private colleges with a large and growing Jewish enrollment had instituted
some kind of restrictive device” (Steinberg, 1971, p. 71).
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Thus, the argument that Trump’s rhetoric is an implicit signal to anti-Semitic ideologies
is understandable considering the historical context. When Trump accuses Jewish people of
being “disloyal,” implies that “secret” Jewish global financial powers aided Hillary Clinton’s
campaign, and assumes that all Jewish people are wealthy and unempathetic, he is reverberating
deeply rooted anti-Semitic sentiments that some fear may encourage white supremacy (Chokshi,
2016). However, the reawakening of anti-Semitic violence, and Trump’s response to the issue, is
particularly unique given the complex history of Jewish racial formation in the United States.
Over the last century, Jewish people have progressively assimilated into American society—
specifically in regard to being considered white. MacDonald-Dennis (2006) explains how
“although Jews were seen as a racially targeted group in Europe, European Jews have ‘become’
white in the racial categories of the United States” (p. 267). At the end of World War I, the influx
of European Jewish immigrants coming to the United States experienced a drastic shift in their
racialized realities. America presented a unique space where assimilation and acceptance was a
newfound possibility. Fredrickson (2002) states,
Jewish immigrants…adapted well to the American modernist ethos and prospered within
it. Blacks, on the other hand, were associated in the white mind with the primitive, the
backward, or the irredeemably premodern. The heritage of slavery and beliefs about the
savagery of Africa engendered a white supremacist myth that Blacks were an inherently
unprogressive race, incapable of joining the modern world as efficient and productive
people… Jews were not needed as universal scapegoats because Blacks already
performed that function. (p. 95).

Thus, in a U.S. context, European Jewish people have been granted the privileges of whiteness—
one of which is being relatively exempt from discrimination based on skin color. Unlike Muslim
women wearing hijab, for example, white Jewish students are not “visible threats” that can be
easily identified. Therefore, why would Trump’s implicit anti-Semitic rhetoric “encourage”
white supremacy if European Jews can now be categorized as white Americans?
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In Chapter 2, I provided a brief overview of the connection between anti-Semitism and
racism, explaining how Jewish people in Germany were once considered to have a defective
condition that one could convert out of through the process of Christian indoctrination
(Fredrickson, 2002). However, antisemitism became racism when it was believed that Jewish
people were born with an inherited evil disposition that was passed through the blood (Bauman,
1989). This ideology was solidified by scientific racism (i.e., eugenics) that defined Jewish
people not by religion or ethnicity, but by biological race (Fredrickson, 2002). White supremacy
in Germany differed from white supremacy in the U.S. in this way, as skin color was not enough
to protect European Jewish people from institutionalized racism and political violence. The
political purpose for this classification was to separate Germans from other northern Europeans
and Jewish people, as it was feared that “Jews might [one day become] their superior”
(Fredrickson, p. 90). Thus, discrimination was justified as a means of racist self-preservation.
Therefore, the recent influx of anti-Semitic violence in America, and on college and university
campuses specifically, appears to be motivated by a revival of this late 19th/early 20th century
white supremacy that was weaponized in Nazi Germany.
Evidence of this argument was can be found by analyzing the “Unite the Right” rally that
took place at the University of Virginia on August 11, 2017. The white supremacists marching
through campus were heard chanting, “Jews will not replace us!”—a call-back to the anti-
Semitic fears of the late 19th/early 20th century Nazi Germans who racialized Jewish people as a
means of subordination (Jaschik, 2017). The Anti-Defamation League also disaggregated the
2017 data to explore whether there was an increase in incidents following the “Unite the Right”
rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, on August 11th and 12th of 2017 (ADL, 2018b). After August
11th, they found a 182% increase in the anti-Semitic incident rate, growing from 2.36 incidents
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per day to 4.3 incidents per day. Anti-Semitic incidents spiked “immediately following
Charlottesville. Of the 306 incidents reported in Q3, 221 took place on or after the August 11
rally” (ADL, 2018b, para. 8).
Figure 14 Number of times that “white supremacy” was mentioned in the reports of racist
incidents before and after the launch of President Donald J. Trump’s campaign on June 16,
2015

Contrary to Jonathan Greenblatt’s argument that Trump’s anti-Semitic rhetoric may serve
as “tacit encouragement” for white supremacists (Chokshi, 2016), I would argue that the reverse
of this interrelated relationship has occurred. According to Figure 14, “white supremacy” and
“white nationalism” were mentioned in over a quarter of the racist incident reports since the
launch of Trump’s presidential campaign (compared to only two reports in the previous 2.5
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years). In a modern U.S. context, one could assume that the increase in white supremacy would
not affect white Jewish Americans since they have been initiated into the category of whiteness
since after World War I (Fredrickson, 2002; MacDonald-Dennis, 2006). However, if the form of
white supremacy being invoked in the current sociopolitical era is a revival of pre-World War I
white supremacist ideologies—as exemplified by the “Unite the Right” rally—it is far more
understandable why this has resulted in an increase in anti-Semitic violence. White Jewish
Americans have been estranged from their associative relationship with whiteness in America
and have once again been subjected into a racialized positionality that is predicated upon their
inferiority.
Nonetheless, the visibility, or lack thereof, of white Jewish students presents an
interesting perspective for which to analyze contemporary manifestations of anti-Semitic
violence on college campuses. Based on the assumptions of the final composited tenet of my
analytical/conceptual framework—colorblind presidential rhetoric has the ability to persuade the
American people to exude anti-Semitic behavior—the data illustrates that it is possible that there
may be a focal relationship between Trump’s anti-Semitic remarks and the national increase in
anti-Semitic violence. However, what is particularly noteworthy is not only the frequency of
these incidents, but also the specific type of anti-Semitic attacks that have been reported. Unlike
the Islamophobic attacks on Muslims discussed in the previous sub-section, a deeper
investigation into anti-Semitic violence reveals that the majority of incidents are executed
anonymously and rarely involve physical attacks.
The reported incidents included in the Anti-Defamation League study and the F.B.I.
reports involved more vandalism and racist materials (i.e., graffiti, flyers, symbols, etc.) than
physical violence. ADL (2018a) found that the largest increase in 2017 was in the category of
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vandalism, and in the vast majority of the cases, the perpetrators remained unidentified. The
majority of examples included the vandalism of synagogues, dormitory walls, and other
institutional property, and the racist materials were spread across the entire campus rather than to
specific students. The ADL (2018b) report shows that out of the 1,986 total incidents in 2017,
1,015 were incidents of harassment (up 41% from 2016), including 163 bomb threats against
Jewish institutions; 952 incidents of vandalism (up 86% from 2016), and only 19 total physical
assaults (down 47% from 2016). Furthermore, out of the 50 anti-Semitic incidents found in this
study (Figure 12), 47 involved either social media, vandalism, or racist flyers, two were verbal
assaults, and only one involved physical violence.
While the data illustrates a strong possibility that there is a focal relationship between the
Trump presidency and anti-Semitic violence on college campuses, embedded within this
relationship is a complex history of Jewish racial formation in the United States that has
essentially diluted the visibility of white Jewish Americans amongst other white Americans.
Given that the majority of the anti-Semitic incidents were executed anonymously and rarely
involved physical attacks, it could be argued that the perception of white Jewish people as white
has influenced the type of anti-Semitic incidents that have recently occurred as well. Although it
is difficult to distinguish someone who practices Judaism, the evidence provided in this sub-
section demonstrates that it has not prevented a drastic influx of anti-Semitic violence from
occurring since the launch of Trump’s presidential campaign.
Engaging in this historical analysis of Jewish racial formation in the United States
provides a theoretical explanation for why vandalism, social media, racist materials and anti-
Semitic symbols were far more common than physical altercations. In contrast, “the adverse
effect of negative stereotypes on African Americans is intensified by the fact that their
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pigmentation makes them so easily identifiable” (Fredrickson, 2002, p. 142). Thus, the factor of
visibility, and more specifically the hypervisibility of Black people in America, may also help
explain the disproportionate number of anti-Black incidents found in this study.
Anti-Blackness and the Trump presidency. The consistently high frequency of anti-
Blackness throughout the six-year sample does not indicate that there is something particularly
unique about the Trump presidency and anti-Black violence. Rosa and Bonilla (2017) explain
that while the election of Donald Trump may have come as a surprise to many Americans, not
everyone interpreted the election as something particularly outrageous. They emphasize the same
argument that I alluded to in the previous chapter – that there is nothing contemporaneously
novel about the racism we are witnessing and experiencing during this sociopolitical era49.
Rather, the election of Donald Trump
unfolded in an era when anti-Black violence had gone “viral,” when videos of police
brutality and civilian hate crimes appeared to be playing on a loop, when Native
American activists were being hosed down in frigid temperatures for protecting their land
and water, and when ritual miscarriages of justice—the George Zimmerman not-guilty
verdict following the killing of Trayvon Martin, the Darren Wilson non-indictment
following the killing of Michael Brown, the Baltimore mistrials and acquittals following
Freddie Gray’s death while in police custody, etc.—made it difficult for many to believe
in the “safeguards” of the US democratic system. This is not to say that the news is met
with numbness, but rather that for many, the election was felt not as a punch in the gut

49 Scheurich (2017) addresses this important point as well, stating, “Largely white police were freely killing black
men and receiving no punishment before Trump. The rape of indigenous women by white men was largely ignored
before Trump. People went hungry and tried to live on a minimum wage before Trump. Trans* folks were
mistreated and killed for who they are before Trump. The tax and financial structure has been arranged so the
wealthy could get even wealthier and the rest of us would have less before Trump. Voting laws were to restrict the
voting rights of blacks, Latinx, and the poor before Trump. White right-wing (conservative is a misnomer) radio in
white rural and small town areas has been spreading vicious hatred toward everyone except White, right wing,
Christian heterosexuals before Trump. Though young white men use marijuana more than young black men, police
hyper-targeting of young black men for marijuana use has destroyed hundreds of thousands of black men along with
enormous damage to their families before Trump. Middle and working class white families got their main economic
boost with federal housing loans that were unavailable, by law, to blacks (and unavailable in any area near blacks)
before Trump. People with psychological, mental, and physical differences (not disabilities because that is
prejudice) were being excluded from work, education, housing, and relationships before Trump. All of these
systemic inequities were there before Trump” (p. 1055). For context, Scheurich (2017) is not arguing that this
reduces the influence of the Trump presidency in any way. Rather, these examples are presented as a reminder that
this country cannot be forgiven/relinquished of accountability for the perils of the past by claiming that the present is
some sort of irregularity to the status quo.
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but as a forceful, sequential blow to an already-bruised political body. (Rosa & Bonilla,
2017, p. 1).

The election of Donald Trump “exists within a socio-historical context that created the
conditions for his emergence and victory” (Scheurich, 2017). However, his emergence was
accompanied by a record-breaking response of racial violence. According to an annual report on
hate crimes released by the F.B.I., hate crimes increased in the United States for a third
consecutive year since 2015 (Eligon, 2018). Out of more than 7,100 reported hate crimes, nearly
60% were motivated by race and ethnicity (Eligon, 2018). Black people specifically accounted
for nearly half of the hate crime victims (Eligon, 2018). In this study alone, 216 of the reported
racist incidents were anti-Black. These statistics point to a strong possibility that there is a focal
relationship between the Trump presidency and anti-Black violence. Though, these statistical
trends are no anomaly; rather, they are a byproduct of a systemic adaptation and transformation
of white supremacy that enables anti-Black violence to persist through the guise of economic and
civil justification.
Inwood (2018) situates the rise in hate crimes within the context of “white counter-
revolutionary politics.” They draw attention to the perpetual cycle of white supremacy that has
obstinately resisted non-white progress throughout history. Inwood (2018) explains that
“whenever African Americans and other minority groups have achieved civil rights progress or
when whites perceive their position in society as vulnerable, there has been an upsurge in white
supremacist violence and opposition to the legal progress of people seen as socially suspect or
material threats to the United States racial and gendered hierarchy” (p. 7). This process positions
whiteness as being under threat from the racial “Other,” which induces a “white backlash”
amongst white people that is predicated upon the maintenance of the hierarchical social order
(Inwood, 2018).
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White backlash “and its variations have been sewn together by the narrative that non-
white success is purposefully engineered at the expense of white sacrifice” (Hughey, 2014, p.
721). Researchers have engaged in various interpretations of this concept to explain the success
of Trump’s presidential campaign (Bobo, 2017; Sanchez, 2018). For example, in Chapter 2, I
critically interrogated Korostelina’s (2017) concept of “cultural stress” in the context of the
Trump presidential campaign. They emphasized how one of Trump’s rhetorical strategies was to
“[reinforce] the perception, prevalent among his White supporters, that they have fewer rights,
resources, and capacities in comparison with other racial groups and in comparison with their
previous position in American society” (Korostelina, 2017, p. 71). However, using Harris’
(1993) “whiteness as property” as a theoretical lens, one can interpret this perceived loss of
“rights, resources, and capacities” as something inherently critical to the maintenance of
“whiteness” itself. There is no “cultural stress” per se, for white supremacy is not a culture.
Rather, whiteness is an ideology, and white supremacy is the institutionalization of this ideology
through systems of racial dominance (Leonardo, 2004). Therefore, the invariable response from
white counter-revolutionary politics is to situate their “previous position in American society” in
the context of white hegemony. If non-white progress is a danger to white hegemony, according
to some of his supporters, Trump could neutralize the threat.
During the “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, former KKK grand wizard
David Duke publicly endorsed Donald Trump for President with a distinct rationale. He said of
the white supremacist rally, “This represents a turning point for the people of this country. We
are determined to take this country back. We are going to fulfill the promises of Donald Trump.
That’s what we believe in, that’s why we voted for Donald Trump, because he said he’s going to
take our country back” (Nelson, 2017). Sanchez (2018) examines how Trump and the Ku Klux
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Klan employ similar polysemic language in their rhetoric to support a rhetorical climate for
white supremacy in public discourse. This shared language is guided by the narrative of a “lost
heritage,” with the growing number of non-white people in the U.S. presented as the direct threat
to their national security and way of life50 (Sanchez, 2018).
If we place this endorsement in the context of the last decade, it becomes more apparent
who Duke claims they must “take this country back” from. Researchers have explored how the
election of President Barack Obama in 2008 was met with a similar influx of racial violence
nationwide (Gusa, 2010; Alemán, Salazar, Rorrer & Parker, 2011). Hughey (2014) explains that
“to some, the election of Obama meant that a quintessential racial ‘other’ had taken control of a
nation for and by whites” (p. 723). Thus, “by blaming Obama and other non-whites as outsiders
and intruders bent on oppressing whites,” a response of racist violence can be justified as an
individualistic patriotic act of national defense (Hughey, 2014, p. 726). Higher education
institutions are not isolated from this narrative, as its reverberating consequences often manifest
on college campuses in racialized ways.
Gusa (2010) cites the 2009 F.B.I. hate crime report, which found that schools and
colleges were the third most common setting for racial bias hate crimes in 2008. A Southern
Poverty Law Center (SPLC) report from 2009 catalogued a list of incidents that happened after

50 What is more, for more than four hundred years in this country, Black people have been structurally positioned as
the primary adversaries for which white people must protect themselves from (Mosse, 1978; Crenshaw, 1991;
Fredrickson, 2003). This has been especially the case for Black women. To place this in the context of Trump’s
presidential campaign, Junn (2017) explains why 52% of white female voters supported Donald Trump for the U.S.
presidency rather than the Democratic Party candidate Hillary Clinton. Junn (2017) contextualizes “white
womanhood” through an intersectional analytical perspective, locating white women’s positionality as “second in
sex to men, but first in race to minorities” (p. 346). White women are depicted as “pure” and “virtuous,” but these
depictions are only made possible by placing them in diametrical contrast with the “undesirable traits of people of
color, especially Black women” (p. 346). As Harris (1993) argues, an identity rooted in this ideology of whiteness is
inherently an identity predicated upon the perpetuation of anti-Blackness. Thus, while white women are not immune
to the threats of a patriarchal structure for which they exist, a loyalty to whiteness has always structured, governed,
and therefore determined their definitions of womanhood. The narratives about white women voting against their
own interests ignores this crucial element of their identities..
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the 2008 election, including a life-sized doll of Obama found hanging from a noose in a tree at
the University of Kentucky, racist graffiti with threatening messages against Obama found at
North Carolina State University, and a death threat written on a professor’s poster of Obama
along with a racial slur (Keller, 2009). Similarly, a 2008 NBC News report described how there
had been “hundreds” of incidents since the election that were motivated by race (NBC News,
2008). Many of these incidents specifically targeted African Americans (Gusa, 2010; Alemán et
al., 2011).
In this study, I am not arguing that there has never been an influx of racist incidents on
college campuses in U.S. history (though, the number of reported hate crimes have indeed
reached all-time highs). Rather, the apparent motives behind the Obama era and Trump era
incidents are arguably incomparable. The probable rationale behind the influx of racist incidents
on college campuses during Obama’s presidency was fundamentally different than what we are
experiencing with the Trump presidency—anti-Black violence during the Obama era was
directed toward Obama and his supporters, while anti-Black violence during the Trump era has
been directed by Trump and his supporters. One exemplifies what happens when whiteness is
being defended, while the other exemplifies what happens when whiteness is given permission.
Outside of the apparent physical manifestations of anti-Blackness presented by this study,
central to the phenomenon of white backlash and white counter-revolutionary politics is the “re-
articulation of anti-Black racism” that is rooted in what McKittrick (2011) calls, “plantation
logics” (Inwood, 2018, p. 8). Plantation logics refers to the socio-spatial displacement of Black
bodies that leads to the “death of Black sense of place” (McKittrick, p. 951). This Black sense of
place is located within “the violence of displacement and bondage, produced within a plantation
economy, extends and is given a geographic future” (McKittrick, p. 949). McKittrick (2011)
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deliberately avoids implying that contemporary manifestations of anti-Black violence are in any
way equivalent to the historical ones; rather, they use the plantations as an almost abstract
representation of normalized racial violence that foreshadows and anticipates “the empirical
decay and death” of Black life (p. 951). However, while McKittrick (2011) applies plantation
logic within the duality of the prison industrial complex and slave plantations, I would argue that
higher education institutions also serve as sites where this “geographic future” manifests within
campus infrastructures.
McKittrick (2011) describes the prison-plantation connection as the “conceptual pathway,
poised for analytic profit: as the blueprint for the prison industrial complex, the plantation
anticipates—and empirically maps—the logic that some live, and some die, because this is what
nature intended and therefore that the practice of incarceration is the commonsense underside to
the teleological evolution towards normalized white emancipation” (p. 956). Although
plantations and prisons are both directly (and unapologetically) associated with the
imprisonment, punishment, and exploitation of Black bodies, I am arguing that higher education
institutions can also share this association in the context of racial violence on college campuses
through an interrogation of the geospatial dimension. This alternate interpretation appears to be
what McKittrick (2011) intended, as they explain how “racial violence is not unchanging; rather,
the plantation serves as one (not the only) meaningful geographic locus through which race is
made known (and bodies are therefore differently disciplined) across time and space. A black
sense of place is therefore tied to fluctuating geographic and historical contexts” (p. 949). The
current sociopolitical epoch—and the geographical locus of higher education institutions—are no
exception.
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While each incident is too complex to unequivocally explain their occurrence, the
historical context of anti-Black violence in higher education helps us better understand its
continued manifestations. My findings reveal that 62% of the sample of racist incidents on
college campuses were specifically anti-Black (Figure 12). Thus, it is evident that even when
Black people are given permission to participate within the same spaces as white people, their
existence is still stained with a permanent condition of trepidation51. Although it may be
perceived as unconstructively pessimistic, it is difficult to deny the reality that “racism and
resistance to racism are therefore not the sole defining features of a black sense of place, but
rather indicate how the relational violences of modernity produce a condition of being Black in
the Americas that is predicated on struggle” (McKittrick, 2011, p. 949). This is not to say that
Black people are incapable of “Black life-making” (Mustaffa, 2017); however, it is a necessary
point of departure to engage in any discussion about the survival of Black life in white spaces
(i.e., higher education institutions). According to plantation logic (McKittrick, 2011), white
spaces—including the geospatial dimension of higher education institutions—will always adhere
to the “blueprint” of disciplining Black bodies when any sign of progress is intolerably evident.
As I described in Chapter 2, anti-Black violence is embedded within the very construct of
higher education (Harper, Patton & Wooden, 2009; Patton, 2016). Whether it was through
institutionalized forms of slavery during the construction of the first colleges and universities
(Wilder, 2013; Stein, 2016), or the violent and legalized discrimination of Jim Crow laws
affecting Black college students (Mustaffa, 2017), higher education institutions have always
operated as a spoke on the endlessly spinning wheel of white supremacy. Unfortunately, my
findings suggest that nothing has yet to impede its path.

51 I will provide more qualitative evidence in the next two chapters for how this affects the lives of Black college
students in the context of the Trump presidency.
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Conclusion

For the first study of my three-study methodological sequence, I repurposed Aneshensel’s
(2012) theory-based quantitative data analysis methodology for qualitative inquiry to explore
whether the Trump presidency shares a focal relationship with the influx of racial violence on
college and university campuses. Taking into consideration the possibility that the “Baader-
Meinhof” phenomenon may play a role in the frequency of reports, I have also analyzed the type
of racist incidents that have occurred to determine whether Trump’s rhetoric and political
decision-making have influenced the victimization of certain communities. My findings reveal
that there was a significant increase in racist incidents after the launch of Donald Trump’s
presidential campaign on June 16, 2015, particularly those that involved white supremacy,
faculty and administrators, racist materials, anti-Blackness, anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, and
multimedia. Although it is difficult to make any causal assertions regarding the data (i.e. the
“Trump Effect”), my results and subsequent analysis reveal that there is a focal relationship
between the Trump presidency and the influx of racist incidents that occurred after the launch of
his campaign.
To return to the Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate
(NCEMACC) that I have employed for this study, these findings demonstrate how the
macrosystem of the Trump presidency influenced the higher education “system context”
(mesosystem) by influencing the racialized interactions on college and university campuses
(behavioral dimension of the microsystem) across the nation. However, as discussed in the final
subsection analyzing anti-Blackness, the increase in anti-Black violence during the Trump
presidency can also be attributed to an established, white-hegemonic geospatial dimension of
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higher education institutions that have shaped college and university campuses into racially
hostile environments for Black people.
Although this study provides valuable insight into whether the Trump presidency has
affected campus racial climate—particularly in regard to the increase in racial violence—there
also exists an underlying complexity within each report that cannot be overlooked. Each incident
involves an individual perpetrator, a specific context, and immeasurable list of reasons for why
they occurred. However, the relationship between the frequency and type of racist incidents to
the Trump presidency is significantly evident. It is remarkably unusual for a U.S. President’s
name to be mentioned so frequently in articles related to racial violence on college campuses. If
the dataset focused primarily on incidents that were politically driven, it would be far more
understandable how roughly a quarter of the incidents since the launch of Trump’s presidential
campaign specifically mentioned his name or rhetoric in the report. During the curation process
of the dataset, the members of our research team at the USC Race and Equity Center were
intentional about avoiding any selection bias in our data collection procedures. We conducted the
search of the articles using fairly general keywords including “race,” “racist,” “racism,” “racist
incident,” “college campus,” and “university,” without using any terms related to Trump’s name,
rhetoric, or policies (i.e., “Build the Wall,” “Make America Great Again,” “Muslim Ban,” etc.).
Although the selection process was not necessarily “random” in a traditional quantitative sense
of the term, we were purposeful about not collecting data just for the sake of fitting a particular
narrative. Nonetheless, the findings revealed a startling link between the Trump presidency and
campus racial violence across the nation.
While the results of this study are tremendously helpful for answering the central
research question and sub-question, additional research is needed to determine how the Trump
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presidency has significantly influenced campus racial climate on an interpersonal level. A
thorough qualitative analysis that explores the real experiences of college students living through
the Trump presidency could help make this determination. Thus, in Chapter 5, I augment the
outcomes of this study by employing phenomenological methods to investigate how students at
four California colleges and universities believe their racialized experiences have been
influenced by Trump’s presidential rhetoric and executive decision-making.

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Chapter 5: A Phenomenological Study Examining the Relationship Between the Trump
Presidency and College Students’ Racialized Experiences
“…the climate of our campus alone is a direct mirror of what’s happening in the nation as a
whole.” – Simone, ECSU, 5th year, white/Black, she/her/hers

For the second study of my three-study methodological sequence, I employed a
phenomenological methodology (Polkinghorne, 1989; Moustakas, 1994) to examine the
influence of the Trump presidency on the campus racial climate of four colleges and universities
located in Southern California (institution names have been given pseudonyms): Clearview
College (CVC), a private liberal arts college; Central City University (CCU), a large private
university; El Camino State University (ECSU), a large public state university; and Los Angeles
Southern University (LASU), a large public university.
As illustrated in Figure 4, this study (B) examines how the macrosystem (Trump
presidency) has influenced the mesosystem (four colleges and universities) nested within it.
Throughout my analysis, I occasionally engaged with one specific institution if the student
participants referenced an institutionally-specific event. However, the primary objective of this
study is to identify patterns between students’ racialized experiences across the four colleges and
universities (the mesosystem, or, the “system of microsystems”) (Bronfenbrenner, 1994, p. 40).
Therefore, I did not engage in an in-depth investigation into the institutional dimensions
(perceptual, behavioral, organizational, and geospatial) of any particular institution out of the
four study sites. I was primarily concerned with whether there were cross-institutional trends
between the four microsystem dimensions under investigation.
In this chapter, I help answer the central research question—How might the influence of
the Trump presidency on college student experiences help us better understand the interrelated
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relationship between the internal dimensions of campus racial climate and the larger
sociopolitical environment?—as well as three sub-questions:
4. What is the relationship between the Trump presidency and students’ racialized
experiences on campus?
5. How do students perceive and experience the influence of Trump’s presidential
rhetoric on campus?
6. Does the Trump presidency affect student behavior? If so, how?
Figure 4 Three-Study Methodological Sequence for Examining the Influence of the Trump
Presidency on Campus Racial Climate

Through a series of 21 focus group interviews (Yin, 2014) with a total of 83 students52
recruited through a process of criterion sampling (Patton, 2002), each section contains passages

52 Each student participant has either chosen or been given a pseudonym for the purposes of confidentiality. Each
participant has also chosen how they prefer to be racially identified, which may lead to some inconsistencies
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from students who share their racialized college-going experiences during the Trump presidency.
Utilizing my analytical/conceptual framework as an investigative tool, I examined how the
student participants’ racialized experiences have been influenced by President Trump’s rhetoric
and executive decision-making. I also explore how students develop their racially politicized
identities within the context of the Trump presidency, including their conceptualizations of race
and nationalism, colorblindness, racial capitalism, and interest convergence.
The first section will explore the influence of Trump’s presidential rhetoric on college
students’ racialized experiences. I also show how the complexities of free speech debates and
anti-activist policies illustrate the significant influence that Trump’s rhetoric can have on college
campuses in the form of controversial speakers. In the second section, I examine the implications
of his executive orders on students’ racialized experiences. First, I describe how critical race
scholars have employed a LatCrit framework to address the ways that Latinx students
conceptualize their intersectional experiences with race, class, and gender, but with an explicit
and intentional focus on immigration, generational status, bilingualism, and other factors of
oppression. I then engage Derrick Bell’s (1980) interest convergence and Cedric Robinson’s
(2000) analysis of racial capitalism to reframe the hyper-conditional circumstances of
undocumented students within the context of the Trump presidency. In doing so, I demonstrate
how these campus racial climate issues of the current sociohistorical epoch are a byproduct of
the institutionalization and operationalization of white supremacy.
In my final section (which is split into two subsections), I situate my analysis within the
specific context of campus racial climate by interrogating how political polarization has become

throughout the study. For example, while some students may identify as Latino, others may prefer Latinx. Similarly,
each student provided their preferred pronouns, which dictated how I addressed their gender identity throughout my
findings.
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synonymous with racial polarization on college campuses. I provide insight into this racialized
political dissonance by sharing the perspectives of both politically conservative and politically
liberal students, and how they believe the Trump presidency has influenced their everyday
racialized realities, cross-cultural interactions, and perspectives of race and nationalism (i.e., the
behavioral and perceptual dimensions of campus racial climate).
Into the Wildfire: The Influence of Trump’s Presidential Rhetoric on College Campuses

“…they saw this presidential election as a way of condoning that type of behavior. If he can get
away with it, why can’t we?” – Jessica, Clearview College, 4th year, Latina, she/her/hers

“I think that’s most prevalent with the recent election and Trump’s presidency—this sense of
empowerment, for good or for bad. I do think that seeps into the walls of student life here…It
seeps through the walls of every location. And that’s what’s scary too, it spreads like wildfire.” –
Sharim, Central City University, 2nd year, Middle Eastern/Muslim, she/her/hers

The study of presidential rhetoric is a distinct subfield within the discipline of political
rhetorical studies that examines the impact of the language used by U.S. Presidents (Windt,
1986; Zarefsky, 2004; Medhurst, 2008). Building from existing analyses of presidential rhetoric,
I have identified four main themes that encompass the discipline: (1) presidential rhetoric
precedes governmental decision-making; (2) presidential rhetoric has the ability to persuade the
American people, and therefore influence their behavior; (3) presidential rhetoric defines
American national identity; and (4) presidential rhetoric is consumed, understood, and debated
through various mediums of communication. To return to Figure 2, my framework incorporates
tenets from Critical Race Theory (CRT) (i.e., endemic racism, intersectionality, critiques of
whiteness, colorblindness, interest convergence, and the utilization of interdisciplinary
approaches) as an analytical framework to investigate the racial elements of presidential rhetoric
(conceptual framework). This amalgamated framework provides a lens for which I can critically
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explore the nuanced implications of Trump’s racialized presidential rhetoric and executive
decision-making.
Figure 2 Analytical/Conceptual Framework

As demonstrated in Chapter 4, the utilization of this interdisciplinary approach has
allowed me to generate a range of principle assumptions by combining the tenets of CRT and the
themes of presidential rhetoric into a composited lens for analytical sensemaking. To begin my
analysis of the student responses, I employ the second theme of presidential rhetoric—the ability
to persuade the American people—along with the “endemic racism” and “intersectionality”
tenets of CRT to generate the following principle assumption: presidential rhetoric has the ability
to persuade college students to behave in racist ways, which can differentially affect students
based on the intersecting elements of their identities.
Korostelina (2017) posits that Trump’s presidential rhetoric has emboldened citizens to
behave in racist ways. By shifting the standard for what is considered politically acceptable
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rhetoric, Trump has inspired his supporters to enact violence upon the marginalized groups he
targets during his speeches (Moyer, 2015). A qualitative survey study by Rogers, Franke, Yun,
Ishimoto, Diera, Geller, Berryman and Brenes (2017) also found that many K-12 teachers felt
that the political environment inspired their students to say “virulently racist, anti-Islamic, anti-
Semitic, or homophobic rhetoric in their schools and classrooms” (Rogers et al., p. 6). A report
by the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) found similar results, with nearly half of the survey
respondents indicating that there had been an increase in incidents of bigotry, harassment,
assaults, and vandalism that were directly related to Trump’s rhetoric from his presidential
campaign (Costello & Cohen, 2016). However, the methodological approaches to these studies
were not designed to directly engage with the perpetrators, victims, or observers of these
racialized attacks. Thus, a core component of this study is to identify how college students
believe the racialized presidential rhetoric of President Trump has influenced their college-going
experiences. Carlos, a 4th year Hispanic student from Central City University (CCU),
tremendously summarizes how he believes President Trump’s employment of “rhetorical
manipulation” has affected his college campus:
I think that not just on campus, but anywhere where his sympathizers, or admirers, or
even hardcore fans might be, I think he’s kind of empowered them with his rhetoric…It’s
a very rhetorical manipulation, which either obfuscates what the real issues are or makes
people realize just how ridiculous the rhetoric is…That’s the two-pronged side that I’ve
seen to political discussion, on campus and otherwise.

I return to the “political discussion” element in a later section about racial and political
polarization. To remain in the context of presidential rhetoric, Carlos believes that the “rhetorical
manipulation”53 component of Trump’s rhetoric has produced substantial consequences

53 Sanchez (2018) theorizes this rhetorical strategy as “rhetorical versatility,” referring to examples of how Trump
and the Ku Klux Klan employ similar polysemic language in their rhetoric to support a rhetorical climate for white
supremacy in public discourse. Three recurring words and ideas in KKK flyers and Trump speeches— “patriotism,”
“heritage,” and “security”—have been used to promote white supremacy by both parties (Sanchez, 2018). For
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regarding the campus climate. A core element of manipulation (and presidential rhetoric for that
matter) is persuasion, and many students feel that Trump’s racist and misogynistic rhetoric has
motivated an influx of hate crimes on their campuses.
Throughout several of the focus group interviews, students from El Camino State
University (ECSU) reflected on a series of hate crime incidents that occurred on their campus the
previous year. The university has several resource centers designated for marginalized identity
groups, including a Black resource center, a Women’s resource center, and an LGBTQ resource
center. The LGTBQ resource center and the Women’s resource center are located next to one
another, and both were found vandalized with swastikas painted on the walls, racially derogatory
and anti-Semitic words written in permanent marker, and stickers with white supremacist
messages. The Black resource center was vandalized multiple times as well, including one
incident where a brick was thrown through a window and the televisions were stolen from the
common area. Similar examples could be found on the general campus, as Islamophobic
sentiments were etched in windows and mirrors including words and phrases like “terrorists,”
“extremists,” and “get out of this country,” among others. Maria, a 4th year Chicanx/Hispanic

example, “patriotism” has been interpreted by KKK members as a “signifier of whiteness…which creates a subtext
between the KKK and Trump on how they define patriotism for white America” (Sanchez, p. 50). Patriotism
manifests in claims of a “lost heritage” and anti-immigrant narratives around national security (Sanchez, 2018, p.
52). Sanchez (2018) further explains that when Trump states that the news media is “taking away our heritage,” he
invokes the same “heritage” that the KKK fears losing—a heritage of white supremacy. The KKK argue that erasing
their heritage is a “form of cultural genocide and believe that white people specifically should ‘stand up for their
heritage’ or race” (Sanchez, p. 52). Trump and the KKK also use similar terms related to national security in their
public discourse (Sanchez, 2018). People who think illegal immigration is an overwhelming issue facing the U.S.
are the strongest supporters of Donald Trump (Korostelina, 2017). For example, Eighty-four percent are in favor of
Trump’s plans to build a wall along the U.S.-Mexico border (Smith, 2016). Shafer (2017) highlights how Trump’s
anti-immigrant rhetoric, specifically phrases like “build that wall” and “ten feet higher” (a chant he started at a
campaign rally in reference to the height of the U.S.-Mexico border wall), are signifiers for his audience to believe
that they are “not necessarily cheering against Mexicans, but rather for border security” (p. 4). Thus, to demonstrate
that the national security of America is under threat from foreign entities, Trump has implemented specific policies
that have explicitly targeted certain identity groups, including the “Muslim Ban” and the “‘Zero Tolerance’
Immigration Enforcement Policy” (I will expand on the racialized implications of these policies in the next section).
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student from ECSU, expressed how she feels these incidents could be attributed to Trump’s
rhetoric:
I really do feel like all of these Centers being vandalized—I think it is a result of Trump
being so open and so supportive of hate…these people do feel like they now have a right
to do all these things—to make other people feel unwelcome and unwanted.

Jessica, a 4th year Latina student from Clearview College (CVC) who was a first-year student
during the November 2016 elections, said that there had been similar incidents on her campus
throughout the days following Trump’s victory. She believes the perpetrators of these incidents
have a sense of entitlement that stems from the validation they receive from listening to
President Trump:
…I think with the election came an increase in more blatant racism, or racist comments,
and that’s because if someone who says something that’s racist and problematic on TV,
then he becomes president, it kind of condones that behavior…I think there was
definitely an increase in people feeling more brave about certain comments that they
would make on campus, because they saw this presidential election as a way of
condoning that type of behavior. If he can get away with it, why can’t we?

Jessica believes that Trump’s election implicitly signaled to his followers that racist behavior
was acceptable. Angelica, a 3rd year African American student from ECSU, believes that the
empowering nature of Trump’s rhetoric stems from a chauvinistic patriotism that attracts his
supporters:
I feel like the ideology stems from nationalism. Trump claims to be very patriotic, so
when people see that, they wanna feel something. He gives them that. He gives people
empowerment within this country.

Jessica and Angelica allude to the inherent ethos embedded within presidential rhetoric.
Trump’s political positionality is an undeniably influential element of his rhetoric, as his words
carry far more weight than the average citizen. However, an essential part of Jessica’s statement
is her decision to use the word “condoning” rather than “producing.” Sanjana, a 3rd year Muslim
and Bangladeshi student from ECSU, explained how she does not feel that Trump is necessarily
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the source of his followers’ racist beliefs; rather, Trump has merely reinvigorated their
prejudicial ideologies that they have always held:
I think that behavior was already in the back of the people who are doing it, in the back of
their minds. But now, knowing that there is somebody standing by them, knowing that
the consequences won’t even be present, it’s allowing them to have that drive to actually
execute those wants and needs that they have to do this.

Monae, a 4th year Black student from Los Angeles Southern University (LASU), also believed
that these racist behaviors are merely an inevitable manifestation of pre-existing racially
prejudiced ideologies:
…they’ve always been that way. It’s just allowed them a platform to freely express it. It
amazes me by their boldness… He just deems it morally okay.

Sanjana and Monae emphasize how Trump has validated his followers’ prejudicial beliefs that
they may have had to suppress before his election. Now that they have “somebody standing by
them,” the parameters of acceptability have shifted according to Trump’s behavior. Neel, a 4th
year Indian student from LASU, explained how Trump has succeeded at influencing his
followers by appealing to anti-immigrant sentiments:
Trump makes it really easy for people to blame a certain set of people for everything bad
that has come upon them such as negative remarks about their privilege, the immigrants
forcing this bad economy. He appeals to a lot of people’s racism. He says that look, you
guys are hardworking people, you did nothing wrong, let’s put the blame on the
immigrants and the left. But you guys are doing great! You guys should be the one’s
succeeding in this country. And it’s really easy for people to go along with that. He’s
literally telling them exactly what they wanna hear—about themselves and immigrants.
And once you hear that, it’s really easy to become more racist. Once you have the most
powerful man in the world yelling it to the rest of the world, that the immigrants are
causing these problems, it’s really easy to get into that and think, “Yeah, it really isn’t my
fault! I’m the one who should be doing well in this country!” It made it really easy for
people to believe what they already wanted to believe.

Neel believes that Trump “appeals to a lot of people’s racism” by positioning immigrants as the
cause of their problems. He thinks that this relieves Trump’s followers of any accountability for
their shortcomings, allowing them to claim victimization while further degrading immigrants.
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However, similar to Sanjana and Monae, he also feels that these prejudicial ideologies were
already held rather than produced by Trump’s rhetoric.
Some students genuinely fear the negative implications of this behavioral shift, as they
have now become increasingly susceptible to racial violence. Joseph, a 4th year Mexican student
from CCU, described how Trump’s anti-immigrant rhetoric has created an atmosphere of fear
that has left many students worrying about their personal safety:
I see all these threats…like Mexicans are rapists and criminals and all these things. For
me, it creates an atmosphere of fear…like, “Oh no, now they see us as the bad guys. How
am I supposed to respond to this? How can I defend myself?” For me, it makes me sad
and angry to think that just because one person said it, one person with power, one person
with this “authority,” it’s determining their lives – my life as well – just because of a few
words that were mentioned…just because of that position of power behind him, it allows
him to just define how we see our lives.

Maribel, a 4th year Latinx student from CCU, admitted that she had internalized many of the
negative stereotypes about immigrants that Trump has promoted, which changed after she had
the opportunity to learn about Latinx history as a Chicanx Studies major in college:
I think it’s very inhumane sometimes…I used to hear some of the rhetoric that he shares
and I kinda internalized it. Even in my own community, I used to think like there’s good
and bad immigrants. So that was really harmful, because once I got exposed and learned
about race, race and immigration issues in a deeper way, a deeper understanding, I
realized there are so many factors that go into that, and it’s really dehumanizing how he
speaks about people. I am conditioned to believe certain things, even internalizing things
about myself and people like me because I hear it all the time. And it’s not even
conscious to me, because when you’re younger, these ideas become reinforced and you
start thinking oh, maybe there’s a better way to do immigration because immigrants are
taking advantage—just because you hear it so much…It’s just hard to get a clear picture
of who you are that’s not related to what everyone outside is telling you.

Joseph and Maribel expressed how Trump’s rhetoric about Mexican immigrants has
essentially defined how they lived their lives. Trump’s rhetoric has instilled a level of fear and
anxiety amongst Joseph and his peers—emotions that they must constantly contend with on a
daily basis. Joseph described how he needed to figure out how to “defend” himself, which
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implied that he already anticipated becoming the victim of a racist attack. Maribel admitted to
internalizing the anti-immigrant beliefs that she often heard, which she identified was due to how
impressionable she was as a young child. This caused her to question her Latinx identity for the
majority of her life, as it was not until college that she was able to identify the problematic nature
of the “good and bad immigrant” narrative. However, the participants’ racial identities were not
the only characteristics being threatened. Eboni, a 4th year African American student from CVC,
highlighted the underlying multidimensional qualities of Trump’s rhetoric that targeted multiple
aspects of her identity:
…to support Trump…and support the things that he does publicly, you are inherently
saying that you don't care about me as a Black woman in America. You are saying you
don't care about the Blackness of me, the woman part of me…the low-income part of me.

Jayla, a 4th year Cameroonian international student from LASU, expands on the multifaceted
consequences of Trump’s rhetoric:
…if you were queer, Black, Muslim, a woman, and an immigrant. That’s literally
Trump’s biggest targets in the country. I cannot help that I’m black. I cannot help that I
was not born in this country. My friends cannot help that they’re Muslim. My friends
cannot help that they’re a part of the LGBTQ community. So, if you are against any of
these things, if you are against me existing, then we do not need to be engaging in any
conversation…for me, not only is politics so significant for all of us, but particularly as
Black women and as an immigrant, I felt like I had a lot more at risk and a lot more at
stake for this particular election. So, I felt like, if you were in support of this man, you are
not in support of me in any facet. And we cannot collaborate. We can’t be friends. We
can’t – none of that.

Eboni and Jayla argue that in supporting Trump, it signals that you adhere to a particular
ideology that is fundamentally racist, sexist, and classist. Supporting Trump is perceived as an
attack on multiple aspects of their identities, which causes political discourse to be received as
more of a threat than a mere difference of political opinion. Jayla mentioned several
marginalized groups that she felt were targets of Trump’s rhetoric—Black people, immigrants,
Muslims, and the LGBTQ+ community. She emphasized how there is no possibility that she
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would engage with a Trump supporter since it was already insinuated that they aligned with
Trump’s perspectives.
Jayla expanded on how her citizenship status as a Cameroonian immigrant also impeded
her willingness to defend herself publicly:
I was always very quiet about my status… I got my citizenship back in – this past May.
And I was always very, very quiet about it before, especially when Trump got elected
because I knew the hatred behind immigrants that folks had…I was always afraid to
speak up on issues when it – pertaining immigration, until I felt like I was protected
legally – until I knew I had some type of barrier of security.

Taking this element of fear into account (which will be more thoroughly addressed in the next
section), it is understandable how Trump’s presidential rhetoric can also impact whether students
choose to engage in political discourse on campus. The tensions that arise from these drastically
oppositional perspectives have become a common issue facing campus racial climate throughout
the last few years. The most evident example is when various student organizations across the
nation have used institutional funds to invite a number of conservative speakers onto their
campuses that often mirror Trump’s rhetoric in their speeches. Other student groups have
responded through protests and demonstrations, many of which have led to national debates
about free speech. Thomas (2019) describes how “Perhaps the most widely publicized debate
concerns controversial speakers and consequences for student activists who prevent these
speakers from speaking—a battle over whose free speech rights prevail” (p. 24). For example,
protests erupted at UC Berkeley in 2017 when Milo Yiannopoulos, a notable right-wing
commentator, was invited by the Berkeley College Republicans to speak. UC Berkeley students
organized a peaceful protest outside of the event, but the scene turned violent when a group of
“150 masked agitators” stormed onto campus. A CNN report described the incident:
Black-clad protesters wearing masks threw commercial-grade fireworks and rocks at
police. Some even hurled Molotov cocktails that ignited fires. They also smashed
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windows of the student union center on the Berkeley campus where the Yiannopoulos
event was to be held. At least six people were injured… More than 1,500 protesters had
gathered at Sproul Plaza, chanting and holding signs that read: "No safe space for racists"
and "This is war." The violent protesters tore down metal barriers, set fires near the
campus bookstore and damaged the construction site of a new dorm. One woman wearing
a red Trump hat was pepper sprayed in the face while being interviewed. (Park & Lah,
2017).

The incident resulted in $100,000 in damages to the campus, which eventually led to the
cancellation of the event. UC Berkeley responded to the incident with an official statement that
read:
In an earlier message to the Berkeley campus community, Chancellor Nicholas Dirks
made it clear that while Yiannopoulos’ views, tactics and rhetoric are profoundly
contrary to those of the campus, UC Berkeley is bound by the Constitution, the law and
the university’s values and Principles of Community, which include the enabling of free
expression across the full spectrum of opinion and perspective. (Public Affairs, 2017).

However, the next morning, President Trump reacted to the incident with a tweet saying, “If
U.C. Berkeley does not allow free speech and practices violence on innocent people with a
different point of view – NO FEDERAL FUNDS?” (Trump, 2017, retrieved from Twitter
account). Trump’s threat to eradicate UC Berkley’s institutional funding appeared to be rather
futile, as “student loans and grants make up the vast majority of federal funding to colleges and
universities, along with research grants from agencies” (Svluga, 2017). However, it was still
enough to trigger a response from California Lieutenant Governor Gavin Newsom, who tweeted,
“As a UC Regent I’m appalled at your willingness to deprive over 38,000 students access to an
education because of the actions of a few” (Newsom, 2017, retrieved from Twitter account).
A month before the UC Berkeley incident, Milo was also scheduled to speak at the
University of Washington (UW). Although UW students were peacefully protesting the event, it
quickly turned hostile when off-campus members of the community joined the protests. The
speaking event was cancelled when Elizabeth Hokoana, an avid Trump supporter who came to
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campus to defend Yiannopoulos, shot a protestor with a Glock semi-automatic handgun that she
was hiding in a holster under her coat (Carter & Miletich, 2017). Her husband was also involved,
and witnesses described how he used a small tear-gas gun on members of the crowd (Carter &
Miletich, 2017).
Although not nearly as violent, this was also a prominent issue at one of my study sites,
Clearview College (CVC), where a well-known conservative political commentator, Heather
Mac Donald, was recently invited despite the disapproval from many students on campus. The
description for her recent book, The Diversity Delusion: How Race and Gender Pandering
Corrupt the University and Undermine Our Culture, states:
The Diversity Delusion argues that the root of this problem is the belief in America’s
endemic racism and sexism, a belief that has engendered a metastasizing diversity
bureaucracy in society and academia. Diversity commissars denounce meritocratic
standards as discriminatory, enforce hiring quotas, and teach students and adults alike to
think of themselves as perpetual victims. From #MeToo mania that blurs flirtations with
criminal acts, to implicit bias and diversity compliance training that sees racism in every
interaction, Heather Mac Donald argues that we are creating a nation of narrowed minds,
primed for grievance, and that we are putting our competitive edge at risk.

Coincidentally, Mac Donald specifically mentioned me in her chapter titled, “The
Microaggression Farce.” She wrote:
Black Bruins opens with a shot of the names of two Black Panthers killed by a rival
radical at a UCLA student meeting in 1969. Implication: UCLA is responsible for their
deaths. Apparently, that shooting was just the start of UCLA’s long war against men of
color. The camera pans to a group of hostile-looking black male students standing outside
a campus building behind the filmmaker, third-year African American-studies major Sy
Stokes. Accompanied by ominous music, Stokes recites a frequently unintelligible rap54
denouncing UCLA…(Mac Donald, 2018, p. 77).

For additional context, she also suggested in a later chapter that if Black students simply acted
like Asian Americans for a while, maybe claims of systemic racism would be justified:
If American blacks acted en masse like Asian Americans for ten years in all things
relevant to economic success—if they had similar rates of school attendance, paying

54 I am still waiting for my “rap” career to take off. Some things take time, Heather.
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attention in class, doing homework and studying for exams, staying away from crime,
persisting in a job, avoiding out-of-wedlock childbearing—and we still saw racial
differences in income, professional status, and incarceration rates, then it would be well
justified to seek an explanation in unconscious prejudice. (Mac Donald, 2018, p. 107).55

Students at CVC protested her speaking engagement, arguing that Mac Donald was spreading
harmful rhetoric about issues related to racism, sexism, and gun violence that were more
damaging than constructive. Her blatant disregard for the #MeToo movement and vehement
disbelief in systemic racism was contentiously debated for weeks prior to her arrival. However,
the institution decided to move forward with the event under the argument that preventing these
speakers from expressing their views would be against their First Amendment right to free
speech.
Students responded to her speaking engagement by organizing a demonstration outside of
the venue but were quickly accosted by law enforcement officers who threatened to arrest the
protestors if they continued to disrupt the event. However, according to the student protestors,
they were not arguing that Mac Donald should not be allowed to speak. Rather, their primary
point of contention with the event was that she was receiving financial compensation through
institutional funds. Danielle, a 4th year Chinese American student from CVC, described how the
institutional financing of the event conveyed a harmful message to the marginalized students on
campus:

55 These dangerous generalizations pit Black students and Asian American students against one another,
perpetuating the narrative that Asian Americans are an aspirational “model minority” while Black students are
purely incompetent in every facet of life. Saito (1997) summarizes this “divide and conquer” tactic of domination,
stating, “The myth first identifies Asian Americans as a ‘minority group,’ setting them up for comparison, and
thereby competition, with others identified as minorities. Then Asian Americans are identified as the ‘model’ of
these minority groups, the ones to be emulated. It is difficult not to see this as part of the divide-and-conquer
mentality evident since the first importation of Asian labor” (p. 311). Further addressing the inaccuracy of Mac
Donald’s statement is beyond the scope of this particular analysis. The only reason for including her quote is to
demonstrate why student activists at CVC felt it was more than appropriate to protest her speaking engagement. The
problem was not that she was conservative, it was that she was spreading harmful ideologies that targeted minorized
communities at CVC.
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…it’s both the monetary but also the institution reaffirming that they have a place there.
That they’re going to fund them, protect that space, without giving that space to students
who also want to voice their opinions…It reaffirms that that viewpoint has a certain
validity, even if you say it’s just free speech. By paying them, giving them that platform,
you’re still saying that that viewpoint is valid.

Similar to the way Neel described how Trump’s rhetoric provides validation for certain
prejudicial ideologies, the institution’s support for Mac Donald’s rhetoric implicitly suggested
that her viewpoints held enough value—both financial and intellectually—to be welcomed on
campus. Furthermore, it would be difficult to categorize these invited speaker events as spaces
for ideological exchange. The formats for these events were primarily conducted in a lecture
format with limited time for constructive discussion to take place. Thus, the unidirectional
structure allowed for one viewpoint to be heard, while others were silenced. Peter, a 4th year
Chinese American student from CVC, was also one of the student protestors at the event. He
explained how the disproportionate consequences given to the student activists was contradictory
to the institution’s “free speech” rationale for inviting Mac Donald onto campus:
I think it was hard because they were having all these people come talk about free speech,
but when we expressed ourselves through a protest, and when we’re telling
administration that this is uncomfortable and we want change, they’re not acknowledging
that.

Danielle described how CVC administrators were disciplining student activists after the event,
and some students were even prevented from graduating:
The way that CVC specifically dealt with protests…A lot of people from other schools
came to the protest, but I think CVC was actually the only school that stopped people
from graduating. It was really aggressive…It was seen more like they were silencing us
rather than working with the students to see a way to understand where students were
coming from and why they felt the need to protest.

Joey, a 4th year White student from CVC, believes that there is a false narrative about the campus
racial climate that is promoted by the administrators and influential constituents of the
institution:
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I think that there's no educational or intellectual value to racism. There's no reason which
we should allow either explicitly or implicitly racist speakers to come here and we
shouldn't be paying them to espouse those types of views, but we do because it's like the
old, conservative, wealthy white men on the board of trustees think that it’s valuable to
have that viewpoint because they think we don’t hear enough of it.

The belief that students need to be exposed to racist viewpoints because they “don’t hear enough
of it” adds to the importance of emphasizing how campus racial climate is not limited to the
internal dimensions of the institution (microsystem of the NCEMACC). No matter how
supportive, inclusive, and equitable the institution may be, the external dimensions—whether it
is the macrosystem-level sociopolitical influences, or the microsystem-level interpersonal
ramifications of inviting controversial speakers—can still have an impact on college students’
racialized experiences. To assume that students do not already hear these viewpoints on a daily
basis would be to ignore the significant influences of the external environment. Carlos, Maria,
Jessica, Sanjana, Joseph, Maribel, Eboni, Monae, and Jayla each described how Trump’s
rhetoric—a component of the external sociopolitical environment—affected their lives in
racialized ways. Thus, if this is already a salient element of their racialized realities, what is the
purpose of leaving them susceptible to superfluous attacks on their perpetually marginalized
identities?
Singh, a 4th year Southeast Asian student at CVC explained how he believes this
reoccurring issue on campus could be solved:
I think that problem could be easily solved if you didn’t make it possible for them to
monetize their hateful rhetoric and their hateful platform, and I think that's the way the
higher education system can clearly deal with racism…I think that’s how a higher
education space can be anti-racist. It cannot allow its employees to be racist or to
discriminate, and it can make sure that it doesn't – while still not limiting free speech, it
doesn't incentivize hate speech.

Singh proposes that CVC should disallow certain speakers from receiving institutional funds
since it would disincentivize them from spreading harmful rhetoric on college campuses. Singh
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also emphasized the importance of protecting free speech, but suggests that establishing
institutional policy to combat the monetization of hate speech would be an effective way for
CVC to assert itself as an “anti-racist” institution.
These students’ experiences have presented three main themes: (1) the multidimensional
implications of Trump’s presidential rhetoric, (2) free speech and anti-activist policies, and (3)
Trump’s rhetoric “emboldening” (not creating) pre-existing racial prejudices. To further
contextualize these themes, I incorporate Crenshaw’s (1989) concept of intersectionality to
examine the “unique compoundedness” of Eboni and Jayla’s experiences with how they make
sense of Trump’s rhetoric. I then engage the interrelated elements of activism, free speech, and
power to help demonstrate how the suppressive disciplinary procedures that targeted student
activists at CVC are situated within a much larger, complex debate surrounding the limitations of
free speech on college campuses. Finally, I return to Shafer (2017) and Picca and Faegin’s
(2007) racialized interpretations of Goffman’s (1956) “frontstage-backstage” theory to examine
how Trump’s rhetoric has shifted the parameters for what is considered morally acceptable
behavior.
In Chapter 2, I described how utilizing intersectionality as an analytical tenet of CRT can
help identify the nuanced ways that presidential rhetoric may affect people from marginalized
identity groups. This tenet allows for the intersecting dimensions of disempowerment (including
race, sex, gender, class, and nationality) to be conjunctively critiqued in the context of political
discourse. Thus, by interrogating the multidimensional ramifications of Trump’s rhetoric and
behavior, Eboni and Jayla’s experiences can be situated within a historical pattern of racism,
sexism, and classism exhibited by Trump.
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Over the last four years, Trump has publicly and privately degraded people from
marginalized identity groups on several occasions. A week before the 2016 election, The Cut
magazine compiled an exhaustive list of the allegations women have made against Donald
Trump since the 1980s (The Cut, 2016). The list included Trump kissing women without
consent, multiple allegations of groping women, raping a 13-year-old girl at Jeffrey Epstein’s (a
convicted pedophile) apartment, ignoring 20 separate lawsuits accusing him of discriminating
against women in the workplace, saying he would date a 10-year-old in ten years based off her
physical appearance, and sexually assaulting a People Magazine writer on the same night that
she was covering Trump and Melania’s one-year anniversary celebration in Mar-a-Lago (The
Cut, 2016). Most notably, an audio clip was released where Trump can be heard bragging to
former Access Hollywood host Billy Bush about sexually assaulting women. After attempting to
seduce a married woman on the set of Days of Our Lives in 2005, Trump described how he
“…moved on her like a bitch, but I couldn’t get there. And she was married…You know I’m just
automatically attracted to beautiful—I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t
even wait. And when you’re a star they let you do it…You can do anything. Grab them by the
pussy. You can do anything” (Trump, as cited in The Cut, 2016). At a 2016 campaign rally for
Hillary Clinton, former first lady Michelle Obama vehemently condemned Trump’s rhetoric and
misogynistic behavior:
This wasn’t just a lewd conversation…This wasn’t just locker room banter. This was a
powerful individual speaking freely and openly about sexually predatory behavior and
actually bragging about kissing and groping women, using language so obscene that
many of us are worried about our children hearing it when we turn on the TV. To make
matters worse, it now seems very clear that this isn’t an isolated incident. It’s one of
countless examples of how he has treated women his whole life. (Obama, as cited in The
Guardian, 2016).

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Trump has since denied all claims against him, arguing that they were all part of a grand
conspiracy to smear his reputation for political gain. During a 2016 campaign rally in
Greensboro, North Carolina, Trump addressed the allegations, saying:
…right now I am being viciously attacked with lies and smears…I have no idea who
these women are…These are lies being pushed by the media and the Clinton campaign to
try and keep their grip on our country…Some are doing it for probably a little
fame…suddenly after many, many years, phony accusers come out less than a month
before one of the most important elections in the history of our country… Here’s my
question about the dishonest writer from People Magazine. Why didn’t she write what
she said happened before she wrote the story, why didn’t she put it in the story? The story
would’ve been one of the big stories. I was the big star of the Apprentice, why didn’t she
do it 12 years ago? Twelve years ago…She is a liar. (Trump, as cited in Beckwith, 2016).

He then continued to respond to the allegations that he groped a woman who was sitting
next to him on a plane in 1980, saying, “Believe me, she would not be my first choice, that I can
tell you” (Trump, as cited in Beckwith, 2016). Three years later, Levine and El-Faizy (2019)
uncovered 43 new allegations of sexual misconduct against the President in their book, All the
President’s Women: Donald Trump and the Making of a Predator. The book, described by
Givhan (2019) as “a deep dive into the many allegations that depict Trump’s relationships with
women as vulgar, misogynistic, demeaning, sometimes violent and always puerile. The
accusations wash over a reader like a tidal wave of sewage until you are thoroughly caked in
muck and lightheaded from the stink,” detailed over 40 years of sexual misconduct by Trump.
However, as Eboni and Jayla explained, Trump’s documented history of flagrant
misogyny was not the only reason they felt threatened by Trump supporters. His anti-Black and
classist rhetoric were also compiling factors that added to the intersectional oppression that these
Black students continue to endure. For example, during an Oval Office meeting with several U.S.
senators on January 11, 2018, Trump commented on immigrants coming from Haiti, El Salvador,
and several African countries, asking, “Why are we having all these people from shithole
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countries come here?” (Kendi, 2019, para. 2). Trump’s White House press secretary denied the
claims that Trump used the word “shithole,” as she told members of the press, “It’s both sad and
telling The New York Times would print the lies of their anonymous ‘sources’ anyway” (Sanders,
as cited in Shear & Davis, 2017). However, during a meeting a few months earlier, Trump was
handed a document that listed how many immigrants had received visas to enter the United
States in 2017. When he read that more than 15,000 people had immigrated from Haiti, he
responded by saying they “all have AIDS,” according to someone who attended the meeting
(Shear & Davis, 2017). Furthermore, when he read that 40,000 had immigrated from Nigeria,
Trump added that they would never “go back to their huts” in Africa (Shear & Davis, 2017). He
reportedly shifted the conversation to speak about allowing access to more immigrants from
“great European countries like Norway, and also from Asian countries, since they could help
America economically” (Kendi, 2019, para. 4).
Kendi (2019) draws attention to how Trump implicitly revealed the racial hierarchy that
he imposes on the world, as he “placed whites over Asians, and both over Latinos and Blacks
from ‘shithole’ countries” (para. 5). Trump’s beliefs about Haitian immigrants all having AIDS,
Nigerian immigrants all living in “huts,” and European and Asian immigrants being the only
ones capable of contributing the economy, point to his much larger commitment to maintaining a
system of racial capitalism that is predicated upon white supremacist principles (I elaborate on
this argument in the next section when I interrogate the racialized implications of Trump’s
executive orders). However, when considering the intersectional elements of oppression that are
embedded within Trump’s rhetoric, it becomes more evident as to why Eboni and Jayla (a
Cameroonian immigrant from one of the “shithole” African countries, according to Trump) feel
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as though Trump and his supporters “don’t care about [them] as a Black [women] in
America…the Blackness of [them], the woman part of [them]…the low-income part of [them].”
Nash (2018) cautions researchers to avoid relying on Black women as “prototypical
intersectional subjects,” as many intersectional analyses have essentially exploited Black women
as monolithic exemplars of a “multiply-burdened” condition. Crenshaw (1989) used Black
women as the primary focus of her argument when the term was formerly introduced; though,
Nash (2018) explains how this has led to dangerous, contradictory utilizations of the term. When
Crenshaw initially defined intersectionality, one of the primary reasons was to deconstruct the
notion that Black women’s experiences are monolithic. However, researchers have since used
Black women as a “theoretical wedge” throughout their analytical framing, which subsequently
renders Black women as a “unitary and monolithic entity” to be studied (Nash, 2018, p. 89). For
this reason, I find it necessary to clarify that I am not attempting to exploit Eboni and Jayla’s
experiences out of sheer convenience. Rather, these two students specifically detailed how
Trump’s rhetoric threatened their multidimensional identities, therefore serving as relevant
subjects for this particular analysis. Though, as Harris and Patton (2019) explain, this identitarian
approach to intersectionality could still be considered a misuse of the framework:
Scholars may reduce intersectionality to an analytic tool that focuses on the confluence of
multiple identities. This overly simplistic view often negates how identities and
identitarian experiences connect to multiple and intersecting sociohistorical structures of
domination… To mis/use intersectionality as an identitarian-only framework is to
undermine the capacity of the concept to critique structures of power and domination,
produce transformative knowledges, inform praxis, and work toward social justice. (p.
354).

Similarly, Davis, Harris, Stokes and Harper (2019) emphasize how “intersectionality encourages
an exploration into how macro-level systems (e.g., the law, political movements, and education
policy) influence the ways in which identities are negotiated and experienced on an everyday,
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micro-level” (p. 101). Situated within the context of this particular study, I would also add that
Trump’s presidential rhetoric is an element of the macrosystem as well, which inherently affects
the nested contexts within it (see Figure 3 in Chapter 3). Rhetorical studies may not be
considered as a space for “macro-level analyses” in a traditional sense of the term. However,
since presidential rhetoric plays a pivotal role within the matrix of power relations in the U.S.
(i.e., influencing policy decisions, persuading the American people, defining American values
and beliefs, etc.), an intersectional analysis is also applicable for exploring how it influences the
multiply-marginalized identities of these students.
Crenshaw (1991) highlights how immigration status is an integral factor that contributes
to the multidimensional oppression faced by immigrant women of color. They explain how
“many women who are now permanent residents continue to suffer abuse under threats of
deportation by their husbands,” which forces them to “suffer in silence for fear that the security
of their entire families will be jeopardized should they seek help or otherwise call attention to
themselves” (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1249). Through this logic, it is important to emphasize how
Jayla’s citizenship status as a Cameroonian immigrant also serves as an additional burden,
especially within the context of this presidential administration. She expressed how she was
fearful of speaking out until she was legally protected, leaving her to suffer in silence until she
obtained U.S. citizenship. Trump is not only insulting her womanhood, he is also threatening the
well-being of her and her family in Cameroon, and insinuating that her contributions to society
will perpetually remain at the bottom of the internalized racial hierarchy that he imposes upon
the world (Kendi, 2019). Thus, if this type of rhetoric can be received in such a way by college
students, what exactly is the intellectual value in welcoming it onto campus?
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This question has been at the epicenter of a complex national debate surrounding free
speech on college campuses. For example, Thomas (2019) asks a similar question to help guide
their analysis of activism, free speech, and power:
The election devolved into a place of extreme polarization and hateful rhetoric aimed at
people of color, immigrants, women, and other historically marginalized groups. When
selected by politicians, these language choices incite anger and deepen resentment. When
speech is objectively abhorrent, inaccurate and uninformed, or threatening, is it
appropriate for a college or university to censor the speaker? (p. 27).

It is helpful to contextualize this debate within a historical legislative context. In arguably the
most pivotal court case concerning the constitutionality of campus speech codes, Doe v.
University of Michigan (1989) addressed whether it was appropriate for the university to
implement speech codes that alleviated the verbal abuse of minority students (Zollinger, 1991).
Students of color at the University of Michigan had been victims of racial harassment and
violence, “including anonymous fliers containing offensive racial epithets regarding Black
students, a radio station that allowed racist jokes, and a student hanging a Ku Klux Klan uniform
from a dormitory window”56 (Thomas, 2019, p. 24). In response, on December 14, 1987, the
acting president of the university57, Robben Wright Fleming, circulated an internal memorandum
where he proposed an anti-discriminatory policy to address the issue. University officials
constructed the “Policy on Discrimination and Discriminatory Harassment of Students in the
University Environment” (hereby referred to as the “University Policy”), which “specifically
prohibited students, under penalty of sanctions, from ‘stigmatizing or victimizing individuals or
groups’ through verbal or physical behavior on the basis of ‘race, ethnicity, religion, sex, sexual
orientation, creed, national origin, ancestry, age, marital status, handicap or Vietnam-era veteran

56 These incidents are disturbingly similar to the findings from Chapter 4, further demonstrating the importance of
finding a solution to this statutory enigma that has negatively impacted campus racial climate for decades.
57 The previous university president, Harold Tafler Shapiro, resigned early that month to become the president of
Princeton University.
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status’” (Doe v. University of Michigan, 1989; Hulshizer, 1991, p. 384). Zollinger (1991)
explains how Fleming seemed to understand the statutory implications that the policy would
have on individual’s First Amendment rights, however,
…the acting president felt the policy was justified under a clear and present danger test.
It appears that the acting president felt that Holmes' classic, "shouting fire in a crowded
theater," was analogous to racial harassment. According to the president, an individual
may not seriously offend others in the University community when exercising free speech
rights which detract from the educational climate, any more than one has the right to
cause panic in a crowded theater. (p. 170, emphasis added).

The reference to Holmes’ “shouting fire in a crowded theater” analogy referred to a previous
case, Schenk v. United States (1919), where the “danger test” originated. When the defendant in
the case was convicted for causing insubordination in the armed forces and obstruction of the
draft, Justices Holmes and Brandeis permitted Congress to “prohibit strong vocal opposition to
the draft that was coupled with imminent danger of violence” (Zollinger, 1991, p. 163). This
“danger test” allows for the Supreme Court to determine whether “an imminent and real danger
exists that harmful results will occur” (Zollinger, p. 163). The Court continued to refine the
parameters of the danger test during Dennis v. United States (1958) and Brandenburg v. Ohio
(1969), which maintained that speech can be regulated if it was capable of producing “clear and
present danger” (Zollinger, 1991, p. 164).
The Court has applied other “danger tests” to determine whether or not certain speech
should be constitutionally protected as well. Famously, Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire (1942)
introduced the term, “fighting words,” when the defendant had been convicted of spewing
rhetoric in a public space that were likely to cause a breach of peace. Chaplinsky v. New
Hampshire (1942) states:
…it is well understood that the right of free speech is not absolute at all times and under
all circumstances. There are certain well defined and narrowly limited classes of speech,
the prevention and punishment of which have never been thought to raise any
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Constitutional problem. These include the lewd and obscene, the profane, the libelous,
and the insulting or "fighting" words – those which, by their very utterance, inflict injury
or tend to incite an immediate breach of the peace. It has been well observed that such
utterances are no essential part of any exposition of ideas, and are of such slight social
value as a step to truth that any benefit that may be derived from them is clearly
outweighed by the social interest in order and morality.

However, the majority of cases involving free speech that tested for “fighting words” have been
struck down on grounds of “overbreadth and vagueness” (Zollinger, 1991). The “overbroad
statute” and the “void-for-vagueness” statues are often employed in conjunction with one another
for several reasons. Zollinger (1991) explains that these statutes (1) protect individuals who are
unaware of where the demarcation between protected and unprotected speech is located (thus
leading to the “chilling effect”58), (2) circumvent the possibility of the “fighting words” doctrine
to be abused by selective enforcement, and (3) allow for the legislature to judge whether “a
certain type of conduct or speech is deemed to be threatening the welfare of the state’s citizens,”
while also emphasizing the importance of avoiding the pressures of public opinion (Zollinger, p.
168).
Taking into account this longstanding battle over the parameters of the First Amendment,
Doe v. University of Michigan (1989) was understandably contested. Under the terms of the
University Policy that university officials drafted, the “degree of regulation was dependent upon
the location of the conduct being investigated. In public parts of campus, the widest range of
speech was to be tolerated. Locations where speech was explicitly limited included classroom
buildings, libraries, research laboratories, recreation facilities, and study centers” (Zollinger,
1991, p. 171). A graduate student using the pseudonym, “Doe,” perceived a threat of sanction
under the terms of the policy for claiming that there were biological differences between men
and women during a class discussion. Throughout the case, the Supreme Court investigated three

58 For more information about the “chilling effect,” see Schauer (1978).
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other incidents where the University had charged students with violating the Policy as well. The
first incident involved a graduate student who “stated in class that homosexuality was a disease,
and he intended to develop a counseling program for turning his gay clients straight”; the second
involved a student who read a homophobic rhyme that ridiculed a well-known athlete for his
sexual orientation; and the third involved a dental school professor who claimed that his chances
of obtaining tenure were in jeopardy after a student complained about his class publicly
(Zollinger, 1991, p. 177). After a thorough review of these cases, the Court eventually decided to
strike the University Policy down under the vagueness doctrine.
It has since been argued that the way the University Policy was implemented was the
primary reason for its demise. The Policy did not accurately define what should be considered as
an “interference of an individual’s academic efforts,” nor did it properly address the possible
restrictions of racial harassment and intimidation. However, Sedler (1991), who has the unique
positionality of having served as lead counsel for the plaintiff in the successful challenge of Doe,
vehemently denies that the Policy was shut down strictly due to the vagueness doctrine. They
argue that
The University of Michigan's policy was not one that had been carelessly drafted or that
used language that inadvertently reached some protected expression. Quite to the
contrary, the policy went through a large number of drafts, and the language of the policy
was deliberately chosen to accomplish a specific objective. It was the objective itself and
the underlying premises on which it was based that rendered the policy
unconstitutional…a public university cannot constitutionally prohibit the expression of
“racist ideas” on campus. (Sedler, 1991, p. 1328, emphasis added).

This particular case can be exhaustively argued by both sides; however, the important takeaway
is the contemporary prevalence of this statute that continues to plague higher education
institutions in the modern era.
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Figure 3 Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC)

The primary reason for providing this historical analysis of free speech doctrine on
college campuses is to demonstrate how the exosystem of campus racial climate can indirectly
influence the microsystems nested within it (Figure 3). None of the study sites were directly
involved in the Doe v. University of Michigan (1989) Supreme Court case, yet the decision
established a legal precedent that impacted free speech policies for all public higher education
institutions (mesosystem). However, an additional element of free speech doctrine is the public
versus private debate. Sedler (1991) presents another important question that requires further
consideration in the context of this study: Do legislative precedents like Doe v. University of
Michigan apply to private institutions like CVC (and Center City University, for that matter)?
While the University of Michigan, UC Berkeley, and the University of Washington are public
institutions, Clearview College is a private institution. Therefore, the microsystem of CVC is not
influenced by the other ecological systems regarding free speech regulations, as its private status
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creates an internal boundary around the microsystem circle (Figure 3) that leaves it impervious to
the mesosystem, exosystem, and macrosystem elements.
Public institutions are “Agents of the State,” which entails that they are directly regulated
by the Constitution (macrosystem). However, private institutions have the freedom to regulate
the speech and expression of its members since “the Bill of Rights does not apply to actions
taken by private institutions, even when these schools receive significant federal funding” (Civil
Liberties Law Review, 2015). An article by the Harvard Civil Rights—Civil Liberties Law
Review (2015) helps answer this question fairly concisely:
For private universities, such provisions are more likely to withstand constitutional
challenges. Justification for such codes rests on the assumption that racist speech has no
legitimate educational or expressive purposes, and thus should be banned to protect the
rights and dignity of minority students. Within the context of the marketplace of ideas,
speech codes are analogous to safety codes and other quality control measures. We
regularly reject products of poor qualities—capable of causing harm to users—from
reaching the market. Thus, the marketplace of ideas should have similar forms of quality
control. Furthermore, incidents involving racist and offensive remarks are not consensual
transactions, since they are neither voluntary (the listener would like the speaker to stop)
nor mutual (the listener has no chance to respond). Racist speech is akin to market
distortions that ought to be eliminated. (Civil Liberties Law Review, 2015, p. 8).

Therefore, arguments over the First Amendment protections of private institutions are “moral or
philosophical questions, rather than strictly legal ones” (Civil Liberties Law Review, 2015, p. 3).
Thomas (2019) maintains a similar view, stating, “How a campus treats unpopular viewpoints or
speech that denigrates historically disadvantaged groups will boil down to a matter of campus
climate, not laws and rules” (p. 34). Positioning it as “a matter of campus climate” is a
fundamental aspect of the current problem. Unlike members of the citizenry who reside outside
of higher education institutions, “students have fewer avenues of retreat…The unique nature of
universities…blurs the distinction between public forum and private space” (Civil Liberties Law
Review, 2015, p. 4). In other words, while an off-campus citizen can simply retreat to the safety
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of their own home59 to escape a person screaming racial epithets on the street corner, many
students feel like that person on the street corner is in their home. Nonetheless, Civil Liberties
Law Review (2015) concluded that “speech code may ultimately be a futile exercise given the
infinite ways in which racism could express itself…[and] the intrinsic elusiveness of their
intended target” (p. 8).
Thomas (2019) further situates this dilemma within the context of the Trump presidency,
explaining that “…if speech is codified on campus in a broad new policy so that White
nationalists are prevented from speaking, these same rules could pose restrictions on student
activists with whom students may agree, such as students for Palestine or Israel, or Black Lives
Matter and Me Too organizers. Unfortunately, who decides what speech is acceptable often boils
down to who has power at the time” (Thomas, 2019, p. 34). The final words of this statement, “at
the time,” are particularly alarming. Although I understand the philosophical premise behind this
rationale, it completely ignores the various matrices of power that have incessantly maintained
structures like patriarchy and white supremacy. This “All Lives Matter,” universal approach to
free speech doctrine further perpetuates the power imbalance that historically and presently
exists in society. For instance, the Movement for Black Lives and the Me Too Movement both
demonstrate the immediate importance of sanctioning harsher punishments for exhibitions of
white supremacy (i.e., police violence against Black people) and patriarchy (i.e., sexual violence
against women) since they are predicated upon the perpetual subordination of the oppressed.
Similarly, the counter-majoritarian approach taken by student activists is aimed at redefining

59 It is not my intention for this analogy to be perceived as classist. Far too many people suffer from homelessness in
the United States, including students, which prevents them from having a safe “home” to escape to. I only wish to
utilize this analogy as a way to further the reader’s understanding of why college students feel like they cannot
simply “retreat” from controversial speakers who negatively target their identities. To some students, the campus
may be perceived as their “home.” Thus, the presence of a controversial speaker feels like a threatening intruder.
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“what speech is acceptable” because those who have always had “power at the time” have
structured these policies in their favor.
In the case of Clearview College, Peter, Danielle, Joey and Singh expressed how they
believed in everyone’s right to free speech, but they did not believe that their institution should
support those who mirror Trump’s rhetoric and ideologies with financial compensation. Due to
the fact that private institutions are not regulated by the Constitution in the same way as public
institutions, it does not appear that revoking the financial component is a viable solution to the
problem. Thus, the only way for these students to combat hateful rhetoric is to challenge the
institution’s moral and philosophical standing—a strategy that they have already employed in the
form of protest—which resulted in their institutional reprimand (i.e., suspensions, graduation
restrictions, etc.).
Therefore, Civil Liberties Law Review’s (2015) analysis concludes where mine begins.
The compounding, oppressive nature of Trump’s rhetoric—and of those who mirror his
prejudicial ideologies—has the ability to further marginalize students in a space that is supposed
to be designated for learning and growth. It would be difficult to argue that an institutionally
funded, organized dissemination of this type of rhetoric would have no effect on the academic
environment. As noted by the student activists at CVC, the decision to financially compensate
speakers like Heather Mac Donald was received as an implicit message to the minoritized
student population on campus that they did not matter. What is more, the disciplinary measures
taken against the student protestors amplified that message. The double standard approach taken
by CVC administrators indicated that they were content with marginalized students being
targeted by hateful rhetoric, but found it unacceptable for them to publicly defend themselves.
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As Zollinger (1991) emphasizes, “the expression of an offensive idea which is not
directed at a single individual can be combated with counter-debate and speech that educates the
public to the truth” (p. 182). As I have comprehensively addressed, it would be erroneous to
discount the intellectual value that the First Amendment provides for allowing contested ideas to
be debated within educational settings. However, as Civil Liberties Law Review (2015)
emphasizes, the format for these college and university speaking engagements are not
intentionally designed for a structured debate to occur, as “incidents involving racist and
offensive remarks are not consensual transactions, since they are neither voluntary (the listener
would like the speaker to stop) nor mutual (the listener has no chance to respond)” (p. 8).
Therefore, the possibility of “educat[ing] the public to the truth” is further limited by the
disciplinary procedures enacted toward student activists (Zollinger, 1991, p. 182).
As a response to these imbalanced disciplinary protocols, Davis (2019) recently launched
the Protest Policy Project (PPP), “a national postsecondary effort that aims to critically assess,
analyze, and counter-legislate policies aimed at punishing students participating in campus
protest” (p. 3). The initial pilot study critiqued the system-wide policy adopted by the Wisconsin
System Board of Regents in 2017 that sought to discipline students who were exercising their
constitutionally protected right to protest (Davis, 2019). The policy asserted that students would
be suspended if they twice engaged in “violence or disorderly conduct that disrupts the
subjectively-determined free speech of other people,” and would be expelled if they were in
violation of the policy three times (Davis, 2019, p. 3). The policy was “guided by model
legislation drafted and lobbied by the Goldwater Institute, a right-leaning conservative think
tank” that Davis argues had a vested interest in protecting conservative speakers who publicly
advocated white nationalist and white supremacist agendas (Davis, 2017; Davis, 2019, p. 3). The
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Higher Education Research Institute’s annual freshman survey found that students of color were
more likely to participate in protests on and off campus (Eagen, Stolzenberg, Bates, Aragon,
Suchard, & Rios-Aguilar, 2015). Thus, these policies, although framed in a raceless manner,
disproportionately suppress students of color while simultaneously permitting rhetoric that
promotes the maintenance of the very structures that oppress them. As Davis (2017) summarizes:
…these policies intend to create a false equivalency between antioppressive and
oppressive free speech—however, the latter remains underpinned by racist ideologies of
material consequence. They also aim to suppress and criminalize, through punitive
measures, those not only willing to labor in the name of justice but also those who must
because disruption remains a tactic on which their very minds, bodies and spirits depend.
(Davis, 2017, para 5).

Gillborn (2009) posits that the risk of allowing white supremacist speech is racially
structured. These anti-activist policies allow college and university campuses to become
environments of “risk-free racism,” where alt-right speakers are free to promote their oppressive
agendas while “the costs are borne entirely by minoritized groups” (Gillborn, 2009, p. 536).
Unlike the speakers engaging in “risk-free racism,” students of color are vulnerable to material
consequences (as evidenced in Chapter 4) that can be plausibly characterized as a byproduct of
hateful rhetoric. Students have responded through “disruptive” demonstrations as a last and
necessary resort, as their institution’s “espoused commitments to and strategic plans for
diversity, equity, and inclusion” appear to be hypocritical (Davis, 2019, p. 10).
As Sharim’s quote states at the beginning of this section, the implications of Trump’s
rhetoric “[seep] into the walls of student life…It seeps through the walls of every location…it
spreads like wildfire.” While it may be possible to distance oneself from consuming Trump’s
own rhetoric (e.g., not following his Twitter account, not listening to his public speeches, etc.),
his ideologies and values still have the ability to infiltrate college and university campuses
through the vessel of his followers. With the limited protections available at college and
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university campuses—regardless if they are private or public—marginalized students are left
susceptible to hate speech and harassment with few avenues of retreat. However, it is important
for any higher education institution that claims to holistically serve marginalized students to
remember one key point—these speaking engagements are a discretionary choice, not a
curricular or institutional prerequisite. While all forms of speech should be allowed on campus,
not all forms of speech need to be endorsed. Such an endorsement—both financially and
ideologically—could implicitly reinstate racism into the “frontstage” (Goffman, 1956; Picca &
Faegin, 2007; Shafer, 2017), subsequently prolonging its perennial existence within higher
education institutions.
As evident in this section, the complexity of free speech debates and anti-activist policies
illustrate the significant influence that Trump’s rhetoric (macrosystem) can have on college
campuses (mesosystem and microsystem). It presents complex questions about who deserves be
protected, who deserves to be heard, and how the interjecting element of power affects both
sides. One of the four themes that I have derived from presidential rhetoric literature is that it has
the ability to persuade the American people, and therefore influence behavior. To return to
Shafer (2017) and Picca and Faegin’s (2007) racialized interpretations of Goffman’s (1956)
“frontstage-backstage” theory, I mentioned in the previous chapter that Trump’s rhetoric has
allowed white supremacist ideologies to exist within public discourse as an arguable platform
worth considering. Each of the students in this section described how Trump supporters on their
campuses have felt more inclined to exude racist behavior, which some believe has served as the
catalyst for the numerous campus hate crimes targeting resource centers for Black students,
LGBTQ+ students, and women. Thomas (2019) explains that “rhetoric from some elected
officials threaten to mainstream racist, sexist, homophobic, and xenophobic speech” (Thomas,
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2019, p. 33). As evident in the cases of UC Berkeley, the University of Washington, and
Clearview College, this mainstream effect has allowed for controversial speakers to be provided
a platform to spread harmful ideologies under the protection of free speech doctrine. As a result,
racism in the frontstage has forcefully relegated the voices of the marginalized to the backstage,
a process that has been institutionalized through anti-activist policies.
Ultimately, the emboldening nature of Trump’s rhetoric helps serve as a reminder that
there is nothing contemporaneously novel about racism in its present form. In the beginning of
this section, students shared their perspectives about the “empowering” and “validating” nature
of Trump’s words. Sanjana described how the urge to execute racist behaviors “was already in
the back…of their minds,” and was merely activated by Trump’s validation. Thus, Trump cannot
be credited as the source of these racist acts, but more so as an atmospheric shifter. For in an
incendiary environment, all you need is a match, and Trump has ignited the campus racial
climate into a cataclysmic inferno. Davis (2017) asserts that this political moment “requires
institutions to be accountable for answering the question of whether their historical legacy [is] on
the side of the oppressor rather than in solidarity with the oppressed” (para. 8). Higher education
institutions have the ability, and the fundamental obligation, to protect their students. If not, only
some students will survive the flames, while the others will be cast into the wildfire.
Fear and Safety: The Implications of Trump’s Executive Orders

“…ultimately, there is a matter of safety you want to consider as well. So, is voicing my opinion
on this one matter worth putting myself at risk?” – Ahmed, CCU, 4th year, Southeast
Asian/Muslim, he/him/his

In my review of literature regarding the influence of presidential rhetoric on higher
education policy, I described how U.S. Presidents have capitalized on the inherent ethos
embedded within their political positionality by incorporating their own values and priorities into
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their legislative agendas. To return to my analytical/conceptual framework (Figure 2), in this
section I narrow my analysis of presidential rhetoric to examine the racialized implications of
one of the primary themes of the discipline: presidential rhetoric precedes governmental
decision-making. Within the first two years of Donald Trump’s presidency, he implemented
several policies that each possessed racially systemic consequences. For the sake of this study, I
have focused my analysis to interrogate the racialized implications of three specific policies:
Executive Order 13769, titled, “Protecting the Nation from Foreign Terrorist Entry into the
United States” (also referred to as the “Muslim Ban”); the “‘Zero Tolerance’ Immigration
Enforcement Policy” (also referred to as the “Family Separation Policy”); and Trump’s ongoing
threat to repeal Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA).
A week into his presidency, President Trump passed Executive Order 13769, which
restricted travel access from seven countries, five of which have a Muslim-majority population:
Iran, Iraq, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Syria and Yemen. The ban also “restricted all refugees from
entering the country for 120 days following its issuance. The entry of refugees from war-torn
Syria was suspended indefinitely” (Ahmadi, Sanchez & Cole, 2019, p. 105). The travel ban was
blocked multiple times for being unconstitutional on the basis of religious freedom. For example,
in March 2017, the second revision of the executive order was blocked, and in May 2017, the
Fourth Circuit ruled against the ban “stating that it espoused anti-Muslim ideology, and therefore
was discriminatory based on protected status, i.e., religion” (Ahmadi, Sanchez & Cole, 2019, p.
105). However, later that month, the Supreme Court upheld part of the ban that required that
anyone immigrating from the banned countries needed to have a “bona fide” relationship with
someone in the country (Ahmadi, Sanchez & Cole, 2019). In September 2017, the third iteration
of the Muslim ban, “Muslim Ban 3.0,” was released with two non-Muslim majority countries,
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North Korea and Venezuela, “added as an attempt to illustrate that it was not a ban on Muslims
coming to the United States,” while Iraq and Sudan were removed from the list (Gerstein, Lin &
Mihalik, 2017; Ahmadi, Sanchez & Cole, 2019, p. 105). However, Trump has recently expanded
the ban to include Nigeria, Myanmar (also known as Burma), Eritrea, and Kyrgyzstan, while
people from Sudan and Tanzania will be barred from acquiring green cards through the U.S.
diversity visa program. The new order went into effect on February 22, 2020 (Oprysko, Kumar
& Toosi, 2020).
In Chapter 4, I mentioned how Trump explained his rationale for the initial version of the
Muslim ban during a 2016 interview with CNN host, Anderson Cooper, where he stated, “I think
Islam hates us” (Schleifer, 2016). This type of rhetoric was mirrored by Trump’s advisors who
have said that “Islam is a ‘political ideology,’ a ‘malignant cancer,’ and ‘the most radical religion
in the world’” (Ahmadi, Sanchez & Cole, 2019, p. 105). Ahmadi, Sanchez and Cole (2019)
emphasize how “President Trump’s rhetoric has directly impacted Muslims and furthered the
already negative and stereotypical image of Muslims…therefore essentializing a whole religious
community” (p. 105).
One year after the Muslim ban was originally passed, Trump implemented the “‘Zero
Tolerance’ Immigration Enforcement Policy” which “discourage[d] illegal migration into the
United States and to reduce the burden of processing asylum claims that Administration officials
contend are often fraudulent” (Kandel, 2019, p. 2). Under the zero-tolerance policy, the
Department of Justice prosecuted all undocumented immigrants who were apprehended while
crossing the border illegally, with no exception for asylum seekers or those with children
(Kandel, 2019). It has been reported that over 3,000 children were forcibly separated from their
parents, some of whom tragically died while being held in custody by U.S. Customs and Border
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Protection and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (Goodkind, 2019; Jordan,
2019; Kandel, 2019). Trump has since attempted to rationalize this policy as well, stating that
some immigrants “…aren’t people. [They] are animals” (Korte & Gomez, 2018).
In what is still an ongoing process, Trump has also threatened to repeal an Obama-era
policy, Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), which was designed to (a) provide
temporary deportation relief, (b) grant work authorization, (c) allow undocumented immigrants
to obtain a driver’s license and social security number, and (d) provide an opportunity for
undocumented immigrants to improve their social mobility by pursuing postsecondary education
or enter the workforce, as long as recipients met a particular set of criteria (Napolitano, 2012;
Pope, 2016; Masters, 2016; American Immigration Council, 2017). On September 4, 2017,
Attorney General Jeff Sessions sent a letter to the Department of Homeland Security expressing
his disproval with the Obama administrations’ decision to implement DACA. He felt that DACA
was implemented by the Obama administration without proper statutory authority, thus
indicating that it was an “unconstitutional exercise” by the Executive Branch (Sessions, 2017).
Consequently, taking into consideration the Supreme Court’s and the Fifth Circuit’s rulings in
the ongoing litigation, on September 5, 2017, acting secretary Elaine C. Duke submitted a
memorandum rescinding DACA (Duke, 2017). However, various court cases have since kept the
program alive, “shielding almost 670,000 unauthorized immigrants who came to the U.S. as
children from deportation” (Narea, 2019). The Supreme Court announced it would hear the case,
but the decision is not expected until later this year (Narea, 2019).
To begin this section, I share the perspectives of students who have favorable perceptions
of Trump’s policies to illuminate one side of the polarizing political spectrum that exists on
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college campuses. As detailed in Appendix A, my interview protocol includes three specific
questions that help guide my analysis:
1. In 2017, the Trump administration implemented the “Muslim Ban” that restricted
travel access to countries in the Middle East. Tell me about your thoughts and feelings
about this policy decision;
2. In 2018, the Trump administration implemented the “Zero Tolerance Immigration
Enforcement Policy” that prosecuted all undocumented immigrants who were
apprehended while crossing the border illegally. Tell me about your thoughts and feelings
about this policy decision; and
3. President Trump has recently threatened to repeal the Obama-era policy, “Deferred
Action for Childhood Arrivals.” Will you or any of your peers be affected if the policy is
rescinded? If so, how?
Almost immediately after asking the first question, Jacob, a 2nd year white student from Central
City University, expressed his displeasure with the way it was phrased:
You called it a “Muslim ban,” that’s not what it is. It’s a travel ban, and I think that’s a
big issue with a lot of people, is that they’re not 100% understanding what these things
are. And so, when these groups hear these things that may only hear from certain
points…they would absolutely take the other side, which is fine because it’s reasonable,
because that’s what you would believe in. But when you wanna attack us, and we’re
trying to tell you that, “No, look, this is not a Muslim ban, it’s a ban from certain
countries.” For example, if it was a Muslim ban, why isn’t Indonesia on that list? Because
I believe that they have like the number one Muslim population in the world. This isn’t a
Muslim ban, which I think is an issue, is that we’re being…when big new medias or
social media say this certain thing without context, I think that really hurts the
atmosphere of conversation. So, then, when they come to attack us, there’s nothing that
we can say because they don’t wanna listen because this what they’ve heard.

On January 29, 2017, Trump released a statement saying, “To be clear, this is not a
Muslim ban, as the media is falsely reporting. This is not about religion—this is about terror and
keeping our country safe” (Trump, 2017). However, on December 7, 2015, Trump’s campaign
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issued a statement saying, “Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of
Muslims entering the United States until our country’s representatives can figure out what is
going on,” a statement that he later read aloud at a rally in South Carolina (Johnson &
Hauslohner, 2017). After signing Executive Order 13769 one week into his presidency, Trump’s
lawyer, Rudolph W. Giuliani, said in an interview with Fox News, “So when [Trump] first
announced it, he said, ‘Muslim ban.’ He called me up. He said, ‘Put a commission together.
Show me the right way to do it legally” (Giuliani, as cited in Johnson & Hauslohner, 2017).
During a 2016 campaign speech at Youngstown State University, Trump attempted to justify the
policy by claiming that radical Islamic terrorism was a pressing national security issue. He said
in his speech, “[we cannot] let the hateful ideology of radical Islam, it’s oppression of women,
gays, children and non-believers be allowed to reside or spread within our own countries”
(Trump, 2016). Moreover, he publicly equated the travel ban to President Franklin D.
Roosevelt’s Executive Order 9066—the internment of people of Japanese ancestry (Keneally,
2015). I decided to keep the phrasing of the question as is.
Jacob was one of the participants in a ten-person focus group with a conservative student
organization that I conducted at Central City University. Jack, a 3rd year Hispanic student who
also attended the focus group, explained how he believes the outcomes of the policies have been
“good results,” and that other students only disagree because of the “character” attached to these
legislative decisions:
…what is interesting is sometimes you’ll present and idea or an argument to people and
they’ll agree with it right off the bat, but you don’t necessarily name the source of the
idea or the argument. But then, once you do the opposite, then they have a complete
different, 180 reaction to it. And so, just doing that in classes or just in conversation, you
can really kinda see just the stark reality between people actually thinking about the idea,
versus the character attached to it. And I definitely agree that stuff that he says that I hate,
and I wish he wouldn’t say it. But at the same time, it’s like, when you look at some of
the results, I mean you have to give him his props. It’s good results, you know?
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Rebecca, a 3rd year white student from CCU, shared a similar perspective. She described how she
oftentimes does not agree with Trump’s choice of rhetoric; however, she felt that “crazy leftists”
would agree with his policies if they were “logically” broken down for them:
Everybody despises Trump and everything that he does, and it’s like, yeah, does he say
some stuff that I don’t love? Like, 100%, I think he should shut his mouth most of the
time. But overall, like all the policies he’s done and implemented, I agree with for the
most part. And I think if you break those down for people, and most people don’t know
what he’s even done, and if you logically break down what he has done, crazy leftists
agree with it.

Matias, a 3rd year Columbian student from CCU, is a military veteran who was stationed
in Syria during his service. On September 30th, 2015, Trump spoke to an audience of his
supporters at a campaign rally in New Hampshire, where he pledged to remove all Syrian
refugees—most of whom are Muslim—from the U.S., in fear that “they could be ISIS…This
could be one of the great tactical ploys of all time. A 200,000-man army” (Trump, as cited in
Johnson & Hauslohner, 2017). He later added that “This could make the Trojan horse look like
peanuts” when describing how Syrian refugees could possibly be part of an “army in disguise”
(Trump, as cited in Johnson, 2015; Johnson & Hauslohner, 2017). On March 15, 2011, the
Syrian civil war officially began, which resulted in the displacement of over 6.7 million Syrian
people, half of whom are children (Todd, 2019). Matias described how his experience overseas
deterred him from welcoming Syrian refugees into the country:
I remember I was in the military when all this was going on, so the big thing that started
for me was like the Syrian refugee crisis. So, I was like, you know, I’ve been over there,
don’t really want a bunch of them just coming over here unchecked. And then I started
paying more attention.

Matias had similar feelings toward the “‘Zero Tolerance’ Immigration Enforcement Policy.” As
a child, he legally immigrated to the United States from Columbia with his family, which he
feels is the only acceptable way for immigrants to enter the country:
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I feel bad for people that are affected. I mean, I’m Hispanic, I know people that came
legally and myself immigrated from Colombia. So, I know that it’s hard, but yeah, you’re
cheating everybody that took time out of their day, called off work to go to the embassy,
to ask for papers, took months at a time, background checks…But I think these college
liberals, they just don’t know. Their whole world is two miles around campus and that’s
it.

After Matias finished speaking, Rebecca quickly raised her hand to speak. She felt that Matias’
experience was a perfect example of immigrating the “right way,” and that to immigrate to the
U.S. illegally would be unfair to people like him:
I’m super-pro legal immigration, but I’m super-against illegal immigration. It is so bad
for all those people that go through the process legally, it like only hinders them, it makes
it more difficult for them, and they have to go through this huge process, and then illegal
immigrants get to come in and not have to go through that and get all the same things that
the legal immigrants do. That’s completely unfair. Also, there’s no way for us to filter
them in that sense…we’re a nation…we need to have some sort of security, some sort of
process. If people are affected on campus, I feel really bad, but…I think that they should
be dealt with on a case-by-case basis. And if they’re contributing to society, then they
should stay because they’re people we want in the country anyway. But if they’re not
contributing to society and they’re on welfare, then they need to go. And that’s the way I
see it, and then we need to be much stricter about the border going forward so that this
problem doesn’t continue to arise.

Michael, a 2nd year Mexican student from CCU, also legally immigrated to the U.S. when he was
a child. However, he expressed how the “bad apples” who illegally immigrate to the country
have led to negative generalizations about all immigrants, including himself:
I’m from legal immigration, all my family came in legally. And we don’t like illegal
immigration because it’s like the bad apple, a few bad apples argument. It just kinda
makes everyone look bad…and point fingers at us, and say all Mexicans are this way, or
dah, dah, dah, dah.

The perspectives shared by the members of this conservative student group at CCU were
drastically different than those shared by many of the other participants that I interviewed. A few
of the students were personally affected by the policies, while others witnessed the policies’
deleterious consequences through the lens of their friends and loved ones. Sharim, who was
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quoted in the previous section, described how the Muslim Ban held severe implications for her
overall safety:
I remember having to have a conversation with my mom about what it meant for us. As a
woman who wears the hijab, or the headscarf, it’s not even a matter of my opinion or my
political views at this point, it’s about physical safety. Like do I have to take it off now?
Should I wear a hat or a beanie instead? These are real questions we had to consider. And
it’s like, at the end of the day, I made the decision to go through with how I’ve always
been living, but it’s also scary when political views go from words and ideas and possibly
laws, to physical actions and safety being compromised in everyday life.

Sharim alludes to the process in which presidential rhetoric precedes governmental decision-
making. The very manner in which political ideologies and rhetoric can become law is the reason
why presidential rhetoric has become its own subdiscipline of rhetorical studies. As Montagu
(1997) explains, “words become things, things become weapons—and the more weapons one
has, the more convinced one is of the right to use them” (p. 44). Sharim’s fear appears warranted,
as these weapons have been used against Muslim students at El Camino State University as well.
Mahalia, a 4th year Muslim and African American student at ECSU, described an incident that
took place last year where a Muslim student had her hijab pulled off while being assaulted by
two perpetrators spewing Trump’s rhetoric:
There was an incident where a Muslim student got her hijab pulled off in the parking lot,
and people were using Trump rhetoric when they assaulted her. It was late at night. I
remember in the Muslim community here, there was a lot of conversation going on about
that. Like perhaps the students should buddy up when they’re going to the parking lot like
that, or students should give rides to each other. So even within the campus, it was a lot
of tension going on. As a student, it definitely made it feel like it was hard to feel at
home, like we belonged in the campus or the city in general. There was a lot.

A separate but similar incident occurred at ECSU the night of the election. Jazmine, a 4th year
Black and Japanese student from ECSU, described an incident that she witnessed after the
election results were announced:
I remember there was a student, an international student wearing hijab, and some student
told her, “You might as well go back now because Trump is gonna send you home.” Just
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terrible stuff. Even the day after, you could just hear people celebrating in the halls…And
that’s when I really felt isolated.

The notion that “Trump is gonna send [Muslims] home” had already become a reality for
some students who had family members living in any of the banned countries. Yasmiin, a 2nd
year Muslim and Somali student from ECSU, explained how she felt the immediate
consequences of the executive order when she was trying to bring her grandmother over from
Yemen—a country that was included in the travel ban:
It affected me quite personally because at the time, when Trump was getting elected, we
were trying to bring my grandma over from Yemen. She was older, and my mom
couldn’t keep on flying back and forth. It was not safe, and Trump…was proposing a
Muslim ban, and I just remember my mom really trying to speed up the process. And in
the end, we couldn’t go through with it because by the time…everything was going
through, the ban was implemented. So, for me, it was actually pretty personal because my
grandma ended up passing away because of the conditions over there. I always just
wondered, if we didn’t have this really, really shitty piece of legislation, I wonder if she
would have had a chance at some of the doctors here…but then again, it made me think,
there’s a lot of people in this country who don’t think that people who look like me or
come from those seven, eight countries deserve to have rights or deserve to be in a
country like this, based off of past actions or their relationships with the United States.

As a result of Trump’s executive order, Yasmiin was not able to lay her grandmother to rest.
While her experience may be perceived as a personal story rather than a campus racial climate
issue, Anna Marie, a 2nd year Filipina student from LASU, explains how students’ experiences
within and perceptions of the campus racial climate are not limited to what happens at the
institution. The racialized implications of Trump’s executive decision-making impact their lives
academically and holistically as well:
…although it’s not necessarily in the campus climate itself, you see how this affects the
students…They’re very personal and complex issues that are affecting them academically
and holistically. There was a period of time when people were not okay, their grades
were suffering, their extracurriculars were, too… because they have this thing looming
over their shoulders and they have no control over it.

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The fear that accompanied the ban was not only reserved for Muslim students, as the
stigma accompanying the travel ban also had an impact on Muslim “looking” students as well. In
Chapter 4, I included a statement from Shams (2017) where they delineate how the term
“Muslim” “homogenizes South Asians, Arabs, Middle Easterners, North Africans, and Blacks,
all of whom fall on a wide spectrum of physical appearance. It also includes ‘Muslim-looking’
non-Muslims, such as Sikhs, Arabs, and Middle Easterners who are Jewish or Christian, even
agnostics” (p. 74). Aruna, a 2nd year Indian and Singaporean student from CVC, described how
even though she was not Muslim, the travel ban reinvigorated Islamophobic sentiments that had
a universal impact on anyone who might physically fit the stereotypical image of a Muslim:
…being from the Middle East, but not ethnically identifying as Middle Eastern, is really
interesting…I feel scared in my room to play certain songs that are Indian but have
Arabic or things that can sound like the Mosque prayer almost, because there are songs
like that in Bollywood. And I’m scared to play those songs in my room because I don’t
want anyone to think that I am a Muslim. And that is horrible because I – I just – it’s so
horrible to not want to just play my music, and enjoy it because I think people will put
this stereotype on me and think of me in a bad way because of religious identity. And that
– that fear is – scary…it’s so horrible that I have to fear people thinking that I’m Middle
Eastern because of U.S.-Middle East relations, and the Muslim Ban. And I can’t imagine
what being Muslim is like. And the fact that I fear even people thinking I’m Muslim is
just – it’s horrible.

This fear of being publicly perceived as a Muslim also deterred Muslim students from practicing
their religion in public spaces on campus. Jayla, who spoke about the multidimensional
implications of Trump’s rhetoric in the previous section, explained how many of her friends felt
the need to refrain from publicly practicing their religion at school:
Since the early 2000s, America has always been Islamophobic. But I think specifically
now, you definitely see Trump attacking folks…I have a lot of Muslim friends…that are
Black Muslims that decided not to wear the hajibs anymore because of the hatred that
they get. I have a lot of friends that don’t openly practice their religion anymore when it
comes to…their holidays that they celebrate. [They] try not to post it [on social media] as
much…Fortunately for them, a lot of them are in areas where there is higher
concentration of Muslim folks or immigrants or people who are more accepting of
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different identities. But when you go to less liberal places or less diverse places, it’s
definitely not the same. You don’t have that barrier of protection over you.

Sanjana spoke about how the social implications of the Muslim ban were felt in the
classroom as well. After the election, a few of her professors attempted to facilitate a class
discussion about what Trump’s victory would mean for marginalized students. However,
Sanjana was the only Muslim student in the room, and her professors felt it was appropriate to
treat her as the “spokesperson” for all who practice her religion:
…I would have some teachers single me out and ask me questions, as if I was a
spokesperson for the entirety of Islam. And so, that was something that I wasn’t used to
because I don’t think – there are people who are much more visibly Muslim-looking than
me because I would – for the most part, I dress the same as anyone else…but I would
wear a hijab…I wasn’t prepared for that because I would always consider myself
somebody who was more aligned with what’s considered a “normal American.”

Harris, Barone and Davis (2015) describe how “…racially minoritized students often are treated
like ‘native informants’ in the classroom, and the benefit of racial diversity at Predominantly
White Institutions (PWIs) becomes unidirectional, with racially minoritized students carrying the
burden of educating their white peers” (p. 24). Sanjana’s professors expected her to serve as a
“native informant” for the Muslim student experience (for which they apparently assumed was
monolithic), which implicitly positioned her as a cultural deviation from a “normal” white
student. Sanjana was essentially treated like a spectacle for an anthropological micro-study,
where all eyes were centered on her as a non-white, perpetual foreigner subject to unwarranted
examination.
Ahmed, a 4th year Southeast Asian and Muslim student, is the president of the Muslim
student organization at CCU. He explained how it was difficult to speak out about these types of
incidents since there was always risk involved in such an endeavor:
…ultimately, there is a matter of safety you want to consider as well. So, is voicing my
opinion on this one matter worth putting myself at risk?
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What is more, the risk of speaking out is exacerbated when students of color feel as though their
institution is not willing to help them. Simone, a 5th year white and African American student
from ECSU, described how her Muslim friends have been hesitant to report the hate crimes they
experienced because of the lack of institutional support:
…when you have hijabi women walking to the parking structure and having rocks thrown
at them, and they’re too scared to come forward to talk about the things that were being
yelled at them, it goes back to the fact that the rhetoric isn’t believed. And so…why come
forward? Why would I ever come forward and tell you all what happened to me on this
campus when I feel like nothing is gonna be done about it?

Similar to Simone’s question, Hypolite and Stewart (2019) employed a critical discourse
analysis to examine the responses from higher education institutions concerning the U.S.
presidential election. The institutional responses consisted of letters that were sent by higher
education leaders, including U.S. college and university deans, provosts, chancellors, and
presidents through either personal or public communications (Hypolite & Stewart, 2019). They
found that
even though the massive responses to the election results was a unique event for higher
education leaders and has become commonplace under the most recent presidency, the
generalizable, cursory, and symbolic nature of their discourse did not actively reject the
divisive elements of the 2016 U.S. presidential election. Public communication from
campus leaders reinforced traditional power structures that disempower and marginalize
victims of the historically racist and xenophobic rhetoric used in the most recent election
to appeal to the millions of Americans holding similar views. (Hypolite & Stewart, 2019,
p. 7).

Using ambiguous language that avoided directly addressing issues of race and racism, university
leaders’ responses were more performative than constructive. Unfortunately, Hypolite and
Stewart’s (2019) analysis confirm Simone’s reluctance to believe her institution would support
her or her Muslim peers, while also revealing a system-wide issue affecting students across the
nation.
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The experiences shared by the Muslim participants in this section were also consistent
with my analysis of Islamophobic violence described in the previous chapter. Thus, their
personal stories should not be perceived in isolation, as it is important for them to be situated
within a larger sociopolitical context (i.e., the hypervisibility of Muslim women wearing hijab,
the racialized residual effects of the Patriot Act, national increases in Islamophobic hate crimes,
Trump’s rationalization for the Muslim Ban, etc.).
There were also common themes amongst Muslim and Latinx students in regard to their
experiences navigating Trump’s policies. For example, the fear of speaking out was one of the
most common themes derived from my interviews with Latinx students as well. Jessica, a 4th
year Latina student from CVC, explained how it was difficult for undocumented students to
acknowledge their citizenship status as a part of their identity:
But in terms of being undocumented in higher education, I think one thing that has been
affected is that people are afraid to say they are undocumented…People are more afraid
to showcase that part of their identities…But also the fear that this could all be taken
away in a second…Everything they worked for could just vanish in a second if they were
deported.

Jessica expressed how Trump’s policies have left undocumented students in a perpetually
vulnerable position where there is always a possibility of deportation. Esme, 4th year Chicanx
student from LASU, explained how this fear has lingered ever since the “zero-tolerance” policy
was implemented:
…whenever you would run into somebody, you would just start crying…everybody was
just scared. And it was a lot of sentiments of like, "Oh, my family is undocumented.
What's going to happen to my family?” And just a lot of scary realizations of what was
coming. I think that fear is still very heavy in a lot of people, especially the people who
have been here since the first year.

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Jessica, who has been in college for all four years of Trump’s presidency, mentioned how
attending a college that is so close to the U.S.-Mexico border does not prevent other students
from turning a blind eye to the implications of Trump’s strict immigration policies:
…the families being separated it very upsetting, and I think it should be upsetting to
everybody. Proximity shouldn’t matter. Wherever you are, that should affect you…It’s
also so close. You drive five hours south and you’re there. It’s not something that is
really far for Californians. So, I think that’s what is also upsetting—people choosing not
to look at it or put it in the back of their mind.

It could be argued that Jessica’s statement about “people choosing not to look at it” also
coincides with many of the conservative students’ perceptions of Trump’s policies. For example,
many of the students were also familiar with the “immigrate the right way” narrative that was
expressed by some of the students at CCU. After Matias explained how he and his family
immigrated legally to the United States, he expressed how he “think[s] these college liberals,
they just don’t know. Their whole world is two miles around campus and that’s it.” However,
Jayla, who immigrated from Cameroon, had a very different perspective of the immigration
process:
…you might have to hire lawyers. You might have to hire a translator…and then even the
process of getting a green card versus getting your citizenship, even the application costs
a lot of money. So, this is thousands of dollars that we’re talking that people don’t have.
So, when we’re talking about the conversation of immigration and doing it “the legal
way,” it’s just like you don’t understand that a lot of people are coming from very
horrible conditions into a situation that can literally save their family’s lives. And they’re
doing it in a way that’s not considered legal because they simply don’t have the money.
Like, we’re living in a very capitalistic society. And something as simple as just being
able to exist is going to cost you thousands of dollars.

As a methodological response to these statements, I decided to add a question into my
interview protocol that asked students to reflect on the conditional relationship between
undocumented students and the United States. Similar to how Rebecca felt that “…if they’re
contributing to society, then they should stay because they’re people we want in the country
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anyway. But if they’re not contributing to society and they’re on welfare, then they need to go,”
the narrative behind undocumented students is often framed in transactional terms that
commodify their labor as the only way to obtain citizenship. Sharon, a 4th year African American
student from CVC, elaborated on this notion, explaining how undocumented students are forced
into a contradictory position:
I can’t imagine the kind of cognitive dissonance that goes on where you’re trying to fit
yourself into a system and benefit from that system that is directly harming you and the
individuals you are closely related to. And so, I’d imagine it must feel super – super
hindering – super restricting to kind of look at a country that kind of treats you like a
number and a variable to try and figure out how much you could be worth to them. And
that what’s the main factor for deciding whether or not you or your family members or
whoever could stay here.

Raquel, a 3rd year Latinx student from LASU, alluded to this “cognitive dissonance” when she
reflected on her experience growing up in the U.S. while undocumented:
I was born in Mexico and I grew up there for a long time…My little sister, she was born
here. So, every time anything would happen, even though she's the youngest one, they
would be like send the "American" in…because she was the only one that was [a citizen].
So, it was always like, "You're not American, but she is." So, she’ll protect us kind of in a
way. But then afterwards, we were privileged enough to get our green card. And then we
had some type of documentation, but its' still came with the "You can't do anything
wrong or you'll get kicked out anyways". So, it's still like you were considered American
in the way that you can contribute to the United States, but as soon as you did one thing
wrong…It's like it's not for you anymore.

When Raquel states that you are only considered American if you “contribute to the
United States,” she alludes to the conditional existence of undocumented students where they can
only achieve certain privileges if they are considered an economic commodity. I critically
examine this perspective when I engage Bell’s (1980) interest convergence in my subsequent
analysis. However, Raquel was not the only student who referred to these conditional
circumstances. Neel also mentioned how the word “contribute” has underlying racist
connotations that should be acknowledged:
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I think words like “contribute” and all of these things are very much taken advantage of
and used as a guise where racism is really the true intention for stopping people from
coming in…the whole concept of what it means to be a contributing member of this
country…our country has a very twisted sense of what that means. Because there are
people who have lived here for generations and are not contributing nearly as much as
people whose parents moved here in the 90s or are immigrating here now and are actually
helping our economy and at the same time are facing insane racism, people telling them
they should leave because they’re “ruining” our economy.

The concept of interest convergence was also alluded to when students spoke about the
implications of DACA possibly being rescinded. Maribel, who previously mentioned how she
internalized some of the negative rhetoric about immigrants, described how the dehumanizing
nature of Trump’s immigration policies can be attributed to his “business” approach to politics:
I would say his approach is like any other anti-immigrant population. Very
dehumanizing, very unaware…in terms of the DACA situation, there were a lot of people
who were affected by it. And although it’s not fully canceled, it’s still in the process of
being decided…And it’s sort of like, in politics, it does affect you personally when you
know there are certain laws protecting you. And it’s so hard when someone lacks that
perspective, or lacks that perspective of being in someone else’s shoes…With Trump, I
don’t think he’s very sensitive to people in general. He makes everything like a business.
And when you’re dealing with people, and dealing with health reform, immigration, it’s
not a business. You’re dealing with people…

For many students, that level of empathy was a natural response to their proximity to the
policy’s implications. Sierra, a 3rd year Latina student from LASU, shared that because of her
mother’s undocumented status, she has “had to keep up to date…with what’s going to happen
because I don’t want her to get deported.” Sierra was part of a focus group that I conducted at
LASU with a Latinx student organization. Many of the students in the focus group were
undocumented, and ultimately decided not to be included in the study as they were
understandably hesitant to trust anyone with their information60. The other students in the focus

60 Muñoz (2016) also investigates the disclosure management process for undocumented college students,
explaining how “Undocumented students who decide to disclose their legal status often do so under an element of
fear perpetuated by antiimmigration sentiments” (p. 715). Lahman, Mendoza, Rodriguez, and Schwartz (2011)
provide ethical strategies for how to appropriately recruit and maintain the confidentiality of undocumented student
research participants. Taking their work into consideration, it felt morally irresponsible to ask them to leave the
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group had a certain level of protection as U.S. citizens, DACA recipients, or green card holders,
and utilized these privileges to speak on behalf of the undocumented students in the room.
Without naming anyone in the group, Sierra described what her friends were going through:
I just know people are really struggling right now because…DACA might be
rescinded…if it stops, they're going to get deported. And they don't want to get deported,
but it's like it's not their fault. They don't know what to do because they weren't born
here, but they were really raised here. They don't know what to be. They're more
American than wherever they're from, if that makes sense.

Sierra also alluded to the “cognitive dissonance” of being undocumented when she referred to
how undocumented students “don’t know what to be.” Their undocumented status excludes them
from assuming an American national identity, but they sometimes have no connection to their
native country. This leaves them in an existential dilemma where it is difficult to ascertain where
they belong.
Esme, who also participated in the focus group, explained how her undocumented friends
were also having difficulties with gaining access to work permits that would allow them to stay
in the country:
I have a lot of friends that are undocumented. And one thing that I feel has played a role
in the past few years is accessibility to work permits. I feel like a lot of my friends haven't
been able to work for long periods of time because they haven't had access to work
permits. And that definitely affects their mental health, their ability to function as a
university student when they don't have access to money, or aren't able to work for
money either because they don't have work permits.

The ability to “function as a university student” was also limited by their lack of mobility as
undocumented immigrants. Nicolas, a 4th year Mexican student from LASU, described how

room while we discussed their racialized experiences. In retrospect, it was quite beautiful to witness how the other
students in the room utilized their privilege to speak on behalf of their peers. After every response to my interview
questions, they would look at the undocumented students for confirmation, ensuring that they were giving an
accurate account of their experiences. This display of community was as heartwarming as it was informative.
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many of the students in their Latinx student organization could not travel to Washington D.C. for
an academic conference in fear that they would be deported at the airport:
…mobility as well…I remember like my first year a few [members of the Latinx student
organization] who were undocumented, they were very scared and paranoid when we
tried to go to the national conference because it was being held in Washington. Just to go
in an airport after administration tries to beef up airport security…[and] other rhetoric
that further added to the Muslim Ban and things that were specifically targeting
communities of color…it was just very unsafe and very hostile for people to get from
place to place, even domestically.

The fear of deportation was amplified when word spread that the U.S. Immigration and
Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency was going to conduct raids on college campuses that
targeted undocumented students (Gomez, 2017). This prompted many colleges and universities
across the nation to proclaim themselves “sanctuary campuses,” announcing that they would
refuse to cooperate with the federal government in providing information regarding the
immigration status of their students for purposes of immigration enforcement (Newman, 2017).
Peter, one of the student activists at CVC who was quoted in the previous section, described how
it was important for he and his friends to know what to do if there was an ICE raid on their
campus:
…there were a lot of social media posts from my friends trying to bring awareness to
what happens when ICE comes to campus. That was when shit was real. If ICE comes to
your campus, you have to know what to do. If they come to your room, that’s it.

Singh, a 4th year Southeast Asian student from CVC, also explained how important it was to
spread awareness around campus if ICE was present:
It’s definitely students of Hispanic descent, especially considering the increase in
Immigration and Custom Enforcement raids. That’s something that I see that’s very
tangible, is students who come from communities that are getting directly affected. They
post about, “ICE is in here,” talking about where ICE is because there are a lot of people
within their communities who are getting directly affected.

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Some professors also decided to have classroom discussions about ICE as well. However,
similar to how Sanjana was singled out as the only Muslim student in the room during her class
discussion, Yasmiin’s professor treated the only undocumented student in her class in the same
manner. When an undocumented student bravely revealed her status to the room, Yasmiin
described how “five white heads were spinning to look,” with one asking, “Undocumented? How
do you go to school here?” After the class discussion, Yasmiin recalled hearing the same
students joking about the ICE raids:
When I was talking about the example outside of my classroom, he was like, “I don’t get
why they come when other students like me can be benefiting from that. The scholarship
that I get is not even enough for me to survive, and they’re letting in an undocumented
student.” And then he goes, “If we call ICE on them, there will be more funding for us!”

While some students may joke about the ICE raids, other students live in constant fear of
them. Last year, through a disturbing abuse of power, ICE created a fake university to lure
undocumented students into being deported. Jazmine spoke about this as an example of why
students needed to be hyperaware of ICE’s presence on campus:
I just read an article about how there was a fake university that was created to reel in
undocumented students. They actually went to Mexico and recruited students to come
and get their visas and do work at the university. Just for ICE to plan it and scam people.
Going back to capitalism, it’s the same thing every time. They encourage you to create
and do all these things, but they’ll be so quick to snatch it away. It’s a land of theft.

The fake university she was referring to was called the “University of Farmington,” which was
closed in January of 2019. The university was part of a sting operation conducted by ICE that
sought to “lure foreign-born college students who were trying to stay in the country on student
visas that might not have been legal” (Mettler & Farzan, 2019, para. 1). The university was even
“registered with the State of Michigan, accredited by a national company recognized by the
Department of Education, and approved by ICE as a government program for foreign students”
(Jenkins, 2019, para. 3). The institution charged students $12,000 per year in tuition and fees,
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which meant that the federal government made a profit off of the sting operation (Jenkins, 2019).
Approximately 250 students were arrested (Rahal, 2019). However, as evident in the responses
from the students in this section, this operation was merely a microcosm to the system-wide
threat to their academic and holistic well-being.
To conclude this section, I draw connections between the experiences shared by the
Latinx students in this study and existing literature pertaining to Latinx undocumented students
in higher education61. Although not all undocumented students identify as Latinx, the geographic
contextualization of each institution is an integral component to this study given that all of the
Southern California schools are located relatively close to the U.S.-Mexico border. For example,
Romero (2016) found that anti-Latino hate crimes jumped 69% in Los Angeles after Trump won
the election. More specifically, in 74% of these crimes, the perpetrators of “used specifically
anti-immigrant language, such as ‘wetback’ or ‘You don’t belong here’” (Romero, 2016). Thus,
my focus on Latinx students is not meant to disregard the experiences of other racial groups who
may also comprise of undocumented students; rather, it is only to remain consistent with the
geographically specific experiences of the student participants in this study.
The stark juxtaposition between students who believe that “if [undocumented students]
are not contributing to society…then they need to go,” and students who experience “cognitive
dissonance that goes on where you’re trying to fit yourself into a system…that is directly
harming you,” will be critically interrogated as well. First, I examine how critical race scholars
have employed a LatCrit framework to address the ways that Latinx students conceptualize their

61 I have already provided an expansive analysis of Islamophobia and the experiences of Muslim students in Chapter
4. Thus, in an effort to avoid repetitiveness, I have solely focused on undocumented Latinx students for the analysis
of this particular section. However, as I have mentioned, the experiences shared by the Muslim student participants
in this section should be situated within the larger sociopolitical context that was analyzed in the previous chapter
(i.e., the hypervisibility of Muslim women wearing hijab, the racialized residual effects of the Patriot Act, national
increases in Islamophobic hate crimes, Trump’s rationalization for the Muslim Ban, etc.).
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intersectional experiences with race, class, and gender, but with an explicit and intentional focus
on immigration, generational status, bilingualism, and other factors of oppression. I then engage
Derrick Bell’s (1980) interest convergence and Cedric Robinson’s (2000) analysis of racial
capitalism to reframe the hyper-conditional circumstances of undocumented students within the
context of the Trump presidency. In doing so, I demonstrate how these campus racial climate
issues of the current sociohistorical epoch are a byproduct of the institutionalization and
operationalization of white supremacy.
Latino-Critical theory (LatCrit)62 is a “Branch of critical race theory that considers issues
of concern to Latinos/as such as immigration, language rights, and multi-identity” (Delgado &
Stefancic, 2001, p. 149). Valdes (1997) outlines the foundational principles of LatCrit as (1) the
production of knowledge pertaining to the socio-legal conditions that beset Latina/o
communities, (2) praxis-based scholarship aimed at improving the lives of Latina/os and other
subordinated groups, (3) elevating the Latina/o condition both domestically and globally, and (4)
actively nurturing a community of scholars who share a commitment to social justice. In
Solórzano and Yosso’s (2001) “Critical race theory family tree,” they illustrate how LatCrit is a
branch of CRT along with FemCrits, AsianCrits, and WhiteCrits. Metaphorically, LatCrit
“should operate as a close cousin-related to Critical Race Theory in real and lasting ways, but not
necessarily living under the same roof” (Valdes, 1996, p. 26). The specificity of LatCrit provides
researchers with a framework that can address the cultural nuances of Latinx issues that are

62 Although I will not engage in a substantive analysis of LatCrit, I bring attention to existing scholarship to
demonstrate how there is already an established conceptual framework that could be applied to examine the
participant responses located in this study. I welcome future research that can employ LatCrit and racist nativism to
more comprehensively explore the contemporary manifestations of Trump’s immigration policies and their effects
on Latinx students (Pérez Huber, Lopez, Malagon, Velez & Solórzano, 2008).
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“often ignored by critical race theorists such as language, immigration, ethnicity, culture,
identity, phenotype, and sexuality” (Solórzano & Bernal, 2001, p. 311).
This framework is a valuable tool to analyze the student responses from this section. The
Latinx student participants shared their experiences with how immigration policy has impacted
their mobility, racial identities, and access to educational resources and opportunities. For
example, Nicolas shared an experience from his first year in college when he was preparing to
travel to an academic conference in Washington D.C. along with his Latinx student organization.
He described how some of his undocumented peers decided it was safer not to go on the trip due
to the possibility that they might be deported at the airport. As someone who has travelled to
numerous academic conferences throughout graduate school, I can attest to the immeasurable
value of these opportunities that are not only important for intellectual reasons, but for building
and maintaining community as well. However, Nicolas’ peers had to seriously consider the
insurmountable risk of travelling while undocumented. They were forced to choose between an
educational opportunity and their entire livelihood, to which they understandably chose the latter.
Jessica and Esme specifically highlighted the fear that was instilled within Latinx
students once Trump’s policies were first being implemented. Jessica described how
undocumented students did not have the freedom to showcase their full identities, while Esme
drew attention to how Latinx students, regardless of documentation, also had to consider how the
policies would impact their friends and family members as well. Thus, not only have these
policies impacted their educational opportunities, but as Anne Marie explains, these are “very
personal and complex issues that are affecting them academically and holistically.” However, as
LatCrit scholars would posit, these examples should not be analyzed in isolation, as they are a
micro-level byproduct of a larger systemic issue.
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Valdes (1997) emphasizes how LatCrit scholarship should examine the globalized
economic exploitation of Latinx populations through a transnational approach. In doing so, the
“international dimensions of personhood” can be more comprehensively investigated by linking
Latinx people’s historical struggles with immigration with the contemporary nuances of
immigration policy and its effects (Valdes, 1997, p. 1125). Thus, I lean on Bell’s (1980) interest
convergence (one of the tenets of CRT included in my analytical framework), and Shelton’s
(2018) application of the concept through a LatCrit theoretical lens, as examples for how the
student responses in this section are situated within a historical context of colonialism and
Western imperialism. Although Trump’s policies have amplified the conditional relationship
between Latinx people and the state, what we are currently witnessing is no historical anomaly.
Rather, the interconnecting forces of racism, nationalism, and capitalism have merely
transformed to oppress yet another minoritized population.
In an effort to “deprovincialize Trump,” Rosa and Bonilla (2017) ask, “On what grounds
is this election a breach of justice versus a logical outcome of the forms of racial democracy and
racial capitalism that are fundamental to the US nation-state project?” (p. 202). In Chapter 2, I
defined racism as a mechanism for creating and maintaining a hierarchical social order through a
system of white supremacy (and processes of racialization) that has been operationalized to
achieve the goals of nationalism and racial capitalism (i.e., European dominion and national
superiority). One of the infinite ways to maintain the hierarchical social order is to ensure that
any advancement by the marginalized is determined, regulated, and institutionally controlled by
those in power. To return to Robinson’s (2000) assessment of racial capitalism, he describes how
the particularistic forces of racism and nationalism determine the parameters for who is in power
(bourgeoisie) and who is not (laboring class). Within a capitalistic structure, the only function of
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the laboring classes was to “provide the state and its privileged classes with the material and
human resources needed for their maintenance and further accumulations of power and wealth”
(Robinson, 2000, p. 21). Racism has embedded itself within this hierarchical structure as an
operative instrument to differentiate the powerful and the powerless, and through the process of
racialization, has solidified whiteness as the principal attribute of the former (Goldberg, 2002;
Saha, 2018). This has established a conditional relationship between people of color and white
people, where people of color are only afforded certain rights and privileges if they contribute to
the maintenance of white supremacy by serving as exploited modes of production.
One of these privileges—citizenship—is determined by the construct of nationalism.
Lahman, Mendoza, Rodriguez and Shwartz (2011) posit that the
construct of citizenship…is fraught with stereotypes and polarization. Citizenship is an
abstraction, an agreed-upon construction to aide persons in organizing themselves into
decision-making bodies…Being a noncitizen or undocumented does not mean one is a
nonperson. Much of the rhetoric around undocumented citizens allows for the erasure of
a person’s basic humanity. There is a marked tendency for legal immigration to be
romanticized and illegal immigration vilified. (p. 305).

Historically, Black and Jewish people have been restricted from gaining citizenship (and the
basic human rights that accompany it) and have been categorized as the racial “enemy” that must
be dominated and exploited for white capital gain (Mosse, 1978). However, in the current
historical moment of anti-immigrant sentiment, there has been a “persistent opposition and
resentment towards Mexican immigrants, especially in the southwest US… due primarily to the
consistent flow of Mexican immigrants into the country across the US–Mexico border” (Pérez
Huber et al., 2008, p. 46). This resentment has manifested in discriminatory policies, including
the “‘Zero Tolerance’ Immigration Enforcement Policy” that has been implemented by the
Trump presidency. As a result, the constructs of racism and nationalism have collaboratively
claimed more prey for which to feed into a racial capitalist structure.
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Undocumented Latinx folks have now been defined as potential enemies of the state that
must earn their citizenship within this capitalist structure through the exploitation of their labor.
Through this exploitative process, their interests (to gain citizenship) essentially “converge” with
the interests of white supremacy, but with drastically disproportionate benefits. Thus, to answer
the question posed by Rosa and Bonilla (2017), the hyper-conditional circumstances of
undocumented students are, indeed, a “logical outcome of the forms of racial democracy and
racial capitalism that are fundamental to the US nation-state project” (p. 202).
Interest convergence refers to how “the interest of Blacks in achieving racial equality will
be accommodated only when it converges with the interests of whites” (Bell, 1980, p. 523). I
previously situated this concept within the context of the Brown v. Board of Education (1954)
and President Eisenhower’s presidential rhetoric. Although Bell (1980) originally coined the
term to explain why schools were desegregated as a Cold War imperative in the 1950s, the
theoretical premise of interest convergence has been repurposed and applied to examine the
experiences of other racially minoritized groups as well. Delgado and Stenfancic (2001) broaden
Bell’s analysis, stating, “the majority group tolerates advances for racial justice only when it
suits its interest to do so” (p. 149)63. Accordingly, scholars have utilized interest convergence to
explore how it relates to the treatment of Latinx undocumented students in higher education
contexts.
For example, Shelton (2018) utilized Critical Race Theory (CRT) and LatCrit theory to
reflect on the racialized realities of 16 undocumented Latinx college students and their

63 This generalized interpretation of the concept is not an effort to discount the racially specific nuances of how
Black people endure systemic oppression. Rather, it demonstrates that Bell’s analysis can be expanded to interrogate
how the various matrices of power and privilege can impact a multitude of racially minoritized communities, as the
central premise of the concept is to critically examine how white supremacy is maintained and perpetuated in myriad
ways.
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experiences as DACA recipients. They found that the “participant stories highlighted the positive
trajectory their lives took post-DACA when they changed from working long hours in under the
table migrant farming, hotel housekeeping, and gas station attending to being able to work on
campus in student services jobs or in paid internships related to their major areas of study”
(Shelton, 2018, p. 136). Although this may appear progressive, Shelton (2018) also asserted that
“interest convergence rationale indicates that those in power will further support programs like
DACA only if it is made clear how these efforts also benefit the majoritized population”
(Shelton, 2018, p. 136, emphasis added). Thus, while incremental progress is still possible to
achieve within this process (Alemán & Alemán, 2010), Shelton (2018) argues that
there is still a critical mass of stakeholders in positions of power who do not believe in
the humanistic aspect of this topic…Therefore, interest convergence emphasizes
formation of strategic arguments on why providing increased opportunity to
undocumented college students is beneficial to broader society. These efforts include
providing tangible arguments on the benefits to dominant groups… However, there are
clear tensions in integrating interest convergence in strategies to serve undocumented
Latinx students, as this detracts from the focus on humanizing these students and
understanding their worth and potential as individuals without deservingness being tied to
a tangible benefit for majoritized populations.

Rebecca, who expressed positive feelings toward Trump’s policies, believes that
undocumented students “should be dealt with on a case-by-case basis” and “if they’re
contributing to society, then they should stay because they’re the people we want in the country
anyway. But if they’re not contributing to society and they’re on welfare, then they need to go.”
However, Neel explained why the word “contribute” had underlying racist connotations that
implicitly signaled xenophobic sentiments, stating that it has been “used as a guise where racism
is really the true intention for stopping people from coming in.” Meanwhile, U.S. citizens who
do not significantly contribute to the economy are not held to the same standard. Raquel, who
shared a story about how her family needed to use her youngest sister as protection before they
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acquired their green cards, expressed how “you were [only] considered American in the way that
you can contribute to the United States, but as soon as you did one thing wrong…it’s not for you
anymore.” This is an unequivocal example of how interest convergence has become an
invariable component of undocumented Latinx students’ racialized realities, as they are
constantly required to contend with their immigration status while navigating through their
education.
For people of color, interest convergence is unavoidably paradoxical. On one end, people
of color converge their interests with the goals of white supremacy to achieve their desired aims
(citizenship, social and economic mobility, political refuge, etc.). On the other, converging one’s
interest with the goals of white supremacy is the fundamental participatory element of racial
capitalism—it requires compromise without freedom, as the conditional circumstances force
people of color to become dependent upon white supremacy to achieve systemic progress.
Sharon and Rachel reflected upon the “cognitive dissonance” of this hyper-conditional
relationship with higher education institutions, illuminating how undocumented students are in a
constant paradox where they must work within a system that has attempted to exclude them.
While this critique of interest convergence may seem unconstructively pessimistic, it should be
interpreted as evidence to the incredible persistence, and extraordinarily profound racial
consciousness that undocumented students possess as they continue to succeed in education. To
be cognizant of the systemic factors that impact their daily lives, and yet still be unwavering in
their pursuit of higher education, is a commendable act of courage that must be acknowledged.
The student experiences that were shared in this section provide insight into the racialized
implications of three of Trump’s executive decisions: The “Muslim Ban,” the “‘Zero Tolerance’
Immigration Enforcement Policy”; and Trump’s ongoing threat to repeal Deferred Action for
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Childhood Arrivals (DACA). Each of the policies impacted students’ families, friends, and
personal lives. Students expressed how they were hesitant to practice their religion in public,
agonized about the repercussions of revealing their citizenship status, feared the presence of ICE
agents coming onto their campus, and one student was even left to question whether her
grandmother would still be alive if she was allowed to enter the country. However, some
students also expressed how they approved of Trump’s policy decisions and were pleased with
the outcomes thus far. Narratives that promoted “immigrating the right way” were contrasted
with students who shared how difficult the “right way” was for their families. Positive feelings
about Trump’s policies having “good results” were juxtaposed with stories of Muslim women
having their hijabs ripped off while being assaulted in parking lots by Trump supporters. The
diametrically opposed perspectives that were shared in this section point to the stark political
polarization that currently exists on college campuses. However, it is more than just differences
in political ideologies that cause these tensions. When campuses are politically polarized, and the
politics are inherently racialized, political polarization becomes racial polarization.
When Political Polarization Becomes Racial Polarization

“I think after Trump’s election it became highly polarized. You can’t be in the center anymore.
People are like why are you not liberal? Why are you not conservative? You’re either/or but not
and in-between.” – Breanna, CVC, 4th year, African American, she/her/hers

“…it has become such a partisan issue. Where you’re either a conservative or a liberal. I either
completely agree with you or I completely hate everything you stand for. And that leaves
absolutely no room for a constructive discussion.” – Hassan, CCU, 3rd year,
Palestinian/Muslim, he/him/his

In this section, the participants share how their racialized identities and political
ideologies intersect in compounding ways, which subsequently places them on either extreme of
the political spectrum. This process has created a racially politicized campus climate that is both
polarizing and uncompromising. To an extent, these racially politicized campus climates are
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essentially a mirror image of the America’s racial climate. The polarization of the nation has
permeated the walls of the institution, subsequently diminishing cross-racial and cross-party
interactions between students.
This section will be split into two separate subsections, both of which will primarily
explore how the Trump presidency (macrosystem) has influenced the behavioral and perceptual
dimensions of campus racial climate (microsystem). Similar to the previous section, I start by
sharing the perspectives of politically conservative students who expressed positive feelings
toward Trump’s presidency. Many of these students participated in focus group interviews that I
conducted with Republican and/or conservative student organizations on each of the four campus
sites. The politically conservative student participants reflected on how the have been silenced
and attacked for their political viewpoints, which has subsequently impacted their sense of
belonging on campus. While I was initially curious to explore how they have experienced their
respective campus racial climate throughout the Trump presidency, many of these interviews
transformed into deeply critical examinations of their definitions of what it meant to be
American. Thus, as a methodological adjustment, I also included two additional questions into
my interview protocol: (1) What does Trump’s campaign slogan, “Make America Great Again,”
mean to you? and (2) How do you define being “American”?
I found that the conservative student participants defined “American” through a
nationalistic, colorblind lens that catered toward meritocratic expectations of society.
Conversely, in the second subsection, I highlight the perspectives of politically liberal students.
They will also reflect on their definitions of what it means to be “American” and their
perceptions of Trump’s campaign slogan, “Make America Great Again.” I found that these
students contextualized their experiences through a racialized lens and acknowledged systemic
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racism as an invariable element of their everyday realities. Many of these students also explained
why they opted to avoid conversations about race and politics on campus. However, the
hesitancy to engage one another in these types of discussions becomes far more understandable
when the students reflect on how the ideological perspectives of the opposition can often signal
threatening sentiments about their safety, livelihood, and humanity.
The structure of this section is designed to illustrate the drastically oppositional
perspectives of “right-leaning” and “left-leaning” students, and provide valuable insight into why
and how campus racial climates have been significantly influenced by the Trump presidency. To
conclude this section, I elaborate on how the political polarization that currently exists on college
campuses is intricately entangled with underlying racial connotations, subsequently creating an
environment where students’ racially politicized identities are in constant contention with one
another.
Silenced and Under Attack: Conservative Student Perceptions of the Campus Racial
Climate
A research team at the Institute for Democracy and Higher Education conducted case
studies at nine colleges and universities with exceptionally high or low levels of electoral
engagement (Institute for Democracy and Higher Education, 2018). On the campuses that
appeared to serve more left-leaning students, “several conservative students complained that they
felt unable to express their opinions or that they were ‘picked on’ for their right-leaning
perspectives” (Thomas, 2019, p. 33). Some of the politically conservative participants in this
study also expressed the same sentiments. Luis, a 3rd year white and Hispanic student from
LASU, described how he felt marginalized and silenced as a conservative student the moment he
stepped onto campus:
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Well right out the gate freshmen year they have this [new student orientation]. And that
was one of the first things you get to experience as a freshman. Right out of the gate they
made it very clear that [LASU’s] atmosphere, and how they are in the political spectrum,
is far left. So, I knew like right away that I’m just gonna keep my mouth shut.

Luis believes that the institution’s political stance portrayed an environment that only welcomed
left-leaning perspectives. He later described how the orientation event covered topics including
race, gender, sexuality, and campus resources, but the moderators appeared to favor left-leaning
ideologies. However, unbeknownst to him, I happen to know the event that he was referring to
quite well.
I was the keynote speaker.
Over the past seven years, I have been traveling to various colleges and universities
across the nation delivering keynote addresses for various events that are usually centered around
racial equity and inclusion. After revisiting that particular keynote address, I found that I mainly
focused on social justice, racism on college campuses, and how to persevere through racist
encounters. The other speakers included a transgender student who spoke about their experience
coming out to their parents, two students who performed a skit about the counseling resources on
campus, and the president of the university who spoke about the importance of diversity, equity
and inclusion. I was curious to hear why Luis felt these topics were “left-leaning,” however, I
decided not to disclose my identity as his orientation speaker to avoid possibly influencing the
remainder of his interview responses. As the interview progressed, he mentioned another
moment early in his tenure at LASU that signaled to him that there was a stigma surrounding
conservatism on campus that he chose to avoid:
So very early freshman year, I actually joined the [Republican student group on campus]
just to see what it was. It was very small group. But I actually know a lot more people on
this campus who are kind of right-leaning. So, it’s very interesting to see like nobody
wants to really be associated with them. Because the group was really just a small group
of people who were really outspoken, who really did believe in everything [Trump] was
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going to say for the most part. So, I went to one meeting and dropped because I just
didn’t want to have that stigma…That’s why I just stay quiet. When they talk about
Trump’s election, they always talk about the “silent majority,” and that’s why nobody
thought he was going to get elected. They said there’s this silent majority that don’t
wanna say they voted for Trump or believe in these [right-leaning] things because it
became demonized if you did…

The fear of being “demonized” was echoed numerous times through my interviews with
conservative students. Kate, a 4th year white student from CCU, explained how she avoided
conversations with students who had opposing political views because she anticipated that they
would call her a racist:
…conservatives on this campus have gotten really used to being quiet. Because we’re
quiet in class, we’re quiet when we’re talking to our friends, like we don’t really want to
have that argument because we don’t wanna be called racist or whatever else they’re
gonna call us.

As a follow-up question, I decided to ask Kate, “Why would they call you racist?” She then
explained how one of the stigmas surrounding conservative students is that they are a monolithic
group who all share the same values and beliefs:
…when you put the label of “conservative” on people, they automatically…make a lot of
assumptions about all of your opinions. When in fact, there’s a super-broad spectrum
even in this [conservative student organization] of what people think about any number
of issues. So, when friends ask me, “Are you conservative?” I’ll say, “Well, which of my
opinions do wanna hear about?” Because not everything that every conservative believes
aligns with every other conservative, and I think we’re often lumped into this huge group,
and sometimes those values aren’t our same values.

Although Kate did not specifically address why someone would call her a racist, it
seemed as though she was well aware of the negative stigma that Luis previously described.
While this stigma may have existed prior to the Trump presidency, students described how it has
been amplified as a result of Trump’s rhetoric. Vasu, 3rd year Indian student at LASU, attributed
Trump’s rhetoric as the primary reason behind the negative stereotypes about conservativism:
I would say that a lot of the things he’s done and said are wrong or dumb things to say.
Like good people wouldn’t do that kind of thing. But those things are not representative
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of what the Republican party is about. I feel like he just ran with the Republican party,
but I don’t feel like he necessarily represents Republican ideals.

Michael, a 2nd year Mexican student from CCU, also felt that Trump’s rhetoric was not
representative of conservative values:
I don’t think he’s good for conservative ideology, I think he’s damaged the party beyond
recognition, I think he’s damaged the legacy of Regan and Nixon. But I mean, a lot of
people just automatically think that we all have MAGA hats in our backpacks hiding, and
just like that can get really annoying.

Vasu and Michael both firmly believe that Trump’s rhetoric has damaged the public
image of the Republican party. Therefore, any student who affiliates with the political party is
stigmatized through harmful generalizations that often do not align with their individual
perspectives. Consequently, this damaged public image has created an unwelcoming
environment for many conservative students on college campuses who feel that they cannot
express their whole identities in fear of being ostracized. Jacob, a 2nd year white student from
CCU, felt that the negative stigma has hindered any cross-party engagement with left-leaning
students because there is a risk involved that only affects students with right-leaning viewpoints:
…it’s the consequences and punishments that you’ll receive from saying something that
they may not like…Because if you say something that they say, “Oh, that’s racist,” and
they report it, you’re…almost always gonna be punished for that. And I think having
consequences for saying your opinion, or your idea is really gonna hurt that type of
debate that I think a lot of people would be interested in having…But from my
perspective, I wouldn’t wanna go out and just start talking to people in fear of…one
person hears something that they don’t like, then my life is over, you see it happen…all
the time…there’s no coming back from that right now, and I think that’s a horrible,
horrible thing.

Jacob feared that he could possibly be criticized if he expressed his political views on campus.
He consciously chose not to engage with people who held oppositional political perspectives
because of the “consequences and punishments” that he may receive. Rebecca felt that she had
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been silenced specifically by students of color, not only because she is conservative, but because
is a white woman as well:
As someone who identifies as a white person, I find it’s annoying when like people say I
can’t speak to something because I’m white. And it’s like, uh, no, I can speak to whatever
I want,” you don’t have to be in a certain group to speak about something…It’s like, um,
no, that’s not how it works. That’s kind of the argument that left-leading women make,
like men can’t discuss abortion, it’s like, um, no, they can. That’s not how this works.
Could you imagine if that was the other way around and people were like, “You can’t say
that because you’re Hispanic”? Shit would go down.

Rebecca felt that she had every right to express her opinion on issues related to students of color.
She argues that if the roles were switched where a Hispanic student was told to be silent about
issues related to white people, it would not be as socially acceptable. Jarred, a 3rd year white and
African American student from CCU, also refrained from cross-party interactions with left-
leaning students. He believes that left-leaning students purposely try to demean conservative
viewpoints because it makes them feel “superior”:
I think part of the issue comes from this idea of moral security. When they come to you
and call you, “Oh, you’re racist, you’re a bigot, you’re whatever,” and then you respond
to that, they don’t really care about the response, they care about making themselves feel
good about what they believe in. They don’t really care about having a conversation, it’s
all about feeling superior to you and trying to make you – you know, feel inferior in that
regard.

Jarred believed that left-leaning students are attempting to make themselves feel better by
criticizing people with conservative viewpoints. However, Peter, who identifies as a politically
liberal student, empathizes with how conservative students are criticized for expressing certain
political views, especially if it involves publicly supporting Trump:
…word spreads fast here, so nobody is going to come out and say, “I supported Trump!”
I feel like people would be quick to label you. That’s why I feel like a lot of people out
here don’t outwardly say, “I supported Trump,” or “I voted for Trump,” because then it
explodes into this whole social media thing and you’re probably going to get ousted real
quick.

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Anna Marie felt the same way, describing how she would also be hesitant to openly express
herself if she was a conservative student:
If you say something like, “Yeah, maybe Trump is kinda right,” people will attack you.
Like you’re racist, blah, blah, blah…Just the implications, the whole stigma around what
it means to be conservative, what it means to be right wing has been so negative…if I
was a conservative, I wouldn’t wanna tell anybody either. Everything just feels like an
attack.

Jessica, a 4th year Latina student at CVC, also noted that there was a geopolitical factor that
contributed to this silence given that these institutions were located in the predominantly liberal
state of California:
Especially at this institution and in California…they never directly say that they support
Trump, but they’ll say they support things that Trump does, but will never directly say
they voted for Trump. There’s kind of this secrecy behind not being able to proudly say
it. There’s this silence around that. And I think it’s because this college is supportive of
undocumented students and students of color.

The way these students phrased the experiences of Trump supporters on campus— that
they would be “ousted” and “people will attack you”— portray them as victims who have been
suppressed into silence. There is a shame that accompanies any outward support of Trump, as
they are immediately labeled as “racist,” or unsupportive of undocumented students and student
of color. There were a few students who went so far as to equate this shame with a member of
the LGBTQ+ community “coming out of the closet” for the first time. Although I do not agree
with this comparison64, the idea of “coming out” was frequently mentioned throughout the 21
focus groups, rendering it a noteworthy finding, nonetheless. For example, Singh explained how
revealing oneself as a Trump supporter would “be akin to someone coming out of the closet”:

64 I would advise anyone to avoid using this analogy, as revealing one’s preference in a political candidate is a
choice, while one’s sexual orientation is not. The courageous act of “coming out” is a life-altering decision that may
result in dangerous consequences within a heteronormative society. While the micro-level implications of being a
Trump supporter on a predominantly liberal college campus may contribute to an individual’s anxiety or sense of
belonging, it still remains that Trump was voted into office by nearly 63 million people who shared similar values
and beliefs. Thus, supporting Trump is, to an extent, in alignment with a majoritarian ideology, while being gay or
lesbian in a dangerously heteronormative society is not.
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Coming out as a Trump supporter then is difficult if you are someone on the right who
identifies with the policies a little bit more than the person themselves because you're
coming out as this identity, but people have a different sense of what this identity is, so it
would be akin to someone coming out of the closet, so we speak, as one identity and
embracing who they are, but then someone else thinking that they’re saying something
entirely different.

Eboni also felt that “shedding the shame” by displaying an outward support of the President was
analogous to LGBTQ+ people’s self-disclosure of their sexual or gender identities:
I think that if you look at the way coming out is usually used, it’s used in the context of
someone who is not heterosexual coming out of the closet to reveal who they truly are.
It's something that has a stigma to it as you were once ashamed of something and then
you come out, shedded that shame, and you’ve decided to be your true self. And so, I
think that to be a Trump supporter, especially on a college campus, there is strong
elements of shame around it. It's definitely stigmatized, in my opinion, understandably
so, but yeah, I think it definitely requires self-pride, self-awareness to be able to do that…

The intention behind the analogy was that Trump supporters were “shedding that shame” by
outwardly supporting him. The stigma surrounding Trump supporters has become so prevalent
that it is rare to find people in California who publicly express any positive sentiments toward
the President. Some conservative students also expressed how they have been marginalized by
their own peers, which was especially evident in my conversations with conservative students of
color.
“I can’t believe we got Kanye”: Perspectives of conservative students of color. The
notion that conservative students are “under attack” and that there is “no coming back from that
right now” is reminiscent of what is currently known as “cancel culture.” Romano (2019)
explains what it means to be “canceled” in the modern era of social media:
Within the past five years, the rise of “cancel culture” and the idea of canceling someone
have become polarizing topics of debate as a familiar pattern has emerged: A celebrity or
other public figure does or says something offensive. A public backlash, often fueled by
politically progressive social media, ensues. Then come the calls to cancel the person —
that is, to effectively end their career or revoke their cultural cachet, whether through
boycotts of their work or disciplinary action from an employer. (para. 2).

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In 2019, numerous celebrities had their careers “canceled” for various reasons. For example,
Kanye West was “canceled” after he claimed that 400 years of slavery was a “choice” on TMZ
Live (Clark, 2018). He was later filmed during a public meeting with President Trump in The
White House where he expressed his support of the President while wearing Trump’s “Make
America Great Again” campaign hat (Henderson, 2018). These two instances were met with an
outpour of public backlash that, at least temporarily, placed Kanye’s career in jeopardy. Though,
cancel culture has not been reserved for celebrities and public figures.
In 2017, ten students who had been recently admitted to Harvard University had their
offers rescinded after the university discovered that they were participants in a Facebook group
titled, “Harvard memes for horny bourgeois teens” (Murphy, 2017). Some of the comments
included derogatory jokes about certain racial and ethnic groups, a comment suggesting that
“abusing children was sexually arousing,” a meme referring to the “hypothetical hanging of a
Mexican child as ‘piñata time,’” and other disturbing images (Murphy, 2017). More recently,
Harvard University also rescinded an acceptance offer to Kyle Kashuv, a conservative activist
and a survivor of the mass school shooting in Parkland, Florida. Kashuv was found using racial
slurs in texts, Skype conversations, and Google documents when he was 16, some of which
included repeated uses of the “N-word” and phrases like “Kill all the fucking Jews” (Kamenetz,
2019). While some argue that cancel culture is a dangerous byproduct of “mob mentality,” others
believe that it is a way of rightfully holding people accountable for their actions (Romano, 2019).
The examples of Kanye West and Harvard University have invoked fear amongst
conservative students that expressing their views could result in being “cancelled” by other
students on their campus. As Jacob described, “one person hears something that they don’t like,
then my life is over, you see it happen…all the time.” Though, it is important to emphasize how
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both examples contained significant racial elements that triggered the public’s responses. While
the incidents involving Harvard University were clear examples of racist behavior, the backlash
against Kanye West was arguably intensified due to the perceived, implicit contradiction of a
Black man supporting Trump. Throughout the focus group interviews with conservative
students, they shared how they had been treated like “traitors” to their own racial group because
of their support of Trump. Similar to Kanye West, these students’ political affiliation was
considered a racial paradox, as supporting an alleged white supremacist president was regarded
as a contradictory decision. Though, Percy, a 2nd year Black and Guyanese student from CVC,
believes that “separating the art from the artist” is a meaningful way to approach one’s
perspective about both Kanye and Trump:
I think it’s this cancelling each other. I think if someone has Trump memorabilia or
something like that, I'm not gonna immediately discount them. All right, you’re a clear
Trump supporter. A lot of it's just immediate cancellation, which gets nothing done. I
think it's perfectly viable and I think I'm also on the same train as separating art from the
artist. I think it’s also very viable to separate the person from the politics. I think that’s
the most meaningful thing.

Percy felt that it was counterproductive to immediately shut someone down for being a Trump
supporter. By separating the “person from the politics,” he argues that more constructive cross-
party conversations can take place. However, Democrats and Republicans were perceived by
some student participants as two strict and separate alliances with underlying racial connotations.
Breanna, a 4th year Black student from CVC, described how there is an implicit divide between
Democrats and Republicans that automatically categorizes people into two separate categories
based on their race:
I feel like Democrats are usually associated with immigrants, all races that are not white,
lower class, first-generation Americans, and Republicans are rich, white, high class,
highly economic. So class, racial, can fall into those two separate categories. People
become heavily polarized to each end, so I think that leads to why people vote for a
certain party. And if you ever lean towards the other way, like if you’re an immigrant or
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someone of a different race, and you vote republican or for Trump, you have a lot of
backlash from that whole racial community. Like why are you voting for Trump if you’re
Black? So I think that’s a fear that a lot of people have in not wanting to express their
views. Because if their race, class, and identity are associated with a party already, if you
step out of those parties, you get a lot of backlash from a lot of communities.

These racially politicized assumptions are deeply ingrained in the way students talked
about left-leaning versus right-leaning students. In one particular instance at LASU, Alma, a 3rd
year Latina student, overheard a discussion between two conservative students who were
flyering for the campus Republican group:
…we overheard…these two guys and they were talking about, "Oh, I can't believe we got
Kanye…He's with us." And I was just so terrified. It's crazy how they say, "We've got
Kanye" as if he's “one of them” now.

Positioning Kanye as “one of them” indicated that these students believed in the racially
politicized alliances that Breanna described. If you strayed away from your expected alliance,
“you could get a lot of backlash from a lot of communities.” This was the case for some
conservative students of color who were criticized by their peers for not having left-leaning
viewpoints. Marc, a 3rd year Latino student from CCU, shared an incident that occurred when he
returned home from Winter Break. While he was getting a haircut at his local barbershop, a
discussion about Trump became hostile when everyone in the room discovered he was a Trump
supporter:
…he told me I’m a traitor to my people. I’m not a traitor. Obviously, I come from a
Latino background and I’m conservative…so we’re not accepted by our Hispanic
community because we don’t speak Spanish, or we don’t have all the “right views.” But
then also, we’re not accepted completely by the Anglo-American community because we
don’t have the right skin color sometimes.

This was also the case for Jack, a 3rd year Hispanic student from CCU, who described how
people do not believe he is a “real Hispanic” because of his conservative viewpoints:
When people find out what your beliefs are, and then they find out your ethnicity—so
being Hispanic—people will then try to rationalize saying, “Oh, well you’re not really
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Hispanic because a real Hispanic would believe this.” They try to…deny you of your
own background…because it just doesn’t work in their world.

Melania (who chose her own pseudonym), a white and African American student from ECSU,
described how she has been attacked by other students on campus for being a Black republican:
I was just tabling yesterday – a lot of people do get hostile with us when we talk, and I
had this dark-skinned girl get very upset with me…[because] I think with my mind and
not the color of my skin. She was super disappointed in me, and shocked…when I tell
people that I’m a Republican, they are intrigued and are very curious as to why I believe
what I do believe, and then…you get the person who gives a snarky comment like, “Oh,
but you’re Black. Why are you a Republican? Why do you support Trump if you’re
Black?” It doesn’t have anything to do with it, but they get upset because the first thing
they think of is my skin color because it doesn’t match that particular stereotype.

Marc, Jack and Melania’s personal accounts of being treated as “traitors” to their
respective racial groups highlights the implicit assumptions that are embedded within the
political parties. As illustrated in the previous section, the policies that have been suggested and
implemented by the Trump administration also contain racial implications that further
substantiate the racial and political divide that has manifested on college campuses. Conservative
students, both white and of color, expressed how they have been attacked for their political
perspectives and have been subsequently silenced as a result. There was a shared belief amongst
the participants that they have been unfairly suppressed by their politically liberal peers,
especially when sharing any public support for President Trump. However, while some of the
participants responded by electing to be more reserved in their political expression, others
described how the public backlash of conservatism that has intensified during the Trump
presidency has inspired them to adopt more right-leaning perspectives.
Pushed into conservatism. As a response to the political suppression that many
conservative students experience in social settings, some of participants expressed how the
negative stigmas and constant attacks on their identities inspired them to become more
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conservative. For example, Jacob claims that the public backlash has pushed him “further right”
on the political spectrum:
I actually think it actually pushed me more conservatively seeing the backlash that
happened. I can see the reason why people were angry, but it was to the point where it
was like it’s wrong to be conservative. And I think that kinda pushed me further right,
because that’s unfair to be able to point to somebody you don’t even know and say, “Just
because of your political beliefs, you’re a bad person because you support this president.”

This sentiment was mirrored by other conservative students in the study as well. Kate explained
how she was “treated so poorly by the left” around the time of the 2016 election that it led to a
shift in her political viewpoints:
…little known fact, I was actually a liberal in high school. And I think that around that
time, it was…the tail end of my senior year when the dialogue about Trump and all of
that started happening, and I kinda started doing my own research on topics, and kinda
like not listening to my friends anymore and wanting to think for myself, and begin
saying those things out loud. And my senior year of high school was terrible because of
it, because I made that decision to talk about my opinions. And again, someone who I
would have considered myself very moderate in the beginning, but I think that being
treated so poorly by the left, at least on my high school campus—I mean, that’s what I’ve
witnessed here, too—has pushed me even further right.

Kate expressed that the backlash against Trump supporters that she witnessed at her high school
inspired her to do her own research on political topics. This eventually led to her becoming a
Trump supporter as she began to “think for herself.” Michael, a 2nd year Mexican student from
CCU, explained that he used to be a supporter of presidential candidate Bernie Sanders while in
high school, but became conservative before the 2016 election as a response to the negative
backlash against Trump supporters:
…so back in high school…I was actually like a Bernie supporter. I was like a really
liberal person and then I started doing my own research… then I became conservative
right before the election…And I was never even like a Trumper, like a Trumpist or
anything like that, but I knew I was conservative. And then, once the backlash came after
the election, I was like, “Okay, that doesn’t make any sense,” it just got really, really
worse…So, I think that just made me stronger in my resolve, and I think that just put all
conservatives like on the defensive.

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Michael felt that the backlash against Trump supporters during the 2016 election placed
conservatives on the “defensive” since they constantly had to defend their political viewpoints.
Luis, who inadvertently commented on my keynote speech at the new student orientation at
LASU, mentioned how both his brother and father decided to support Trump because they were
tired of people attacking them for their “privilege” as white males in America. Below is an
exchange between Luis and Vasu who participated in the same focus group at LASU:
Luis: I’ll use my brother as an example… He looks a lot more Caucasian than I do. He’s
white, very pale, blonde hair, blue eyes. I’m half Spanish, which is almost white, you
know, Spain Spanish, not Mexican. And my dad is European—German, English, that
kinda thing. So, my brother definitely takes after my dad more. I feel like he has been
pushed to this point where he always gets beaten down for being white and having this
privilege. So now he’s turned that into like…“Yeah, I am. Deal with it.” He’s turned into
this hardcore Trump supporter. He wears the “Make America Great Again” hats. And I
think he’s been pushed to that point because he’s tired of hearing about his privilege…
He’s frustrated that they keep taking away from him. It pushes people to the other side.

Vasu: Nobody wants privilege thrown into their face!

Luis: I hate it! Like I feel for these minorities and it kills me that I’m on your side with
this and you’re just gonna throw it right back in my face? It sucks. Like my father, he was
pretty in the middle of the line. But due to all this, it’s pushed him even further because
he’s very clearly a white male, but he actually came from not a great place, he had to
work from a very young age to support his siblings, like he actually came from nothing
and worked his way up from the very bottom. Like he was the janitor of a company, to
now like actually doing something in a tech company in Silicon Valley. It makes him the
most upset. So now he’s very done with this and taken my brother’s mentality like,
“Screw you, I did work hard.” Sure, he might have had some privileges that might have
helped him rise, but just people taking away that validation—that you did any hard work
or came from a bad place to begin with.

Luis describes his brother and father’s experiences as being “beaten down for being white,”
while emphasizing that their accomplishments have been invalidated despite their hard work.
This pushed his father into becoming more conservative since he mostly received backlash from
left-leaning people. Luis and Vasu’s responses allude to a firm belief in meritocracy—where
success is determined based on one’s individual talent, effort, and achievement. Vasu adamantly
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expressed how he does not believe anyone enjoys it when privilege is “thrown into their face.”
Luis explained how the negative connotation surrounding “white privilege” invalidated his
father’s hard work from going from a janitor to working at a tech company in Silicon Valley.
These responses led to a broader discussion about what it means to be “American.” While the
interviews were primarily structured in a way where I could interrogate the student perceptions
of the campus racial climate, many of these interviews naturally deviated into deeply critical
examinations of nationalism and citizenship.
Conservative students’ definitions of “American”. As the conservative student
participants reflected on their racially politicized identities, I noticed that many of them
intentionally defined their experiences through a nationalistic, meritocratic, and raceless lens. For
example, Matias explained how he chooses to ignore people’s racial identities, and instead view
everyone “as Americans”:
…we see these people as just people. Like we just see them as Americans, at least that’s
the way I feel. I don’t look at him and think, “Oh, look it’s possibly Hispanic-American
guy”…I don’t think about his identity, I just think about him as a person… I mean…all
this identity stuff, I just see everybody as Americans.

Matias believes that taking a colorblind approach to his interactions allows him to view people
not as their identity, but simply “as Americans.” Rachel, a 2nd year white student from CCU, also
believes that it is better to view people by their nationality rather than their race:
I see people as American first because I think that that unites everybody, and that that’s
something we should focus on more than if you’re a Democrat or Republican, or you’re
Black or white. And that’s something that we have a common ground on.

Rachel’s rationale for her raceless approach was that treating everyone as “American first” was a
unifying way to bring people together. Jacob agreed with Matias and Rachel, expressing how he
believed that acknowledging someone’s racial identity actually promotes racial segregation:
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…what the left does is they play the identity politics game, and they put people into
categories…they’re really segregating people. They’re saying, “You are this color, you
are this identity, you go here. And if you don’t believe that, you’re out, we don’t care.”
And the thing that they don’t like about us is that we see everybody as people…sure, it’s
great that you have a background, you know, culturally, whatever, that’s great. And you
can have all that that you want, but we believe in the person. We believe in your own
personal identity, not the identity that they have bucketed you in… I hope that we can
eventually get past it to talk more about the person, and the policy, and what you feel, and
what you believe in, rather than just the color of your skin… I think being able to see
other people as American is a lot healthier.

Rachel and Jacob articulated their colorblind perspective as a way to promote a collective
national identity, which provides each individual the freedom to choose their identity
categorization rather than being bounded by a predetermined racial classification. They also
believe that it would create a healthier environment for cross-racial and cross-party interactions
to take place. However, it was interesting to find how they dismissed race as a central component
of one’s identity. Instead, they argue that perceiving another person in a racialized manner
contributes to racial divisiveness rather than racial equity. Marc, who shared the story about
being called a “traitor” by his barber, also felt like a nationalistic perspective was a more
unifying approach to cross-racial engagement:
…if you ask me what I am, I would just say, “American,” I wouldn’t even say Mexican-
American. Because…the way this political climate has been, just saying “American”
unites more people. And again, I feel like especially California, it’s such a melting pot
where you can’t deny the infusion of ideas… So, I feel like that’s a big part of the reason
why I just say “American,” rather than “Mexican.”

Marc expanded on this perspective by describing how he would be willing to sacrifice his
cultural history if it meant he could provide his future children with better opportunities in the
U.S.:
…a lot of the people who are Hispanic and obviously born in the United States, this is
typical of the first generation, they’ve never spent a day in their life living in Mexico. So,
it’s like I thank God every single day being an American, and it’s like – this may sound
pretty messed up, but it’s like I would trade my past, all that cultural stuff if it meant
having a better future for my kids. And that’s what I believe what this country’s done.
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Although this can be perceived as cultural erasure, the conservative student participants
insisted that disregarding one’s cultural heritage was not their intention. These students were
well aware that their colorblind ideologies could be interpreted in such a way; however, they
viewed their approach as an effective strategy to unify Americans into a “collective unit.” Kate
responded to the anticipated criticism:
I think some people see that as a bad thing, because they see it and they’re like, “Oh,
you’re wanting to like drop this person’s whole culture.” When in fact, that’s not the
reality of it, I don’t think. And I do think that there are things that impact certain
segments of the population, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t see ourselves as a
collective unit as Americans.

Similarly, Jack explained how perceiving people through a raceless lens was a more humanistic
approach. He clarified that the central reason he has adopted a nationalistic perspective is
because he does not want to treat people differently based on their race or ethnicity:
… just to clarify, I guess part of the reason why people might see that as being offensive
in terms of trying to say, “Oh, you’re just American,” is because they essentially might
take that as seeing like we don’t even necessarily care about your background or who you
are. But I think the point that we’re all trying to make is that it doesn’t matter when it
comes to how we treat them as a person. So, we’re not denying them their heritage
anyway, they can be as proud of it as they want to be. In fact, it’s a good thing, we
encourage people with backgrounds to come and bring their opinions. But it’s just…not
gonna affect the way that we treat them as an individual. I’m not gonna treat someone
who’s African-American different than I would Hispanic, or White, or Asian, we’re
gonna treat them as a person. I think that’s where the point gets lost sometimes in
translation, which is that it’s not that we don’t care who you are, it’s just that it won’t
matter in terms of how I engage with you.

Lawrence, a 3rd year white student from CCU, used the September 11th attacks as an example of
how the nation came together to “unite” as Americans. In the aftermath of that tragedy, he felt
that the nation was at its best:
I think the U.S. – its best moments are when everyone was like, “We’re American,” like
with 9/11…we united after that, and everyone was like, “Yeah, we’re American.” So, I
think it would beneficial if people just saw each other as Americans, rather than just like
dividing everything out.
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This colorblind approach to nationalism was also a reason why many of the conservative
student participants expressed positive feelings toward Trump. Many of them believed that
Trump shared their same ideological approach to politics, placing “America first” in everything
he does. Vasu explained how he also considered Trump’s lack of diplomacy as an appealing
factor that was missing during the Obama presidency:
The possibility I vote for him [in 2020] is very real. I haven’t ruled it out. Because when
I think about it, there are still things about him that I do like. I like a lot of the things he’s
done foreign policy-wise; I like his attitude towards it. I feel like Obama was very
diplomatic with countries and Trump has this attitude like, “Fuck you, we’re the United
States.” I kind of like that. We should have been like that sometimes with Obama. It’s not
like he’s completely incompetent as a president. There are some things I do support…So,
it is very real that I could vote for him still.

The other prominent theme amongst the conservative student participants was a firm belief in
meritocracy. There was an overall consensus that the idea of the “American Dream” was a
realistic possibility for any American, as long as they were willing to work hard and assimilate
into American culture. Luis elaborated on this meritocratic perspective of society:
I do still believe that someone can come from poverty in America—and the American
Dream was always that you could work your way from that, not to necessarily be the
CEO but like you would be able to work your way to a place where you could put a roof
over your head and your family’s head…you can work to that point where you can have
these stables—that’s what the American Dream kinda was. It was that anyone could
come from anywhere, including immigrants, and if you kinda share that drive then you
can come here…being an American is…you’re at least making some effort to assimilate.
Not getting rid of your culture entirely when you come here…but making an attempt and
an effort to learn the language if you don’t…So, I’m all for people coming who would
like to do that kinda thing. Nothing is really ever fair. Life isn’t fair…It’s undeniable
we’re starting at different positions. Probably some Black kid in Atlanta started way
farther back than I did growing up in the Central Valley where my parents made decent
money…But I’ll say again, that’s why I always fall back to the American Dream. I’m not
saying that Black kid in Atlanta can become the president or the CEO of some major
corporation, but I will say that if he takes the education system seriously…you can
eventually work to this place where you can support yourself and a family…I think it’s
fair that everyone can achieve that living standard.

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Luis believes that the “American Dream” allows for “some Black kid in Atlanta” to achieve a
basic living standard, as long as he “takes the education system seriously.” Although the United
States has no official national language, he also emphasizes that immigrants should make an
effort to assimilate and learn what I would assume is English. Though, even if the hypothetical
Black kid in Atlanta performed well in school, and the immigrant became fluent in English, it did
not mean they could “necessarily be the CEO.”
Melania also shared how being an American meant “working hard and working your way
up.” She explained how she did not believe her racial identity should influence her political
ideology, as such instances have been “overblown”:
I would like to start by saying I don’t care about skin color, honestly. It doesn’t mean a
thing to me. But, when it comes to being like an American, I believe in Judeo-Christian
values, the power of the family unit, and having a support system around that, and just
working hard and working your way up…this example is not based on the identity of
anyone in the room right now, but for example, when it comes to a desire or pressure to
have more female voices of color in an academic environment…especially when you
have mechanisms like affirmative action working in your favor, I think it’s very difficult
to persistently complain that there is – or, to persistently assert that there is an ongoing,
still-existent level of oppression that is ongoing when it seems as if almost there’s been
an overcorrection to readdressing whatever traumas or oppression has taken place in the
past…if everyone looks at all of the data to whatever…whether it’s affirmative action,
whether it’s income inequality, and things like that – if you look…It seems as if any
criticisms might be overblown.

Melania claims that systemic racism is no longer a prevalent issue since policies like affirmative
action have “overcorrected” for the historical oppression of Black women in education. In her
assessment, to “persistently complain” that systemic racism is still an issue would be
“overblown,” since everyone now has an equal opportunity to succeed.
The perspectives shared by these students, in their minds, are well-intentioned. They
understood that colorblindness could be perceived as cultural erasure, but they insisted that their
perspectives were more unifying than divisive. They each firmly believed in the ideal of
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meritocracy, arguing that America was a place where everyone had an equal opportunity
regardless of their race. However, during a focus group interview at El Camino State University,
the leader of the campus Republican group took a more explicit approach to his definition of
American.
To recruit students for this study, I created an online sign-up sheet that I emailed to over
100 student organizations from each of the four campus sites. The students were asked to choose
a time slot that was most convenient for their schedule, and provide me with their name, phone
number, and email for follow-up communication. When I sent out the emails prior to my visit to
ECSU, I noticed that one person signed up for an empty time slot. I had predetermined that
methods for this study would entail focus group interviews rather than one-on-one interviews.
Thus, whenever a student signed up for a vacant time slot, I sent an email or text message to the
person to ask if they would be willing to participate in another focus group with more people.
Out of the 21 focus group interviews, I never came across any instances where a student was not
able to reschedule. However, for this particular person, I never received a response.
Though, immediately after seeing his name, I wondered why it sounded vaguely familiar.
Out of curiosity, I typed his name into Google and quickly realized why it was so recognizable—
he was a well-known white supremacist from the Southern California area that was recently
outed as a participant in a white nationalist rally earlier in the year. Multiple websites released
articles that included pictures of the rally, as well as descriptions of who some of the participants
were. This particular person was a local janitor at a nearby middle school. Someone had
discovered and taken screenshots of an online forum that he participated in where he bragged
about slipping white nationalist fliers into students’ desks and lockers during his night shifts. I
remembered that I previously read one of the articles that mentioned this person a few months
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before my visit to ECSU. However, since he was not a student at the university, I texted him to
inform him that he did not fit the criteria to participate in the study. After sending two additional
text messages to the individual that were left without a reply, I carried on with the remainder of
my interview schedule assuming he was not going to show up.
One of my focus group interviews at ECSU included Kyle, a 4th year white student and
leader of the campus Republican group; Melania, a 2nd year white and African American student
who previously mentioned how her skin color “doesn’t mean a thing to [her]”; and two Black
women, Simone (5th year) and Janay (3rd year), who were both members of the executive board
for the Black Student Union at the university. The political and racial composition of this focus
group was not a conscious decision, as my recruitment process allowed for students to sign up
for any time slot of their choice. Though, the stark differences between the participants
inevitably produced a noticeable tension within the room that I had to carefully navigate. I asked
the participants to remain cognizant about addressing the interview question rather than a
specific individual in the room. Despite a few subtle remarks, the 60-minute interview
progressed without any personal attacks directed at one another. However, the atmosphere of the
room quickly shifted around the 45-minute mark.
While Kyle was responding to a question about what it meant to him to be American, the
door to the room opened behind me. When I turned around, I immediately identified the person
in the doorway. It was the white supremacist from the online articles. Since the interview was
coming to a close, I told him to have a seat in the back of the room while we finished. However,
as he walked to the back of the room, he gave a slight nod to Kyle, to which Kyle reciprocated. I
interpreted this subtle interaction as an indication that they already knew one another. Before that
moment, Kyle’s responses were noticeably “right-leaning,” but nothing was drastically different
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than my other interviews with conservative students. Though, after the white supremacist entered
the room, it appeared as though Kyle felt more courageous to express his honest perspectives. He
continued to answer the interview question, but with a strikingly different tone:
I think the Founding Fathers had a very clear view of what they consider to be American.
If you look at the Naturalization Act of 1790…they stated very plainly what the heritage
of this country is and what the majority makeup of it should remain. I would refer to the
Founding Fathers in that regard…The United States is explicitly descended from
European exploration. It is explicitly descended from Anglo-Saxon exploration. For the
most part, that’s what the Founding Fathers – that’s the stock that they came
from…America’s identity is not subjective, and it’s not for sale.

Kyle believes that the history of colonialism in America was “explicitly descended from
European exploration.” He argues that the Founding Fathers were clear about maintaining a
white majority in America, using the Naturalization Act of 1790 as a prime example. Kyle
continued to explain how any attack on Donald Trump is a personal attack on him as well:
I’m really not as interested in policy anymore. I don’t feel as if policy on a nationwide
scale really affects me in any meaningful way. It is all about the invisible and unspoken
understandings, hierarchies, identities at play. As far as Trump himself goes, as a
figurehead for my identity, they’re so intimately intertwined that…I will always defend
those figures and those apexes of power. Donald Trump, to me, represents so much for
the resurgence of the white working class and the white middle class in terms of the
control of this country that has been stolen from them aggressively, culturally,
economically, politically. They’re gleefully being disenfranchised across the board. So,
for Donald Trump to falter in any way is unacceptable, and on that platform, I will
always defend it intimately and aggressively because…any attack on Donald Trump is an
attack on my identity, and I see that explicitly. It is in the coded, subtle language used to
attack the President. Underneath it is hidden and couched contempt for white America. If
you interview or survey most white, working-class Americans, they feel identical. It
comes from the anxiety of being replaced in the United States. It comes from the prospect
of…non-Hispanic, white Americans becoming a minority…Within 100 years, white
Americans will be 10% of the population of the United States. The anxiety that is created
by that, the fact that a country like the United States, which I consider to be founded on
Anglo-Saxon principles, for it to be changed so massively…I don’t see any possibility for
any cooperation, ever. It really is a strict divide.

Kyle describes how his own identity is “intimately intertwined” with President Trump. Trump
validates his feelings that white people are being “replaced” in the United States, which has
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caused him anxiety. He believes that any working-class white American would feel the same
way, especially since this country was “founded on Anglo-Saxon principles.” Kyle’s perspective
was not shared so explicitly by the other conservative student participants. While Kyle held very
firm beliefs about the foundations of America, and the maintenance of white superiority, the
other conservative students were more open to the idea of equal opportunity amongst all racial
groups, “unifying” ideals of colorblind nationalism, and assimilation without cultural erasure.
Though, I would argue that all of the conservative student participants who were quoted share a
common ideology that is predicated upon white supremacist principles.
For example, contrary to what Breanna alluded to in this section, that “Democrats are
usually associated with immigrants, all races that are not white, lower class, first-generation
Americans, and Republicans are rich, white, high class, highly economic,” the demographics of
the conservative student participants in this study did not align with this generalization. They
comprised of immigrants from Columbia and Mexico, lower and middle-class white people, and
a range of other identity groups as well. This confirms what many of the conservative students
emphasized about not being a monolithic group. However, while the race, gender, and class
composition of these students may be diverse, their responses tacitly revealed a shared ideology
in regard to citizenship, nationality, meritocracy, and colorblindness. Although Kyle’s
perspective was more clearly aligned with white nationalist ideals, I believe the other participants
may have unknowingly subscribed to the same beliefs in implicit ways.
Subscriptions to Whiteness: Racist Nativism, Hegemonic Whiteness, White Fragility, and
Colorblind Nationalism
To explore this argument further, I (1) explored how some of the conservative student
responses reflected racist nativism (and internalized racist nativism) in how they conceptualize
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their racially politicized identities (Pérez Huber, Lopez, Malagon, Velez & Solórzano, 2008), (2)
expanded upon Cabrera’s (2018) “hegemonic Whiteness” to contextualize the responses from
conservative students of color, (3) demonstrated how white fragility manifested in the way that
some students responded to their white privilege, and (4) interrogated how conservative students
committed to a colorblind nationalism through “aversively racist” (DiAngelo, 2018)
justifications and a “nonrecognition of race” (Gotanda, 1991).
In the previous section, I briefly highlighted the ways that LatCrit can provide the tools to
analyze the intersectional elements of Latinx undocumented student experiences. This more
focused derivative of CRT has been narrowed even further by Pérez Huber et al. (2008), who
created a racist nativist framework65 that is specifically aimed at interrogating the intersections
of racism and nativism. Pérez Huber et al. (2008) define nativism as “the practice of assigning
values to real or imagined differences, in order to justify the superiority of the native, to the
benefit of the native and at the expense of the non-native, thereby defending the native’s right to
dominance” (p. 42). However, through the genocide and colonialization of Indigenous people,
they explain how the term “native” has since been co-opted to mean “white.” Saito (1997)
elaborates on this notion, stating:
It is often noted that in the United States, "American" connotes Anglo-European heritage,
Christian or Western religious traditions, and belief in representative democracy and
market-oriented capitalism. These perceptions are rooted in our history of colonialism.
Unlike most postcolonial societies where indigenous peoples threw off colonial rule and
formed independent nation states, settlers in what became the United States eliminated
most of the indigenous peoples, brought in other peoples as laborers, and fought a
successful war for national independence. (Saito, 1997, p. 268).

65 Although the framework was derived from LatCrit, it is not limited to an exclusive examination of Latinx people.
The malleability of the framework allows for critical exploration into the conditions of other minoritized racial
groups as well.
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Thus, nativism is “rooted in notions of white supremacy that deemed Anglo-Saxons to be native
to the United States,” which resulted in “Whiteness…[becoming] the most important
requirement for profiting from the privilege of being native to US soil” (Pérez Huber et al., 2008,
p. 42).
Racist nativism, then, is a conceptual frame that “challenges the dominant discourse that
fails to acknowledge white supremacy as the disease that fuels the current passions surrounding
immigration” (Pérez Huber et al., 2008, p. 48). In other words, it is a racialized interpretation of
nativism that centers white supremacy as the determining factor for nationalistic classification.
Pérez Huber et al. (2008) define racist nativism as “the assigning of values to real or imagined
differences, in order to justify the superiority of the native, who is to be perceived white, over
that of the non-native, who is perceived to be People and Immigrants of Color, and thereby
defend the right of whites, or the natives, to dominance” (Pérez Huber et al., 2008, p. 43,
emphasis added). These perceptions are embedded within a deeply complex history of the U.S.
systemically defining what it means to be American through discriminatory policies and
exclusionary immigration law.
Saito (1997) and Pérez Huber (2010) elaborate on how U.S. immigration law has been
used as a tool to legally exclude and marginalize immigrants and people of color, pointing to the
Naturalization Act of 1790, the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, Mexican repatriation and
deportation programs in the 1930s, and the internment of people of Japanese ancestry in the
1940s as examples of when the government specifically targeted non-white people through a
racist nativist legal rationale. For example, the Civil Rights Act of 1866 states that “all
persons…shall have the same right…to full and equal benefit of all laws and proceedings for the
security of persons and property, as is enjoyed by white citizens” (Civil Rights Act of 1866, p.
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27, emphasis added). This situates white people as the rightful forebearers of national
citizenship, while all other racial groups are framed as foreigners who must be granted
permission by the state.
The primary reason for providing this brief description of racist nativism is to
demonstrate how some of the student participants subscribed to racist nativist principles in the
way they conceptualize their racially politicized identities. Both Saito (1997) and Pérez Huber et
al. (2008) cite the Naturalization Act of 1790 as one of many examples where racist nativism
was embedded within immigration policy. Coincidentally, Kyle referred to the Naturalization
Act of 1790 as a way to rationalize why he believed America belonged to “Anglo-Saxon”
descendants. In reference to the legislation, he stated, “I think the Founding Fathers had a very
clear view of what they consider to be American… they stated very plainly what the heritage of
this country is and what the majority makeup of it should remain.” In his perspective, the “clear
view” of what should be considered American is to be white, as the U.S. “explicitly descended
from Anglo-Saxon exploration.” As Kyle would attest, the Naturalization Act of 1790 did, in
fact, state “That any alien, being a free white person, who shall have resided within the limits and
under the jurisdiction of the United States for the term of two years, may be admitted to become
a citizen thereof” (Naturalization Act of 1790). The manufacturers of the legislation “aspired to
create a distinct American nationality,” which in 1790, did not include “indentured servants,
slaves, and most women” (Imai, 2013, para. 1). Thus, when Kyle proceeded to express his
anxiety of “being replaced in the United States,” the word “replaced” signaled an implicit belief
that white people are “natives” to the U.S., which directly aligns with the central premise of
racist nativism.
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While Kyle’s subscription to racist nativist ideals is more explicitly evident, other
students expressed similar sentiments more implicitly. For example, in an earlier section,
Rebecca explained why she was “super-against illegal immigration” because “illegal immigrants
get to come in…and get all the same things that the legal immigrants do.” What is evident in this
response is her belief that, as a white woman who was born in the U.S., she deserves to have
access to the rights and privileges that accompany citizenship. Meanwhile, those who wish to
gain the same privileges by immigrating to the U.S. must do so through an arduous process that
she never had to endure.
Similarly, when Luis was expressing his firm belief in meritocracy, he stated that
“anyone could come from anywhere, including immigrants, and if you kinda share that drive
then you can come here…being an American is…you’re at least making some effort to
assimilate. Not getting rid of your culture entirely when you come here…but making an attempt
and an effort to learn the language.” As I mentioned previously, America has no official national
language. However, Luis believes that to be American requires “some effort to assimilate” and
“an effort to learn the language.” According to Pérez Huber et al.’s (2008) racist nativist
framework, this can be translated as “some effort to emulate whiteness” and “an effort to learn
the language of the ‘native’ white people.” My interpretation of this response is similar to a
question posed by Saito (1997):
I suggest that we look at characteristics often identified with being "foreign"—national
origin or ancestry, culture, ethnicity, language, religion, and even citizenship—and ask,
would this particular discrimination exist but for the fact that it is applied to a group
which is "raced" as non-white? (p. 336).

In the previous section, I included a statement from President Trump where he labeled African
countries, “shitholes,” while simultaneously advocating for more European and Asian
immigrants who could “contribute” to the economy (Kendi, 2019). Luis’ statements may have
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alluded to this same perspective. For example, would Luis feel the same way about immigrants
from France, Switzerland, Finland, Germany, or any other European country? Or is the “effort to
assimilate” only required by the non-white people who are crossing the U.S.-Mexico border just
a five-hour drive south from where he resides? The answers to these questions may reveal an
internalized subscription to racist nativism that, while not an explicit advocation of white
nationalism, broadly aligns with white supremacist ideologies.
As Pérez Huber (2010) asserts, “Beliefs in white superiority and historical amnesia have
erased the histories of the Indigenous communities that occupied the U.S. prior to the first white
European settlers. Whites have been historically and legally deemed the native ‘founding fathers’
of the U.S.” (p. 81). One of the CRT tenets included in my analytical framework,
“colorblindness66,” demands a critique of majoritarian accounts of history that exclude accurate
depictions of the histories of people of color (Harper et al., 2009). Kyle, Luis, and Rebecca
conform to this “historical amnesia” embedded within majoritarian narratives of history in the
way they articulated their national identities. Kyle phrased the colonial history of the United
States as “Anglo-Saxon exploration,” rather than the cultural genocide, indoctrination,
subordination, and generational oppression of Indigenous people (Adams, 1988; Noriega, 1992;
Carney, 1999; Guillory & Ward, 2008; Rogers, 2012; Wilder, 2013; Bhambra, Gebrial, &
Nisancioglu, 2018). Rebecca believes that she deserves the privileges of citizenship, but with no
regard for how she obtained her citizenship as a result of discriminatory immigration policies
that were predicated upon maintaining white supremacy (Saito, 1997; Pérez Huber et al., 2008;
Pérez Huber, 2010). Luis feels as though assimilation should be a prerequisite for citizenship, but
implicitly suggested that one must strive to be in proximity to whiteness if they wish to be

66 An amalgamation of Harper et al.’s (2009) “revisionist history” and Bonilla-Silva’s (2014) “colorblindness.”
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accepted. However, while Kyle, Luis, and Rebecca, who identify as white, share an ideology that
promotes the perpetuation of their own racial group’s superiority, other conservative students,
who are not white, expressed similar views.
Cabrera’s (2018) concept of “hegemonic Whiteness,” which frames racism as
“probabilistic as opposed to deterministic,” was confirmed in the way conservative students of
color deliberately conceptualized their racially politicized identities (p. 225). “Hegemonic
Whiteness” is a paradigmatic approach which simultaneously acknowledges the unique
experiential knowledge of people of color but does not assume that every person of color has the
same levels of racial awareness and consciousness. Thus, “hegemonic Whiteness within CRT
pushes on the frequently accepted notion that, due to power differentials, People of Color cannot
be racist” (Cabrera, 2018, p. 226). In conjunction with “hegemonic Whiteness,” Pérez Huber
(2010) described how people of color can internalize racist beliefs about their own racial group
as well. As a supplementary element of racist nativism, Pérez Huber (2010) coined the term
internalized racist nativism to refer to
…the conscious or unconscious acceptance of a racist nativist hierarchy, where perceived
white superiority ascribes whites as native to the U.S. Based on real or imagined
differences, People and Immigrants of Color are ascribed as non-native, justifying
exclusionary racist nativist practices and white dominance. It is the internalization of
white dominance, and thus, white supremacy that can potentially result in negative self,
racial group and immigrant group perceptions. (p. 91).

These “negative self, racial group and immigrant group perceptions” were noticeably
evident in the responses from the conservative students of color. For example, Marc, who
identifies as Latino, explained how he would “trade [his] past, all that cultural stuff, if it meant
having a better future for [his] kids.” Similarly, Michael, who immigrated from Mexico as a
child, believes that people who illegally immigrate to the U.S. are “bad apples” who generate a
negative reputation for people like him, who immigrated legally. He stated, “we don’t like illegal
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immigration because it’s like the bad apple…it just kinda makes everyone look bad…and say all
Mexicans are this way.” Matias, who is an immigrant from Columbia, also believed that people
who immigrated illegally were “cheating everybody” who went through the legal immigration
process. Matias also shared how his military experience in Syria made him hesitant about “a
bunch of [Syrian refugees] just coming over here unchecked.”
The responses by these students alluded to an internalized racist nativism that, while not
as explicit, aligned with Kyle, Rebecca, and Luis’ conceptualizations of what it means to be an
American. Marc was willing to sacrifice his Mexican cultural heritage without realizing he was
surrendering himself to white supremacy. Michael believed he was a “good apple” without
realizing he was hanging from the same tree as the “bad apples” who yearn for the same
freedoms. Matias believed people who immigrated illegally were “cheating,” without
understanding how discriminatory immigration policies throughout history have
disproportionately targeted people from his home country67. He also believed that Syrian
refugees should not immigrate “unchecked,” expressing the same sentiments as Trump that the
thousands of people fleeing from war-torn Syria “could be ISIS” or a “200,000-man army” that
could “make the Trojan horse look like peanuts” (Johnson, 2015; Johnson & Hauslohner, 2017).
It appeared as though they were hypnotized by their proximity to whiteness. Their
responses personified how the “counter-storytelling” tenet of CRT is not always “counter,”

67 After the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996 (IIRIRA) was passed by the
Clinton administration, thousands of Colombian immigrants residing in the U.S. were deported back to Colombia
(Wallace, 2016). Wallace (2016) argues that “IIRIRA targets individuals we see as disposable: young Black and
brown immigrants who have survived poverty, war, drug addiction, gang violence, police violence, sexual violence,
only to be cast out of their adoptive home when they most needed help. The notion that empathy and second chances
are privileges afforded only to those of us lucky enough to hold U.S. citizenship—that we would have made the
right choice had we been there—pushes us to assign blame rather than admit there is a problem” (para. 15). The
IIRIRA led to the deportation of thousands of other immigrants from Haiti, Cuba, Colombia, Nigeria, Somalia, Iraq,
Pakistan, Myanmar, Micronesia, Tonga, Fiji, the Philippines, Peru, Sudan, Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos as well
(Wallace, 2016).
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rather, students of color oftentimes harvest so much internalized racism throughout their lifetime
that they perpetuate the majoritarian narrative without noticing the contradictions. As Cabrera’s
(2018) “hegemonic Whiteness” surmises, being a person of color does not grant you an inherent
racial consciousness, nor does it grant you a racially egalitarian level of empathy. The power of
racism is that it can convince you to tie a brick to your feet underwater and blame the waves for
your drowning.
According to some of the conservative student participants, my critiques of their racist
nativist perspectives of citizenship may be perceived as another reason for them to shift their
political ideologies “further right.” However, in the case of Luis’ family members, these types of
critiques were the reason for them to shift their ideologies “further white.” Luis described how
his brother and father became “hardcore Trump supporters” because they were “beaten down for
being white and having this privilege.” This defensive response to being confronted for their
privilege is what DiAngelo (2018) calls white fragility. White fragility occurs when
The smallest amount of racial stress is intolerable—the mere suggestion that being white
has meaning often triggers a range of defensive responses. These include emotions such
as anger, fear, and guilt behaviors such as argumentation, silence, and withdrawal from
the stress-inducing situation. These responses work to reinstate white equilibrium as they
repel the challenge, return our racial comfort, and maintain our dominance within the
racial hierarchy…Though white fragility is triggered by discomfort and anxiety, it is born
of superiority and entitlement. (DiAngelo, 2018, p. 2).

One of the main themes from the conservative student responses was that they had been
“silenced” by their peers for having oppositional political views, thus leading them to believe in
more conservative perspectives. Jacob, Jarred, Rebecca, and Kate each described situations
where they avoided discussions about politics and race because they anticipated they would be
called a racist. However, these students were more focused on avoiding being called a racist than
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existentially questioning why their views may be perceived as racist in the first place. López
(2014) encapsulates this response, asserting that
Claims to have been personally attacked take productive conversations about current
racial patterns and collapse them into stultifying ventilation of wounded feelings. It shifts
attention from racial dynamics that hurt everyone, and focuses our eyes instead on the
bruised egos of those whites who feel themselves personally targeted whenever the
conversation turns to race…Histrionic distress about supposedly having been called a
racist impedes recognizing the truth about race’s continued harmful power. (p. 137).

An example of this is when Rebecca expressed her frustration about how students have
told her that she cannot speak on certain issues affecting people of color because she is a white
woman. She vehemently disagreed in this idea, stating, “I can speak to whatever I want…you
don’t have to be in a certain group to speak about something.” DiAngelo would argue that this
response was “born of superiority and entitlement” (DiAngelo, 2018, p. 2), while López would
add that Rebecca’s “bruised ego” was causing her to feel personally targeted rather than allowing
her to recognize “the truth about race’s continued harmful power” (López, 2014, p. 137).
Rebecca was disturbed that she had been denied a credible and influential role in discussions
with people of color and, as a response, she was “reinstat[ing] white equilibrium” by arguing that
her opinion deserved equal authority (DiAngelo, 2018, p. 2). Though, taking into consideration
the “emboldening” nature of Trump’s rhetoric that I discussed at the beginning of this chapter, it
is understandable how these responses can become more common within this sociopolitical
context.
In addition to the prevalence of racist nativism, internalized racist nativism, hegemonic
Whiteness, and white fragility, there was also a shared devotion to a colorblind interpretation of
nationalism. Jack, Jacob, Rachel, and Matias firmly believed that a colorblind approach to
nationalism was a unifying way to perceive the world. For example, Jack explained how “[race]
doesn’t matter when it comes to how we treat them as a person.” Jacob hopes that “we can
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eventually get past it to talk more about the person, and the policy, and what you feel, and what
you believe in, rather than just the color of your skin” and that a significant focus on race is
“really segregating people.” Rachel believes that viewing everybody “as American first” rather
than as “Black or white” would “unite everybody.” Matias added that he just sees “everybody as
Americans.” While these statements appeared to be well-intentioned, researchers have exposed
how there are underlying racist connotations of colorblind ideologies.
Tatum (2017) explains how an “emphasis on sameness is a way of denying or rejecting
the idea of White racial superiority. In theory, this sounds good, but it overlooks the fact that
people of color are not having the same experiences as White people” (p. 226). Similar to how
Jacob described how focusing on race is “really segregating people,” Tatum (2017) highlights
how “Another feature of color-blind racial ideology is the belief that talking about race makes
things worse—that it promotes racism and/or racist is in and of itself” (p. 227). However, in
reality, “Color-blind ideology makes it difficult for us to address these unconscious beliefs.
While the idea of color blindness may have started out as a well-intentioned strategy for
interrupting racism, in practice it has served to deny the reality of racism and thus hold it in
place” (DiAngelo, 2018, p. 42). Gotanda (1991) refers to this social practice as “nonrecognition
of race.” They explain that
before a private person or a government agent can decide “not to consider race,” he must
first recognize it. In other words, we could say that one “noticed race but did not consider
it.” Of course, this two-step process arises only when the initial recognition of race takes
place, through visual identification or some other form of racial classification. This two-
part process—recognition of racial affiliation followed by the deliberate suppression of
racial considerations—will be called “nonrecognitions.” (Gotanda, 1991, p. 6).

Although the student participants’ intentions were to avoid cultural erasure, their justifications
for upholding colorblind interpretations of nationalism were an unintentional admission to
participating in a “nonrecognition of race” (Gotanda, 1991). Gotanda (1991) emphasizes the
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impossibility of not acknowledging race since one must notice race to ignore it. However, the
“deliberate suppression of racial considerations” can be interpreted as a form of racism,
regardless of intent (Gotanda, 1991, p. 6). DiAngelo (2018) has labeled this form of
colorblindness as “aversive racism,” which is
a manifestation of racism that well-intentioned people who see themselves as educated
and progressive are more likely to exhibit…Aversive racism is a subtle but insidious
form, as aversive racists enact racism in ways that allow them to maintain a positive self-
image (e.g., “I have lots of friends of color; “I judge people by the content of their
character, not the color of their skin”).” (p. 43).

As personified by Jack, Jacob, Rachel, and Matias’ responses, “many whites see the
naming of white racial power as divisive. For them the problem is not the power inequity itself;
the problem is naming the power inequity. This naming breaks the pretense of unity and exposes
the reality of racial division” (DiAngelo, 2018, p. 86). These well-intentioned students were
adamant about emphasizing how their colorblind perspectives were not an effort to enable
cultural erasure, but rather a way to “unify” everyone “as Americans.” It could be argued that
their hesitancy to acknowledge race was derived from a fear that their “pretense of unity” would
be invalidated and destroyed.
What is more, building from the extensive analyses of racism and nationalism as
presented by Mosse (1995), Saito (1997), Pérez Huber et al. (2008), and Robinson (2000), it has
been comprehensively theorized that nationalism and racism are inextricably linked. Thus, to an
extent, colorblind nationalism is colorblind racism. While this does not mean that these students
are colorblind racists, it could be argued that their “unifying” approach to nationalism has a
paradoxical effect, rendering them agents of white supremacy who are just as blind to their
contradictions as they are to color.
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Adjusting my methods seemed to have a significant influence on how these students
addressed the topic of race. Asking the question, “What does it mean to be an American?”
appeared to release them from some sort of internal entrapment. Any other question from my
interview protocol that specifically mentioned race was met with steadfast resistance, while any
probing about their devotion to colorblind ideologies was welcomed with self-affirming nods.
Their interpretations of nationalism, whether they realized it or not, were entirely centered upon
race. Although it was well-intentioned, their willingness to discredit race as a central component
of one’s identity cannot be perceived as anything less than an attempt to ignore the systemic
inequalities of racism that have established their place within the epicenter of our lives. To avoid
race—and to subsequently attempt to remove themselves from the accountability of addressing
their aversively racist beliefs—was a privilege not lost in this exchange. To them, it was merely a
faceless loyalty to their fellow countryman. However, given that their ideologies were predicated
upon this (color)blind patriotism, it allows space for the definition of “American” to become
synonymous with “white” without quarrel.
Their commitment to nationalism—a white nationalism to be specific—capitalizes upon
the politics of erasure to fit a xenophobic narrative of the “Other.” The “Other” is not a white
person who does not significantly contribute to society, as many white people in this country
could be categorized as such. Rather, the “Other” is reserved for the undocumented students who
must prove their economic worth in order to be accepted as human. The “Other” is reserved for
all of the Syrian refugees who are “coming over here unchecked.” The “Other” are the bad
apples, the Trojan horse army in disguise, the cheaters of the immigration process, the persistent
complainers, and the Black kid in Atlanta. The “Other” is reserved for those who do not have the
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privilege of holding colorblind ideologies, because enduring the endless cruelties of racism is the
only reality they have ever known.
In the next subsection, I explore the other side of the polarizing, racially politicized
campus climate of the four study sites by presenting some of the noteworthy findings from my
focus group interviews with politically liberal students. I then draw comparisons between the two
subsections to help explain why the college campuses have become such discordant
environments during the Trump presidency.
“A Space That Wasn’t Built for Me”: Politically Liberal Student Perceptions of the
Campus Racial Climate
The overall consensus derived from my interviews with conservative students was that
they felt silenced and attacked for their political views. However, many of the politically liberal
students that I interviewed avoided discussions about race and politics with conservative students
and Trump supporters because they often resulted in traumatizing experiences. While it may be
perceived that they do not want to engage in these discussions for malevolent reasons, many of
them expressed how it was a defense mechanism to protect their mental health and well-being.
Veronica, a 2nd year Black student from CVC, justified why she believed “self-segregating”
should not be seen as an issue:
…when people start talking about affinity groups and self-segregation and things like
that…on the outside, it may seem really bad, but it’s really doing wonders for my mental
health, and how I feel like I can carry myself around the school. And so, I don’t really see
a problem with it because I just feel like if I were to get in a debate or disagreement,
somebody’s feelings are gonna be hurt.

Veronica emphasized how her mental health has drastically improved by maintaining
relationships with people of her own race. It allows her to avoid confrontation with students who
hold opposing views, which she believes would result in someone being harmed in the verbal
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exchange. Monica, a 4th year Chinese American student from CVC, explained why she was also
hesitant to engage in any social interactions with Trump supporters to protect her mental health:
…we won’t be comfortable interacting with those people who start off in college at that
basis point with racist ideologies. And they’ll do the same, where they gravitate towards
those other people who are Trump supporters or like believe in certain things. So, it’s
really hard to break those…barriers because…for my own mental health sake…I’m not
really equipped personally to discuss with these people who I know want me to get out of
this country.

Monica shared how some incoming students do not have adequate levels of racial literacy when
they arrive in college and often gravitate toward other people who share prejudicial views. She
expressed how difficult it would be to have a conversation with someone who would advocate
for her to be deported, which is a cross-party interactional “barrier” that she was not willing to
break for the sake of maintaining her mental health. Sharon, a 4th year African American student
from CVC, explained how discussions about politics and race, especially during the current
sociohistorical era, have real-life implications that are not merely “theoretical”:
I think people who are in support of Trump by – having students like us who will say that
we don’t want to associate, to them it’s a position of – “Why don’t you want to engage in
dialogue?” But for us, it is very much like this is our identity and my life. Not something
– not theoretical.

The previous section highlighted the implicit and explicit racial implications of Trump’s
executive decision-making that held deleterious outcomes for students of color. Taking into
account the many examples shared by students who were personally affected, Sharon and
Monica emphasize that discussions with students who support Trump’s policies are not simply
academic exercise. Rather, these discussions often touch upon political issues that possess deeply
personal consequences. For example, if an undocumented student was discussing immigration
with a Trump supporter who held anti-immigrant views, the undocumented student would
essentially be forced to reconcile with the fact that the person they are speaking to may want
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them and their family deported. Thus, the discussion is no ordinary conversation about political
views; instead, it becomes a debate about one’s rights and humanity. Eboni explained that it was
a privilege to be able to discuss race and politics without fear of the consequences:
… it’s from a place of privilege that you can talk about different opinions and not worry
about how it affects you and people you know, but I think that it's important to consider
that his policies have very real implications for very real people, and it's a privilege to be
able to talk about them and discuss them without having any implications on your
life…That’s a privilege I don’t have.

Eboni alluded to the material consequences that accompany Trump’s immigration policies,
which can only be ignored by those who are not personally affected. Janay elaborated on what it
means to have “implications on your life”:
It’s hard to have conversations…when my humanity is attacked, when the people that I
support’s humanity is attacked. I can’t put myself in that situation…because it is my
reality. It is my brothers’ and sisters’ reality. It is reality. There is nothing you can say to
me to dehumanize a human that I can have a conversation about. That’s just not gonna
happen.

Janay expressed that she would not entertain any political conversation that threatened her
humanity. Although for some people these conversations may seem like a mere exchange of
opinion, Janay emphasized how it was her “brothers’ and sisters’ reality” that rendered these
exchanges personally harmful.
When students of color have personal connections to what takes place in the broader
sociopolitical environment, these discussions can understandably be received as threatening and
intrusive. In contrast, a student who is able to engage in these interactions through a purely
objective stance possesses a level of privilege that must be acknowledged. Neel, a 4th year Indian
student from LASU, explains how many students on his campus do not acknowledge their
privilege of being able to ignore the institutional ramifications of racism:
I’m a strong believer that institutional racism exists in this country, and I strongly believe
that the current system not only makes minorities start further back, but actually in many
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ways targets them, and actively prevents them from being able to move up to positions of
power of any kind. One of my least favorite things about the culture of this country—and
you even see it on this campus—like we’re all in very privileged positions, but one of the
things that saddens me most is just the entitlement that some people possess in this
country where they think that because they’re wealthy or because they’re successful, that
means I worked harder than everyone else, and anyone who didn’t is lazy, less smart than
me, worked less hard than me. And surprisingly you meet a lot of people around here
who believe that.

Neel believes that some students at LASU do not recognize their privilege positions, which
allows them to feel entitled to meritocratic perspectives of success. Rather than acknowledging
their privilege, some students believe that they have worked harder than everyone else to achieve
their goals. Neel recognizes how these perspectives ignore the ways in which institutional racism
inhibits the lives of people of color, but he feels that other students have labeled people of color
“lazy” and “less smart.”
To acknowledge one’s privilege requires a shift in perspective and a willingness to be
educated. However, if the faculty and staff on college and university campuses are not
facilitating this education, the burden may fall on students of color. Simone explained how
discussions about race and politics often required her to educate white students:
It’s basically me re-traumatizing myself. I can go to my community of color and we can
heal together versus trying to heal this campus, because at the end of the day, it’s not
people of color who should be trying to heal this campus, it’s white people and white
idealists. It’s a white problem, so you can figure it out for yourself, and I don’t wanna re-
traumatize myself trying to have conversations with you about it when you’re not gonna
believe me.

Simone feels as though students of color are placed with the responsibility of “healing” the
campus racial climate, while white students are not burdened with the same expectations. As
noted in the previous section, Simone was a participant in the same focus group as her friend
Janay, as well as two conservative students, Kyle and Melania. This response came after Melania
described how there had been an “overcorrection” to systemic racism, using affirmative action as
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an example for how Black women can no longer “persistently complain” about
underrepresentation anymore. Thus, when Simone said, “you’re not gonna believe me,” she was
referring to Melania’s disregard for the racialized realities of Black women.
The burden of having to educate other students about racial matters was described by
Peter as a “taxing” process. He explained how he is constantly required to validate his
experiences to garner any empathy and support from his peers:
I feel like a lot of the young students of color will go to class, and when they offer a point
of view that is driven by some sort of racial experience or cultural experience, they have
to justify that to other students all the time, and then have to do that to adults who you
feel like should understand you more and have greater empathy and a greater
understanding of how the world works… to have to do that all the time is so much labor.
It’s so taxing. I know a lot of students who have been here and have since left because
they just didn’t want to have to explain themselves to all of these people that didn’t care
anyways and weren’t going to help them. It’s kind of like talking to yourself…and it
makes you question how many people out there can really empathize with you, and why
there are so many people that don’t.

Mikaela, a 4th year Black student from LASU, also did not engage with Trump supporters
as a way to protect herself from a vulnerable situation. However, she described how her white
professor was unaware of these legitimate, personal reasons to avoid these types of discussions,
and instead treated it as an educational assignment:
I don’t go out seeking Trump supporters and trying to understand their side… that’s not
what’s happening. And interestingly enough, I’m taking a political sociology class right
now, and my final assignment is to interview a Trump supporter. And I don’t know how
to explain this to this white man that that’s not going to benefit my education. Because I
know how they feel, and I know their thoughts, and I don’t see what that’s going to gain.
And it is clearly something a white sociology professor would assign us to do.

Mikaela’s white professor reminds me of what Joey spoke about in the previous section. He
mentioned how the “old, conservative, wealthy White men on the board of trustees” believed that
students at CVC needed to be exposed to racist viewpoints because they “don’t hear enough of
it.” For many students of color, the “educational” exercise of engaging in a discussion with a
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Trump supporter is not worth the trauma that often accompanies discussions about race and
politics. When faculty members and administrators force their students into these vulnerable
positions, it demonstrates how disconnected they are with their students’ racialized realities.
Intentional or not, a colorblind approach to these discussions can be harmful.
Politically liberal students define “American”. As these students reflected on their
definitions of what it means to be “American,” there was a collective intentionality to reject
colorblindness when conceptualizing their racially politicized identities. Many politically liberal
students, specifically students of color, described how their sense of belonging on campus
directly coincided with their definitions of being “American.” When I asked Isaiah, a 4th year
Black student from LASU, how he defines being an American, he responded:
On this campus it feels like I’m not. When they ask me to put my ethnicity, I don’t wanna
put African American, I just wanna put Black. Like sometimes I don’t even know what it
feels like to be American on this campus, I feel like I’m always the outcast. So, what does
it feel like to be an American on this campus? Sometimes it feels like I’m from a
different country to be honest. There’s a lot that I love about this university,
but…sometimes I tell myself to just deal with it. But this is America bro, I just learn to
live.

Isaiah described how being Black in America was similar to being Black on campus. Both on
and off campus, he feels like an “outcast” from a “different country.” Ellie, a 4th year Filipina
from LASU, also expressed how she felt like a “perpetual foreigner” on campus and in America:
…as marginalized communities of color, we’re perpetual foreigners. So, regardless of
how much we achieve, as far as like, owning a house, having an education, just based on
the way we look can very much deter us, I feel like. Which is why a lot of people will
buy into these ideologies because they can't change the way they look, but they can have
control over other stuff.

Ellie implies that there were larger, systemic factors at play that do not allow people of color to
participate in the ideology of meritocracy. As “perpetual foreigners,” students of color may feel
obligated to “buy in” as the only way to succeed. However, no matter how successful they
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become, they will still be treated as if they do not belong. Mahalia, a 4th year African American
and Muslim student from ECSU, also felt like her sense of belonging on campus aligned with her
identity as an American. However, she emphasized that Trump has shifted what it means to be an
American into a vision that she does not want to associate with:
To be honest, I’ve been questioning what it means to be American throughout these past
two years with everything going on. Like since I wasn’t born here and wasn’t raised here,
so when I came here, I did adapt to the American culture and values. But if those values
in the future are being equated with values of Trump, Republicans, and right-wing
groups, then I don’t think I can feel like I belong within those set of values. It’s almost
like being asked to exist within a space that resists you. Often that’s how it felt in this
institution, like I was forcing myself to exist within all of the incidents that were going
on, in a space that wasn’t built for me.

Mahalia’s description of her college campus, and the nation as a whole, as a “space that
wasn’t built for [her]” was mentioned several times when students reflected on what they
believed was the underlying, implicit messaging of Trump’s campaign slogan. They felt that
many Trump supporters and conservative students on campus purposefully sacrificed their
morals to remain blind to the racial implications of Trump’s policies. For example, there were
several instances where students referred to Trump’s campaign slogan, “Make America Great
Again,” as an antithetical example of what it means to be a student of color on campus, and,
more broadly, what it means to be American. Maria, 4th year Chicanx student from ECSU,
explained that when students wore “MAGA” hats on campus, it signaled to her that she did not
belong:
I’ll see the stickers on their cars, people wear the hats, and it makes me feel unwelcome.
Because it’s kinda like they’re telling me that…I don’t belong there. Because I’m first
generation here. I come from a family of immigrants. My first language was not English.
It’s just…they’re telling me “you shouldn’t be here.”

Maria implies that her perception of Trump supporters are people who hold anti-immigrant
perspectives. Thus, when she sees students wearing the hats on campus, it is received as a
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personal attack on her and her family. Sarah, a 2nd year Black student from ECSU, expanded
upon what she believed was the implicit message of the campaign slogan:
When I see that stuff, I just see ignorance. I see people wanting people suffering, wanting
people hurt, just because of the color of their skin or their religion or their gender or
sexual orientation. They want to see oppression where it’s in your face and heavy.

Sarah’s idea that Trump supporters want to see people hurt was also shared by Trina, a 3rd year
Korean student from CCU. She believes that students wear the MAGA hats as a galvanizing
“shield” to upset people on campus:
…especially with MAGA hats – people just purposely wanting to upset people around
them because they know that they can’t be hurt. It’s like, “I’m invincible, so therefore I
wear this hat as my shield.”

This statement is similar to what was discovered at the beginning of this chapter in regard to
Trump’s emboldening rhetoric. Many students believed that Trump’s rhetoric validated his
supporter’s prejudicial beliefs, subsequently leading to several incidents of racial violence across
the four study sites. Both his words and his campaign apparel serve as metaphorical “shields,” as
each provides a level of comfort and justification to engage in racist behavior. However, Naila, a
3rd year Black student from ECSU, held a different perspective about Trump’s campaign
paraphernalia. She described how she did not mind seeing MAGA hats on campus because it
gave her the knowledge of who she should avoid:
I think it’s good that they do, because then you can see who you need to avoid. I like my
racists out in the open.

Some of these students were also aware of the conservative students’ sentiments toward
feeling threatened and silenced for their political viewpoints. However, as Mahalia explains,
these feelings are unwarranted given the real-life, racialized implications of the Trump
presidency:
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But as for the conservative students who feel that they feel threatened, I would say that
when you really weigh the number of underrepresented minority students that feel
threatened not only on a campus level, not only on a local level, but also on a larger
national level, compared to students that feel threatened on a campus level, even if their
feelings of being threatened are genuine, it just doesn’t equate because the administration
is supportive of their values and how they represent themselves. But when you have
students being assaulted in their own resource centers that were built for them, when you
have students of color, Muslim students, underrepresented students being assaulted in
parking lots, it’s not the same…

Mahalia clarified that while she believes the feelings expressed by conservative students are
genuine, it did not equate to the perils of systemic racism that affected students of color in often
violent ways. This revealed a trend amongst the study participants: politically conservative
students focused more on the interpersonal ramifications of the Trump presidency, while
politically liberal students (and more specifically students of color), considered the impact of
systemic racism as a core element of their everyday lives.
The conservative student participants expressed how they would rather acknowledge
people by their nationality rather than by their race. In their perspective, to treat everyone “as
Americans” is a more unifying approach to interpersonal relations. However, this colorblind
ideology was heavily criticized by politically liberal students of color. For example, many of
them expressed discomfort in the way Trump supporters could gleefully praise his policies,
business acumen, and unorthodox approach to governance, all while ignoring his divisive
rhetoric. Jessica, a 4th year Latina student from CVC, explained how supporting Trump implies
that you are willing to ignore the racism, misogyny, and other problematic elements of his
rhetoric:
I also know there are a lot of people who voted for Trump because of his other policies.
They kind of neglect and put aside all the racism and misogyny, or whatever problematic
parts of him, in order to remain wealthy, for taxes or something…voting for him after
you have witnessed all of that reflects poorly on you.

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Jessica draws attention to how people support Trump because it aligns with their self-interests,
which also implies that combatting racism and sexism is not a priority. Contrary to what the
conservative student participants believed, Peter asserts that a colorblind ideology is not as
unifying of a concept as they think:
I feel like the whole thing with, “I don’t see color,” is so problematic. You’re erasing
years and years of generations of history, colonialism, oppression. The fact that you don’t
see color means you don’t want to, or you don’t need to recognize that history and the
effects that it has on today. Yeah, I get that you want to see everyone as equal, but you
have to acknowledge that not everyone starts at the same place and not everyone has the
same understanding or values of where they came from. You can’t just generalize the
entire country to be one identity, when this whole country was founded upon not
including indigenous people in this country. I don’t see how that would be appropriate. I
don’t see how that’s uniting if you’re going to get rid of all the things that brought us to
this point.

Whereas the conservative students aligned more with majoritarian narratives of history, Peter
argued that colorblind ideologies erased the generations of history, colonialism, and oppression
that still impact the lives of people of color. He understands the well-intentioned justifications
for perceiving people “as Americans” rather than as their racial identity, but this approach
disregards how people of color have inequitable access to certain privileges in America.
Danielle, who was in the same focus group as Peter, expanded upon this criticism of
colorblindness:
It’s the erasure of inequality and oppression that is behind it all. The existence of
colonialization that is erased. If you are able to say that, you are either ignorant of what
that means for certain people, or that you have the privilege of not having to care. Race
impacts every person of color’s life, so it’s either ignorance or intentional
emotionlessness. It’s just damaging, that kind of rhetoric and speech, because we’re not
in a post-racial society. Race is still at the forefront of everything because this country
was founded on racism. You can’t just treat the symptoms; the core issue is still there and
hasn’t been resolved. So of course, everything is going to be impacted by that origin of
racism. Being American is this weird, contentious identity of having these certain
privileges that a lot of other countries don’t have, and that we do take for granted, but at
the same time, recognizing that we are still guests on land that was stolen. I guess you
have to come to terms with the fact that it’s both a privileged status but also one that has
many problems within itself.
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Both Peter and Danielle highlighted the importance of acknowledging this country’s
history, arguing that everything is “impacted by that origin of racism.” Danielle alluded to
Gotanda’s (1991) “non-recognition of race” when she argued that “it’s either ignorance of
intentional emotionless.” The use of the word intentional aligns with Gotanda’s (1991) argument
that you must first see race before you can ignore it. She emphasized that being an American was
a “contentious identity.” She was aware of the privileges she possessed, but also understood that
she was a “guest on land that was stolen,” which left her conflicted about subscribing to an
American national identity. This was also evident in the responses I received by two students at
LASU. Elana, a 3rd year Filipina student from LASU, critiqued Trump’s campaign slogan
through a historical lens:
When you look at America’s history, and the rise of the U.S. as a global power, it is very
much rooted in genocide, and colonization, and imperialism…For [Trump supporters] to
assume that we were ever great at any point is sort of this implication that they’re
assuming our histories are great. They define great, or they define successful as sort of
rooted in the oppression of all this… I understand the sentiments of we need to improve,
because we do. But I don’t think people understand that when they say, “Make America
Great Again,” it’s a lot deeper…It’s very much a euphemism.

Elana highlighted America’s historical foundation of colonialism and Western imperialism as
evidence to refute the claim that America was ever “great” in the first place. She described
“Make America Great Again” as a euphemism that conveys an inaccurate, revisionist account of
history that disregards the oppression of people of color. Nicolas, a 4th year Mexican student
from LASU, extends this notion by describing why Trump’s campaign slogan was so attractive
to his supporters:
…especially with the white American – the meritocracy myth…“Oh, America was once
this place that has been run, and has been established and built by traditional working-
class Americans”…completely ignoring how imperialist this country is and how much
destabilization violence has caused to other countries, which has led to the mass exodus
of people who actually built and created this country…completely disregards the
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genocide of native and indigenous peoples who were here before them…It's trying to call
onto that imaginary and trying to really run with it. Because especially when Trump was
creating that slogan, he was very strategic about who was going to hear that…who is
empowered by that…It's that "silent majority"… it kind of reminds people who benefit
and are in proximity to whiteness the kind of power that they can have, and continue to
have.

Nicolas described how “Make America Great Again” implicitly ignored America’s history of
colonialism and European dominion that has led to the “mass exodus” of Indigenous people,
enslaved laborers, and other historically disenfranchised populations who helped build this
country. He argues that this was an intentional decision by Trump, who strategically targeted the
“silent majority” of people in America who wished to maintain their proximity to whiteness and
the power it entails.
The idea that Trump supporters are “people who benefit and are in proximity to
whiteness” was previously addressed in my analysis of the conservative student responses. Those
who benefitted from whiteness were the white students who firmly believed in meritocracy and
denounced systemic racism as a legitimate issue. In a more implicit fashion, however, Cabrera’s
(2018) concept of “hegemonic Whiteness” was confirmed in the way conservative students of
color also deliberately conceptualized their racially politicized identities through a colorblind
lens. While the white conservative students could directly benefit from whiteness, the
conservative students of color believed they could achieve the same privileges as long as they
remained in proximity to whiteness (i.e., immigrating the “right” way, adopting a raceless
nationalistic identity, and sacrificing their cultural heritage).
Carlos, a 4th year Hispanic student from CCU, criticized the chauvinistic patriotism of
Trump supporters by drawing a comparison between MAGA hats and someone supporting their
favorite team:
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…whiteness for a lot of these people…seems to be conflated with true Americanness. I
think that Trump has done a really good job of creating a brand out of not just MAGA,
but America, and in the heads of a lot of his supporters, through his very careful, guiding
rhetoric, he allows them to – in their own heads – form an image of an old America
which was better for them…and he redirects their attention to the things around us today
that might somehow be connected to the fact that America is different, and that for a lot
of these people, it’s not worth it anymore. And so, when I think of their whiteness, it just
seems like redirected anger or misguided anger and insecurity in that they knew…their
country, they knew what they belonged to…and now, they feel like somehow, some
people are taking it away from them or some institutions are threatening their liberties…
Ideology has become more like a team to root for than something you firmly believe in.
So, it’s an emotional thing where you wear that red hat like putting on your favorite
jersey. It’s like, “I’m gonna go out and show pride for my team, and everything that
means for me.”

This assessment appeared to be spontaneously accurate, as it is essentially a direct response to
what Kyle expressed in the previous subsection. Kyle was transparent in his assertion that most
white, working-class Americans have “anxiety of being replaced in the United States” by people
of color. As Carlos accurately surmised, Kyle believed that something was being taken away
from him that, according to the Founding Fathers, rightfully belonged to white people. In
contrast, politically liberal students of color expressed how the image of the “old America” that
Trump’s campaign slogan promotes blatantly ignores the systemic ramifications of racism that
continue to impact their everyday lives. A colorblind perspective could only be reserved for
those who have the privilege of seeing the world through a raceless lens. Meanwhile, many
students of color who have had their lives altered by Trump’s policies cannot ignore what has
become their painful reality.
In this subsection, politically liberal students, and students of color in particular,
explained that they avoided discussions about race and politics as a protective strategy to
circumvent the trauma that accompanied interactions with students with oppositional viewpoints
(i.e., conservative students and Trump supporters). The previous section illustrated how students
of color were impacted by Trump’s policies in racialized ways, thus providing evidence for why
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a seemingly inconsequential discussion can be perceived as a threat to their humanity. Similar to
the conservative student responses, I discovered that the participants’ conceptualizations of
nationalism were concurrently their conceptualizations of race, but with an entirely different
rationale.
For example, there were contrasting racial and political ideologies between Lawrence, a
3rd year white student from CCU, and Jayla, a 4th year Cameroonian student from LASU.
Lawrence explained his rationale for why he believed a colorblind approach to nationalism was
more unifying than divisive. He referred to the aftermath of the September 11th attacks on the
World Trade Center as an example for one of the “best moments” when everyone united as
Americans. However, Jayla shared that “Since the early 2000s, America has always been
Islamophobic. But I think now, you definitely see Trump attacking folks.” While Lawrence
appeared to have good intentions behind his statement, Jayla’s statement provided evidence for
why a colorblind interpretation of nationalism overlooks the racialized trauma that many Muslim
students have faced for decades.
On the 14th anniversary of the September 11th attacks, people used the hashtag
#afterseptember11 on Twitter to share stories about the discrimination and profiling they faced
after the tragedy (Chiel, 2015). One user, “little miss flint fan account,” posted,
“#afterseptember11 over two dozen U.S. schools for Muslim students were forced to shut down
because they received too many bomb/death threats” (Chiel, 2015). Another user, “razan,”
posted, “#afterseptember11 i grew up without a mom because someone with a gun decided that
she needed to answer for it with her life” (Chiel, 2015). Other people shared how they stopped
wearing hijab, were targeted at school by their teachers and other students, were “randomly
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selected” at airports, and other horrifying stories of racial discrimination (Chiel, 2015). Some of
these examples are similar to what was shared by the student participants in this study.
For example, Sharim shared how she and her mother had to have a discussion about
whether she should continue wearing hijab after the Muslim Ban was passed, saying “it’s not
even a matter of my opinion or my political views at this point, it’s about physical safety.”
Mahalia described how a Muslim student at ECSU had her hijab pulled off while being assaulted
in a parking lot. Jazmine described an incident that occurred on election day of 2016, where an
international student hijab was harassed by another student who yelled “You might as well go
back now because Trump is gonna send you home.” These examples demonstrate the similarities
between the residual effects of the September 11th attacks and the implementation of the Muslim
Ban. According to Lawrence, this is when the nation is at its best. However, according to Jayla,
Sharim, Mahalia, Jazmine, and the thousands of other people who were racially discriminated
against after these events, this is when the nation is at its worst.
Finally, an example that encapsulates the racial and political division that exists on
college campuses that can be specifically attributed to the Trump presidency is the comparison
between the responses of Kyle, a 4th year white student from ECSU, and Sarah, a 2nd year Black
student from ECSU. Kyle expressed how Trump was a “figurehead for [his] identity,” and that
“any attack on Donald Trump is an attack on [his] identity.” In contrast, Sarah described her
emotions when she sees someone wearing Trump’s “Make American Great Again” campaign
hat, stating, “I see people wanting people suffering, wanting people hurt, just because of the
color of their skin or their religion or their gender or sexual orientation. They want to see
oppression where it’s in your face and heavy.” Both of these students attend El Camino State
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University. However, based on their political ideologies and assumptions about the opposition,
these students may never voluntarily engage with one another for their own respective reasons.
For some students, Trump represents American values, meritocracy, national security,
and fearlessness. For other students, Trump represents dehumanization, the separation of their
families, the promise of white supremacy, and fear. The vast differences amongst students’
racially politicized identities and ideologies have existed on college campuses long before
Trump’s arrival. However, the Trump presidency has amplified these preexisting differences,
subsequently shifting college campuses into spaces of unequivocal tension.
Conclusion

To refer back to the Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate
(NCEMACC), the findings from this study serve as noteworthy evidence that a campus racial
climate (microsystem) cannot be comprehensively assessed without examining the students’
perspectives on how they are positioned within a racialized national structure (macrosystem).
This study examined how the macrosystem (Trump presidency) has influenced the mesosystem
(four colleges and universities) nested within it, which subsequently affected students’ racialized
experiences (microsystem). As evident in the student responses, Trump’s rhetoric and executive
decision-making have shifted how students experience the institutional dimensions of their
campuses, and more specifically the perceptual and behavioral dimensions. The tensions within
the campus racial climate of the four study sites stem from the stark differences between
students’ racially politicized ideologies. These ideologies are comprised of their definitions of
what it means to be American, reinforced by their social interactions with their peers, and
amplified by the highly polarized sociopolitical context of the Trump presidency.
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For this particular study, I did not engage in a thorough investigation into the institutional
dimensions of each of the four colleges and universities for this study. However, for the final
study, I have narrowed my methodological scope to focus on one specific higher education
institution in the sociohistorical context of the Trump presidency: The University of Virginia
(UVA). This will allow for a more comprehensive analysis of the perceptual, behavioral,
organizational, and geospatial dimensions of UVA, and how the interrelated relationships
between each dimension influence UVA students’ racialized experiences. Over the past few
years, UVA has been nationally recognized as a site of racial tension. Most notably, white
supremacist groups marched onto campus during the “Unite the Right” rally on August 11, 2017,
as spectators captured images that were reminiscent of the lynch mobs of Jim Crow. Tiki-torch
wielding extremists chanted racial slurs while parading down The Rotunda, an image that has
been cemented into the already flawed history of a former plantation. However, as I detail in the
next chapter, the “Unite the Right” rally was merely a microcosm to a much larger institutional
issue that has plagued the university ever since its inception.

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Chapter 6: An Instrumental Case Study Investigating the Relationship Between the Trump
Presidency and Campus Racial Climate at the University of Virginia (UVA)
When I was still in the initial stages of my dissertation proposal, I felt that the University
of Virginia could possibly serve as an appropriate site for an examination of campus racial
climate during the Trump presidency. As the nation witnessed the events of the “Unite the Right”
rally in August of 2017, David Duke, former Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan turned
Louisiana politician, chose to use the national platform to publicly endorse President Trump on
the second day of the rally while many of the torch-wielding racists donned his “Make America
Great Again” campaign hat as they stormed the streets of Charlottesville.
No sooner than I arrived in Charlottesville, my expectations were met as I encountered
my rideshare, a middle-aged white man who had recently moved to the city a few years ago.
From the back seat, all I could see was his narrow baseball cap attempting to hide the grey hairs
escaping out of the back panel, and his eyes reflecting off the rear-view mirror. He asked what I
was doing in Charlottesville and I told him that I was conducting a campus racial climate
assessment at UVA. I mentioned that the “Unite the Right” rally was one of the main
motivations for my visit, and that the new Vice President for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion,
Kevin G. McDonald—who is currently in his first year with the position—wanted me to help
identify ways to improve the campus climate in the aftermath of such a disastrous event. The
driver was, through his own proclamation, a well-intentioned white man. He grew up in the 60s,
and was “big on civil rights,” he proudly announced. He described to me how he believed there
had been a lot of progress since the rally, so he was confused as to why I would be there.
He mentioned how there were Native American protestors who were organizing a
demonstration in downtown Charlottesville that day to remove a statue of Lewis and Clark. The
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protestors felt that the statue—which displayed an image of Sacagawea on her knees beside
Meriwether Lewis and William Clark—was a degrading visual. However, my rideshare driver
was adamant that the statue was not offensive at all. With a noticeable hint of disgust in his
voice, he explained how there were “Indians with feathers” who were “dancing and protesting”
around the statue, which he interpreted as a disruption to the “peaceful” nature of the City of
Charlottesville.
What I had not yet realized was that the driver’s response prepared me for what I would
hear about in the following days during my focus group interviews with UVA students. UVA
students would eventually warn me that Charlottesville was not necessarily the most welcoming
place for people of color, regardless of what well-intentioned white people may tell me. The
driver’s rant, though not my pressing concern, was interesting. I was particularly curious about
the Indigenous activists that he mentioned were protesting downtown. I arrived in Charlottesville
on November 18th, 2019, just three weeks before the Charlottesville City Council voted to
remove the statue from its location at the center of the city (Heim, 2019). According to Heim
(2019), Rose Ann Abrahamson, a descendant of Sacagawea’s brother, Chief Cameahwait, and
citizen of the Shoshone tribe, expressed how the statue was “totally dehumanizing. I see
Sacagawea in a position almost animalistic, like a pet” (Abrahamson, as cited in Heim, 2019).
The local Native American tribe, the Monacan Indian Nation, as well as the descendants of
Sacagawea’s family in Idaho, were delighted to see the statue removed after over one hundred
years of the painful image remaining cemented into history (Heim, 2019). In conjunction with
the counter-protestors at the “Unite the Right” rally in 2017, the activists of the Monacan Indian
Nation alluded to a presence of resistance that existed within UVA and the greater
Charlottesville community that I was curious to explore further. Minimally, I was confident that
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the historical and ongoing legacies of racism in Charlottesville would be counter-narrated by
stories of resilience. As I exited the car, I was reminded that I needed to be resilient too.
In this chapter, I examine how the Trump presidency has influenced the University of
Virginia’s campus racial climate. Employing instrumental case study methods (Stake, 2005), I
conducted 24 focus group interviews with a total of 81 students ranging from first-year students
to fifth-year seniors. This study will help answer the central research question, as well as three
additional sub-questions:
4. What is the relationship between the Trump presidency and the campus racial climate at a
four-year institution in the South?
5. How do students perceive and experience Trump’s presidential rhetoric and political
decision-making on campus?
6. How do the geospatial and organizational dimensions of the University of Virginia help
us better understand student perceptions, behaviors, and racialized experiences?
While these questions helped guide my analytical process, my interview protocol allowed for the
students to reflect on various other topics that helped provide valuable insight into the campus
racial climate of UVA.
The foundational model guiding my methodological sequence for this study—the Nested
Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC)—illustrates how the
microsystem is comprised of the perceptual, behavioral, organizational, and geospatial
dimensions of an institution. As illustrated in Figure 4, this study (C) examines how the
macrosystem (Trump presidency) has influenced one specific microsystem (UVA). An
instrumental case study approach allowed me to comprehensively investigate each institutional
dimension of UVA (microsystem). This included a thorough analysis of UVA students’
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perceptions and behavior, the organizational processes and procedures of institutional actors at
UVA, and the unique geospatial dimension of UVA.
Figure 4 Three-Study Methodological Sequence for Examining the Influence of the Trump
Presidency on Campus Racial Climate

To begin, I interrogate the history of white supremacy within UVA and the City of
Charlottesville by demonstrating how the contemporary circumstances are largely a byproduct of
a deeply flawed past. Similar to the previous chapter, I explore how Trump’s presidential
rhetoric has influenced the perceptions and behaviors of college students at a predominantly
white institution. More specifically, I examine how UVA students believe Trump’s rhetoric
helped bring to the surface two centuries of white supremacy that inevitably culminated in the
rally that shook the nation. I highlight the work of resilient student activists, while also
investigating how the anti-activist policies and procedures at UVA have interfered with and
penalized their attempts to improve the racial climate of their institution.
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I then introduce a new conceptual framework, performative equity, that critically examines
how higher education institutions employ ineffective strategies to advance diversity, equity, and
inclusion (DEI) that are purposely designed to maintain white hegemony. These unconstructive
approaches to DEI work have placed the burden of the labor onto student activists, resulting in
deleterious effects on their psychological well-being. Finally, I dissect the geospatial dimension
of the institution to demonstrate how white supremacy at UVA is perpetuated by the unequal
allocation of “racial space” (Neely & Samura, 2011). I juxtapose the longstanding institutional
practices that have protected the racial space of predominantly white IFC fraternities and
sororities surrounding Madison Bowl with the continuous displacement of students of color who
occupy the Multicultural Student Center (MSC). Recommendations for praxis will be provided
in Chapter 7.
Parasite: UVA and the City of Charlottesville

“I think that it’s hard for Charlottesville to influence UVA, because UVA has almost been like a
parasite that has taken over Charlottesville. When I think of Charlottesville, I think of UVA.” –
Cassie, UVA, 3rd year, Black, she/her/hers

If Trump’s rhetoric has spread like wildfire, the University of Virginia was one of the
first to be engulfed by the flames. It was only fitting that the white supremacists marching down
The Lawn on the night of August 11th, 2017, were illuminated by their tiki-torches as they
surrounded an equestrian statue of their founding father, Thomas Jefferson, who was preserved
both in cement and ideology. The reason I chose the University of Virginia as a study site to
examine the influence of the Trump presidency on campus racial climate was undoubtedly
inspired by the “Unite the Right” rally that made national headlines. However, it is important to
interrogate the rally not as an isolated incident, but as a byproduct of a historical legacy of racism
at UVA that has established an incendiary foundation for the inevitable combustion.
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Throughout every focus group interview at UVA, I was amazed at how knowledgeable
the students were about the history of their institution. As the students reflected on their college-
going experiences throughout the Trump presidency, they understood that their current
circumstances were the residual consequences of centuries of systemic oppression that took place
on their very campus. Before coming to UVA for data collection in the Fall, I had very limited
knowledge of the institutional landscape other than what I had learned online and through the
media. I admittedly did not engage in a thorough review of the UVA-specific literature until after
my trip. Though, fortunately enough, the history of UVA was taught to me by the student
participants throughout the focus group interviews. The students described how UVA’s history
of slavery, eugenic pseudoscience, gentrification, and colonialism produced an ever-present,
generationally solidified racial climate that has been difficult to repair.
When I arrived on campus, I decided to take a tour led by a brilliant 3rd year Black
student, Jordyn, who was a member of the University Guide Service. The “History of African
Americans at UVA” tour was one of four “Specialty Tours” that were led by UVA students (the
others included “History of Women at UVA,” “Garden Tours,” and “Children’s Tours”). We met
on the bottom floor of the Rotunda, a round-shaped structure located at the center of campus that
was originally modeled after the Pantheon in Rome (McInnis, 2019). As we exited from the
building from the main floor, the doors opened to a panoramic view of what was once a
plantation disguised as a university. There are two rows of buildings, five on each side
surrounding a rectangular lawn. The buildings are labeled Pavilion I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII,
IX, and X, each with their original exterior still intact. Jordyn gestured toward the pavilions that
surrounded The Lawn:
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And if you look out, it looks beautiful, right? You can see the student rooms and you can
see the pavilions, right? But what you can’t see is what’s going on behind them. This is
completely intentional.

When we walked to the back of Pavilion V, I saw a large unoccupied garden area with a house-
shaped building at the end. Each pavilion essentially has a small lawn area of their own, along
with a “House” located on the opposite side. There were two brick walls spanning the length of
the garden on each side that enclosed the area. Jordyn explained how the area is now utilized by
students as both a living space and a place to relax:
So, welcome to a garden, there is a garden hidden behind each one of the pavilions. And
right now, if we look around, the space is gorgeous, right? It’s pretty much just a space
for students, faculty and community members to come and hang out if they want to.
Sometimes I take naps in gardens because no one’s here to bother you. But it’s really
important that we know that this is not what this space looked like in any ways back at
the beginning of the University of Virginia. So, technically like all the long rooms are
also reserved for like outstanding fourth year students and if you’re a senior resident on
the Lawn.

Jordyn was referring to the way Thomas Jefferson intentionally designed the university to hide
the “eyesore” of enslaved laborers (Nelson & Harold, 2018). Nelson and McInnis (2019) explain
how Thomas Jefferson’s “architectural plans for the university drew heavily on what he knew
from living on plantations his entire life and his ultimate solution created a community that was
simultaneously a plantation but with the density of an urban setting” (p. 42). Although the
pavilions are now a sought after commodity for “outstanding fourth year students,” they were
originally occupied by slave-owning students and faculty:
the Lawn at the University of Virginia completely masks the labor that took place behind
its façade. The front faces of the buildings on the Lawn were primarily intended for
faculty and students. The faculty were to live in the upper story of the pavilions and could
connect with one another via the upper-story walkway; the students were expected to
reside in the dormitory rooms on the Lawn and the Range and take classes either in the
Rotunda or the ground floors of pavilions and dine in the hotels; and the enslaved
domestic workers were expected to inhabit the basements of pavilions and hotels and the
enclosed gardens behind, hidden from view. (Nelson & McInnis, 2019, p. 48).

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The gardens that students now use for naps were originally workyards where enslaved
laborers were subjected to grueling tasks. The students in the early years at UVA were not
allowed to bring their “personal slaves” to college because the faculty feared that they would not
have any authority over those enslaved workers (McInnis, 2019). However, “enslaved workers
were [still] tasked to serve students personally—cleaning rooms, lighting fires, cooking, running
errands, and more” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 101). Though, since “it was the state’s slave-based
economy that provided the wealth that made it possible for most of the students of the university
to attend,” many of the wealthy students refused to give up their domineering obsession of
disciplining the enslaved which led to numerous attacks on the innocent laborers (McInnis, 2019,
p. 2). As McInnis (2019) explains, “They wished to reassert their status; the enslaved were easy
targets. Numerous attacks by students on enslaved people are noted in the university archives,
and it is likely many more occurred than are noted” (McInnis, 2019, p. 103).
For the first half-century of UVA’s history68, there were three groups of people living in
what Jefferson called the “Academical Village”: faculty and hotelkeepers (and their families),
students, and enslaved laborers (McInnis, 2019). According to U.S. census data, the faculty and
hotelkeepers collectively owned between 125 to 200 people69, however, “it is difficult to identify
who they were or obtain an exact count because institutional and state records are far from
comprehensive” and “there were many people who worked at the university but were owned by
others and there were many others owned by local businesses whose work regularly brought

68 Jefferson began construction for the university on October 6, 1817, eventually opening its doors to students on
March 7, 1825 (Nelson & Harold, 2018).
69 The enslaved laborers in Virginia, including those who worked at UVA and within the city of Charlottesville,
were often relocated to the lower South where there was higher demand. Mason (2018) reveals that “Between 1820
and 1860, the sale of enslaved form the upper South to the more dynamic economies of the lower South was a major
economic enterprise. Over 1,000,000 people were forcibly sent to the lower South…hundreds, perhaps
thousands…from Charlottesville and the region. The Slave Auction Block and the courthouse square where it was
located were public spaces of unimaginable sorrow and suffering, cruelty and greed” (p. 25).
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them to the university” (Nelson & McInnis, 2019, p. 51). The hundreds of enslaved laborers
grew and maintained crops, butchered animals, cooked over hot flames for hours, prepared food,
and washed laundry in boiling hot cauldrons, all done “mostly out of sight, primarily in
basements of the pavilions and hotels and in the workyards behind the buildings” (McInnis,
2019, p. 14). Some of the faculty members and students felt as though the walls surrounding the
gardens were too low, and were disturbed that they had to see the enslaved laborers as they
walked along the gardens. Thus, they “requested to enclose their yard spaces with a painted
wooden fence…The tall fences would have hidden the work and separated the enslaved from the
students who regularly walked the alleyways as they moved from dormitory to hotel to
classroom” (Nelson & McInnis, 2019, p. 59). The tall fences are no longer standing today, but
the brick walls surrounding the gardens were enough of a disconcerting image for one to
question how it could ever serve as a space for students to study and relax.
As we concluded the tour, Jordyn brought me to a small walkway beneath the Rotunda
that was originally used to hide the enslaved laborers from sight as they walked between
pavilions. She told me there was a plaque to commemorate the enslaved laborers that was located
somewhere in the area, and she challenged me to find it. After a few minutes, I gave up and
asked her where it was. She pointed to a spot on the ground:
So, there’s a few things that we can take away from this. One, is that it’s on the ground
and you guys didn’t even notice it when we came down here. And two, is that in a lot of
ways it actually commemorates Thomas Jefferson and not the work of the slave laborers.

The small plaque was covered by leaves and sticks and was barely illegible. The plaque read,
“IN HONOR OF THE SEVERAL HUNDRED WOMEN AND MEN BOTH FREE AND
ENSLAVED WHOSE LABOR BETWEEN 1817 AND 1826 HELPED TO REALIZE
THOMAS JEFFERSON’S DESIGN FOR THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA.” I agreed with
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Jordyn’s interpretation of the plaque, as it neither served as an apology nor an acknowledgment
of the cruel treatment of the enslaved that took place on that very surface. Instead, it thanked
them for “realizing” Jefferson’s design for “an institution with slavery at its core, both in how it
operated and in its purpose…an institution that understood and ultimately supported slavery”
(McInnis, 2019, p. 5).
Though, UVA has recently taken more of an initiative to acknowledge their reprehensible
past and commemorate the enslaved laborers who built the institution. Throughout the last few
years, a new building for Facilities Management was named after Peyton Skipwith, an enslaved
laborer who worked as a stonemason at UVA; the President’s Commission on Slavery and the
University dedicated a newly discovered African American Burial Ground; the Board of Visitors
voted to name a first-year dorm building “Gibbons House” to honor William and Isabella
Gibbons, an enslaved couple who worked at the university (President's Commission on Slavery
and the University, 2018); and the Board of Visitors also approved the “Memorial to Enslaved
Laborers,” which “will forever serve as a public, physical reminder of the central paradox of the
institution and the hundreds of people whose lives and labor enabled the creation of the
University of Virginia” (McInnis, 2019, p. 22). However, these new advancements do not seem
to have changed the way students perceive the campus racial climate. Carina, a 2nd year Afro-
Latinx student, described how the Confederate monuments and statues that are still largely
present around campus are triggering for Black students:
…people walk around the Grounds all the time and we have unmarked graves
everywhere. There are cemeteries that praise Confederate soldiers and monuments. And
you have these symbols here. And you don’t call them out for being racist. You don’t call
them out for being oppressive and for further marginalizing students. And I think that that
carries a lot of unspoken trauma for Black students here who have to walk around
Grounds and carry themselves a certain way or not be targeted even more. While in the
meantime you are literally walking past a lawn that was built by your slaves. You’re
living in dorms that are built upon your ancestor’s graves. You’re working in an
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environment where people are so blatantly ignorant and don’t care about your culture.
And so, it’s like why do I wanna be in a space where no one cares about where I come
from and what I have to say?

The pervasive presence of Confederate statues, plaques, and symbols, juxtaposed with the
unmarked graves of enslaved laborers, made walking to class essentially a microaggression in
itself. Carina emphasized how the university has not acknowledged the oppressive history that
these cultural artifacts represent, despite the fact that they carry a lot of “unspoken trauma” for
Black students who have to walk by them every day. Sofia, a 1st year Dominican student,
mentioned how the building names were a daily reminder that white supremacy was still an
integral component of the university:
White supremacist’s names are still engraved on the walls. Alderman Library is literally
named after a guy who spent his career – even though he was president of the University
– he spent his career trying to prove white is superior or biologically different than Black.
And so, it’s instilled in the ground we walk upon, and where we have to take classes
every day. So, that definitely contributes to it – the history in general, and the fact that
they’re not going to take down these statues. Or they try to say, “It’s for history.” But you
can leave history to the history books, we don’t have to erase it. But it shouldn’t be – it’s
a triggering thing for someone to have to walk by every day.

Sofia described these structures on campus as “triggering” since they signaled an institutional
acceptance of white supremacy. Emery, a 2nd year white student, explained how the university’s
“tangled past” is intertwined with the present, which she believes has an influence on the current
campus racial climate:
There’s so much racial history here that the university is built onto and built into that I
don’t think there’s any way for us to separate ourselves. So, we share in that tangled past,
and it definitely affects the structures that students are put into, which I think affects the
way that they interact with others in the way that they do.

Emery believes that these structures affect the daily interactions between students on campus. As
described in Chapter 3, each dimension of the institutional microsystem is interconnected with
one another (Hurtado, 1994; Hurtado et al., 1998; Milem, Chang, & Antonio, 2005; Hurtado et
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al., 2012). Emery’s response alludes to the notion that the geospatial dimension of the institution
influences the behavioral dimension. Each of these students also described how the geospatial
dimension of UVA’s campus serves as a constant reminder that “our past is not even past,”
which demonstrates how the geospatial dimension also influences the perceptual dimension as
well (Nelson & Harold, 2018, p. 11). This became all the more evident when I discovered how
the City of Charlottesville’s history (as well as the greater Albemarle County) is inseparable
from the history of UVA, as one cannot be analyzed without the other.
On August 1, 1818, the commissioners for the University of Virginia wrote a proposal
that would be titled the Report of the Board of Commissioners for the University of Virginia
General Assembly, also known as the Rockfish Gap Report (the commissioners met at a tavern in
Rockfish Gap—a wind gap located in the Blue Ridge Mountains between Charlottesville and
Waynesboro, Virginia—which led to the abbreviated name) (Woolfork, 2018). The report
articulated the university’s core educational mission, which promoted eugenic pseudoscience, the
“civilizing” of the “barbaric” and “savage” Indigenous population, and the geographic rationale
for choosing Charlottesville as the university’s site (Woolfork, 2018). As Woolfork (2018)
explains, “The deciding factor that led the commissioners to choose Albemarle County as the site
for the university was exclusively its proximity to white people…the Rockfish Gap Report lays
the literal and figurative groundwork for the university’s interests in and promotion of white
supremacy…These white supremacist foundations constitute a fundamental element of the
university’s history that curiously anchors expressions of white supremacy on its Grounds today”
(Woolfork, 2018, p. 100).
The more recent expressions of white supremacy manifested in the “Unite the Right”
rally in 2017 (I explore this event in more depth in the next section). The rally was a response to
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the city council’s decision to remove the statue of Confederate general Robert E. Lee from its
central location in Charlottesville, and rename “Lee Park” and “Jackson Park” (the latter named
after Confederate veteran Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson) to “Emancipation Park” and
“Justice Park” (Mason, 2018). Both of these Confederate memorials are significant cornerstones
of Charlottesville’s history, though each contributed to the displacement and mistreatment of
Black residents.
For example, the statue of Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson was erected in what
was once called “McKee Row,” a predominantly Black neighborhood in Charlottesville where
many recently freed Black people settled after the Civil War. McKee row was demolished when
the Albemarle County Board of Supervisors confiscated the land from African Americans in
1914 and reallocated it to the city (Nelson & Harold, 2018). The white residents of
Charlottesville originally planned to tear down McKee Row to replace it with a school for white
children. Instead, they erected a statue of “Stonewall” Jackson during a ceremony honoring
Confederate veterans in October of 1921 (Nelson & Harold, 2018). The statue was praised by the
Ku Klux Klan during a public address, where they capitalized upon this exhibition of “urban
renewal” to recruit white Charlottesville residents into their new chapter of the organization70
(Nelson & Harold, 2018). Three years later in 1924, a monument honoring Robert E. Lee,
patriarch of the Confederacy, was unveiled during another ceremony celebrating the last
surviving Confederate veterans. The event consisted of “a grand Confederate ball to be held in
UVA’s Memorial Gymnasium. Admission was limited to members of Confederate organizations,
especially the Daughters and Sons of Confederate Veterans” (Nelson & Harold, 2018, p. 7).

70 The Charlottesville chapter of the KKK was founded in June of 1921 (Nelson & Harold, 2018). One year later, the
UVA student yearbook had a section devoted to clubs and organization on Grounds, which was headlined by a
picture of a hooded KKK member riding a horse while wielding a torch (an image that would be mirrored during the
Unite the Right rally nearly 100 years later) (Nelson & Harold, 2018).
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Members of the KKK were also present at the unveiling of the Lee statue, organizing a “grand
parade” where they donned their white robes and marched through the streets of Charlottesville
(Nelson & Harold, 2018). Ten years prior, the Virginia Realm of the Knights of the KKK
donated a gift of $1,000 to UVA for the construction of the Memorial Gymnasium, which,
“calculating the S&P 500 average and compound investment over 96 years,” holds a current
value of roughly $16,000,000 (Schmidt, 2017, para. 2).
After the “Unite the Right” rally, student activists at UVA71 collectively developed a list of
institutional demands that addressed the institution’s historically intimate relationship with the
KKK (Table 4). The students demanded that the university “Acknowledge the $1,000 gift to the
University’s Centennial Fund received from the KKK in 1921; re-invest this amount, adjusted
for inflation, into existing UVA and Charlottesville multicultural organizations; and include this
racist history at UVA into education surrounding the Bicentennial” (UVA Graduate Student
Coalition, 2017). According to Schmidt’s (2017) calculations, this would entail a $16 million
investment into multicultural organizations sponsored by UVA and the greater Charlottesville
community. The students felt that their demands “constitute a step on the greater path of justice
and healing. They move us towards acknowledging and dismantling the long and ongoing history
of white supremacy, slavery, land theft, and genocide that lies in the very foundations of our

71 The UVA student groups involved in creating these demands include: the Black Student Alliance (BSA),
Minority Rights Coalition (MRC), UVA Students United, United for Socioeconomic Diversity (UFUSED), Latinx
Student Association (LSA), Queer Student Union (QSU), Asian Leaders Council (ALC), Middle Eastern Leadership
Council (MELC), Memorial for Enslaved Laborers (MEL), Native American Student Union (NASU), Muslim
Students Association (MSA), Feminism is for Everyone (FIFE), Asian Student Union (ASU), National Organization
for the Association of Colored People (NAACP), DREAMers On Grounds, Organization of Young Filipino
Americans (OYFA), Global Student Council (GSC), Afro-Latinx Student Organization (ALSO), Community,
Advocacy, Leadership, and Empowerment (CALE), National Lawyers Guild at UVA Law, Women of Color at
UVA Law, Indian Student Association (ISA), Jewish Leadership Council (JLC), Student Council (StudCo), The
Living Wage Campaign at UVA, Graduate History Students Association (GHSA), Animal Justice Advocates (AJA),
Graduate Student Coalition for Liberation (GSCL), Black Law Student Association (BLSA), and University
Democrats (UDems) (UVA Graduate Student Coalition, 2017).

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University” (UVA Graduate Student Coalition, 2017, para. 1). Rather than university officials
merely condemning the institution’s reprehensible history and contentious present, the students
demanded that UVA atone for its past through transformative action.

UVA Students’ Demands Post-August 11th and 12th

All Confederate and colonizer monuments and plaques on and around Grounds must be
removed. An appropriate place would be in a museum or in Special Collections.
Declare the Lawn a residential space. Concealed arms and open flames should not be
allowed within this space.
White supremacist hate groups, particularly UVA alumni Jason Kessler and Richard
Spencer, should be explicitly denounced and banned from campus. They have already
incited and perpetuated violence against students past the point of free speech.
Acknowledge the $1,000 gift to the University’s Centennial Fund received from the KKK
in 1921; re-invest this amount, adjusted for inflation, into existing UVA and
Charlottesville multicultural organizations; and include this racist history at UVA into
education surrounding the Bicentennial.
All students, regardless of area of study, should have required education (either inside or
outside the classroom) on white supremacy, colonization, and slavery as they directly
relate to Thomas Jefferson, the University, and the city of Charlottesville. The current
curriculum changes only affect the College of Arts and Sciences and allow students to
focus in on aspects of difference of their choice.
UVA's historical landscape must be balanced. The statue of Jefferson serves as an
emblem of white supremacy, and should be re-contextualized with a plaque to include
that history. Additionally, more buildings named after prominent white supremacists,
eugenicists, or slaveholders should be renamed after people of marginalized groups.
Former KKK leader David Duke and alt-right leader Richard Spencer both stayed at the
Boar's Head Inn, a UVA hotel, this past weekend. Those profits, and more, should be
redirected to cover the medical expenses of students harmed during this weekend's terror.
Expand the working group on the University's response to the events of Aug. 11-12, 2017
to represent students of color and those affected by the violence of Aug. 11-12.
As of last year, the percentage of African American undergraduate students
enrolled in the University was 6.4%. The University must take action to ensure that as a
public university, this number is reflective of state demographics at a 12% proportion.
Given the impact of recent events, action on this step is crucial.
In 2016, the percentage of African American faculty was 3%. This percentage is
unacceptable and disproportionate to the number of African American students. This
disparity exists across all minority groups. Thus, proportion of faculty for an
Table 4 University of Virginia Students’ Demands Post-August 11th and 12th
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underrepresented group should strive to match the proportion of the student population of
that group at minimum.
Issue a strategic and actionable diversity plan, with input sourced from minority student
leadership, as done by other peer institutions such as Georgetown University, Brown
University, and Virginia Tech. This plan should include a special emphasis on improving
diversity and inclusion for faculty, staff, and students of color, as well as relations with
the Charlottesville community.

List acquired from change.org petition: https://www.change.org/p/support-uva-students-
demands-post-aug-11-12.

Thus, these demands also included that “All Confederate and colonizer monuments and
plaques on and around Grounds must be removed. An appropriate place would be in a museum
or in Special Collections” (UVA Graduate Student Coalition, 2017). Sofia alluded to this
demand when she explained how “you can leave history to the history books; we don’t have to
erase it.” In a similar vein, Varon (2018) argues that Confederate memorials promote a
dangerous false equivalency that is undeserving of such glorifying representation:
Confederate memorials such as the Lee statue in Charlottesville are, among other things,
monuments to a false equivalency—to the idea that Confederates are equally deserving of
a place of honor in modern America as Union soldiers. To remove such statues is not to
erase history, as so many have claimed it. It is vitally important to preserve the artifacts
and documents of Confederate history in the places—libraries, museums, national
battlefield parks—designed for such purposes. But Lost Cause memorials…are
themselves erasures of history. (p. 47).

The “Lost Cause” refers to a “tradition emphasiz[ing] the righteousness and blamelessness of the
Confederacy and cast the war as a valiant struggle against overwhelming odds, waged to defend
the constitutional principle of state’s rights…[Robert E. Lee] serve as a model of measured
defiance. That defiance—of Northern political power, of black freedom, of social change—was
at the heart of the Lost Cause mythos and found enduring expression in the Southern landscape
through statues like the Lee monument in Charlottesville” (Varon, 2018, p. 38-39). The Lost
Cause mythos was especially prevalent in the context of UVA as well, for in 1861, 90% of the
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600 students enrolled at the university fought on the side of the Confederacy during the Civil
War (Nelson & Harold, 2018). John Edwin Mason, Associate Professor of History at UVA and
vice chair of the city’s Blue Ribbon Commission on Race, Memorials, and Public Spaces (BRC),
argued that the Lee and Jackson statues symbolize white supremacy in two ways: (1) “they
embody an interpretation of the Confederacy that sees it as an honorable ‘Lost Cause,’” and (2)
the statues reflect “the period in which they were erected—six decades after the end of slavery,
when white Charlottesvillians…had successfully reinvented white supremacy in the form of Jim
Crow segregation” (Mason, 2018, p. 20).
This blatant erasure of history within “Lost Cause” narratives coincided with an
institutional and systemic resistance to racial progress that lasted into the late 20th century. Two
years after the Brown v. Board of Education (1954) decision declaring “separate but equal”
doctrine unconstitutional, U.S. Senator Harry S. Byrd (D-VA) called for a massive resistance
against the Supreme Court’s ruling (Nelson & Harold, 2018). In 1958, Virginia Governor J.
Lindsay Almond Jr. ordered the closing of public schools in Charlottesville, Alexandria, and
Norfolk. Rather than follow the federal court order to integrate schools, the governor closed Lane
High School and Venable Elementary School in Charlottesville for an entire year (Nelson &
Harold, 2018). UVA followed suit, remaining all white and all male until the late 1960s (Harold,
2018). UVA was also one of the last to integrate its undergraduate population, was the last
school in the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) to integrate its sports teams, and did not admit
women into the university until 1970 (Harold, 2018; McInnis, 2019).
As students reflected on the “Unite the Right” rally, they expressed how unsurprising it
was that the white supremacists specifically chose UVA and Charlottesville as the location.
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Edward, a 3rd year white student, explained how the protestors had “200 years of white
supremacy protecting them”:
…if you go back to the 2017 “Unite the Right” rally, it showed – the reason that that was
able to happen is because of that history. The reason that they felt protected in this space.
The reason that they felt like this was a space where they could have that rally is because
they have that 200 years of white supremacy protecting them. They have that. Like,
“We’ve established a precedent. This is our space, not yours. And so, we’re gonna hold
this white supremacy rally.”

Edward believed that the white supremacist protestors felt “protected” in Charlottesville given
their historically intimate relationship with the city. The rally was an effort to re-solidify their
presence and send a message to people of color that they did not belong. Similarly, Lucas, a 2nd
year Hispanic and white student, described how the image of Thomas Jefferson was inextricably
tied to white supremacy, rendering UVA a germane site for the white supremacist demonstration:
Charlottesville and UVA were big proponents during Reconstruction and Jim Crow…so
it’s not surprising that they chose it. And I think it was such a symbol to have Thomas
Jefferson’s name, a Founding Father. And for as long as you can remember, white
supremacists have tied their ties to Founding Fathers. That is based on the principle,
that’s what they wanted and that was what was laid out. So for them to come back when
they felt some sort of threat of equality and progress in the country, it doesn’t surprise me
that they came back to Charlottesville and UVA, because that’s what our roots were also
based in, was racism. Was that history.

Lucas explained that the primary reason for the white supremacists returning to Charlottesville
was to counter the “threat” of equality and progress in the United States. The “roots” of
Charlottesville and UVA’s interconnected racist histories were firmly established on Grounds,
which was symbolized by the statue of Thomas Jefferson at the center of the university. Gabbie,
a 1st year African American student, explained how she felt disturbed by how much the founder
of UVA was glorified by other students:
I think that’s another problem here, how much they worship Jefferson. They don’t – they
just don’t acknowledge how problematic he actually was, and they love mentioning,
“This is Jefferson’s great school. Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson.” They worship him like
he’s a god, and they just don’t care at all because it didn’t affect them.
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Gabbie emphasized how Jefferson was “worshipped” by people at UVA who did not
acknowledge his disgraceful past. This glorification of Jefferson was profoundly similar to the
way some students in the previous chapter described what it means to support Trump. Jessica,
the 4th year Latina student from Clearview College, believed that to be a Trump supporter
required that one “neglect and put aside all the racism and misogyny.” UVA treated their founder
in the same way, venerating his accomplishments while ignoring his abhorrent lifestyle.
For example, on September 12, 2017, student activists at UVA engaged in an antiracist
protest at the Rotunda. The student protest “supported by faculty, clergy, and other community
members began at the president’s home and culminated at base of the Jefferson statue, where
students draped the statue in black cloth” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 110). Teresa A. Sullivan, former
president of UVA, responded to the demonstration in a letter to “alumni and friends of the
University.” In the letter, she condemned the student activists for “desecrating ground that many
of us consider sacred”:
Last night about forty students held a demonstration on the north side of the Rotunda and
as part of this demonstration, they shrouded the Jefferson statue, desecrating ground that
many of us consider sacred. I strongly disagree with the protestors’ decision to cover the
Jefferson statue…Thomas Jefferson was an ardent believer in freedom of expression, and
he experienced plenty of abusive treatment from the newspapers of his day. (Sullivan,
2017, as cited in Woolfork, 2018, p. 112).

Sullivan’s belief that Jefferson endured “abusive treatment from the newspapers of his day” was
also eerily similar to the way Trump claimed that the media was conspiring to taint his public
image after he was accused of sexual assault (The Cut, 2016; Levine and El-Faizy, 2019).
Nonetheless, the intended audience for Sullivan’s statement aligned with the longstanding
institutional commitment to the “Lost Cause”—a narrative that “alumni and friends of the
University” hold with pride along with their potential donations. Andy, a 3rd year white student,
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highlighted how UVA has been the source of this pride for the state of Virginia for troubling
reasons:
I think also in the universities founding, it was founded as a place for white sons of
plantation owners to go in the South so they wouldn’t have to go North and be poisoned
with all these progressive thoughts. So, it was quite literally a side of racist
intellectualism and where eugenics flourish. And so, I think also – and that was
something they were proud of at the time. The state of Virginia has always been so proud
of UVA and have been trying to protect that prideful image of it.

Carson, a 2nd year African American and white student, believed that UVA’s history deterred
Black students from wanting to attend the university:
I think this university in general has 150 years as an all-white institution and that’s not
something that gets just erased overnight. And so when you’re talking about these issues
of making the Grounds a more diverse place, you need to kind of give people like a
reason to actually come here. Like African American students, like why would they want
to come to the University of Virginia of all places? And these little microaggressions with
buildings being named after racists and eugenicists. Our main library, Alderman Library,
is named after a eugenicist researcher who promoted for the elimination of Black people
from the gene pool essentially. So the fact that this is the name of our library is kind of a
problem that may not be consciously perceivable, but if you look at that along with all of
these other little microaggressions, it kind of fosters a climate where it’s not super
surprising that something like August 11th and 12th would happen. Similarly, last year I
went into our graveyard that is like right behind student dorms. It’s like the university
graveyard. And all of the graves there are Confederate Soldiers, except for some
unmarked graves of enslaved laborers, but the vast majority of the graves are Confederate
soldiers. And when I went in there, I saw like little Confederate flags that were like
freshly planted. Somebody before I came, or maybe even a couple days before I had
come, like refreshed the Confederate flag. So, the fact that that kind of sentiment is
pervading our Grounds from a lot of different angles…it’s not extremely surprising that
our enrollment numbers of African American students have capped off in recent years.
It’s not because they’re not getting in, it’s that going to college is a choice and there are a
lot of better options for people of color.

To return to my modified definition of the organizational dimension, Carson alluded to how the
geospatial dimension of UVA influenced the “compositional diversity” (Milem, Chang &
antonio, 2005) outcomes since the structures on campus discouraged Black students from
attending UVA. The implicit messages embedded within these campus artifacts were enough of
an indication that the university prioritized their own history over the wellbeing of Black
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students. Both Andy and Carson’s responses illuminated two key points that I explore further:
(1) UVA’s history as a global leader for eugenic pseudoscience, and (2) the racial composition of
the university that has remained relatively stagnant in regard to the Black student population.
In 1784, Thomas Jefferson published the infamous Notes on the State of Virginia, where
he argued that “African Americans were inferior to whites in both body and mind” (Nelson &
Harold, 2018, p. ix). This set the foundation for more than a century of scientific racism carried
on by the faculty at UVA. For example, in 1859, UVA Professor James Lawrence Cabel
published The Testimony of Modern Science in the Unity of Mankind, where he promoted the
intellectual, physical, and emotional inferiority of African Americans through inaccurate
biological arguments (Reynolds, 2018). Cabel claimed that “white persons were permanently
superior to other races in intellectual, moral, and physical traits, and that black persons were
permanently handicapped by intellectuals, emotional, and physical limitations…Without slavery,
blacks were destined to revert back to their savage nature” (Reynolds, 2018, p. 121). In the early
20th century, UVA President Edwin Alderman “would shape the university into a pioneer of
modern white supremacist ideology” by forming close relationships with leading eugenicists
across the nation (Woolfork, 2018, p. 104). As a result, “University of Virginia fed the eugenics
movement, populating it with citizen leaders, academic spokespersons, scientists, scholars, and
teachers, as well as supplying the Grounds that kept this racist movement fertile for decades”
(Reynolds, 2018, p. 118).
A disturbing element of eugenics was the use of Black cadavers as anatomical subjects
for dissection. These operations took place on UVA Grounds, while the findings were used to
advance eugenics into global popularity (Van Daacke, 2019). This resulted in “more demand for
anatomical subjects and thus more pressure on African American burial Grounds, which were the
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preferred target for anatomical expeditions by students, faculty, and professional grave robbers”
(Von Daacke, 2019, p. 182). For decades after the Civil War, the university maintained its focus
on eugenics as a core component of their intellectual principles. Eugenic pseudoscience
eventually “served as the intellectual justification for Jim Crow laws, for underfunded and
segregated health care, and for diminished public education for blacks, as well as for reduced
funding for social services to ethnic and racial minorities and other vulnerable populations”
(Reynolds, 2018, p. 126).
Both Sofia and Carson specifically mentioned how Alderman Library, named after the
eugenicist and former UVA President Edwin Alderman, served as a microaggression that
students of color endure on their daily walks to class. After my tour with Jordyn, I walked
around campus with a newfound context that dramatically shifted how I felt within the space. I
began to reflect on my own Black history as I walked across the library. I am only four
generations removed from enslavement, as my 2nd great grandmother was purchased in 1837
from a city market in Savannah, Georgia, by a slaveowner named Peter Wilteberger. She was
only fifteen years old at the time and was given the name “Wilhelmena.” Wilhelmena’s real
name was lost on the shores of Madagascar, and along with it, any evidence of my non-colonized
ancestry was buried beneath the sand— its impossible retrieval solidified by imperial design.
Peter raped Wilhelmena while she was working as a kitchen laborer, which is the only reason I
have any trace of a colonizer’s blood within me. I could never imagine walking into a building
named after Peter Wilteberger. As I sat outside of the library, I could not help but wonder if
Wilhelmena would have been subjected to an anatomical dissection by President Alderman’s
request, rendering her body forever imprisoned, even in death.
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The very thought of it allowed me to empathize with students of color at UVA, as the
constant visibility of Alderman’s name was more than enough evidence to decipher the
university’s implicit foundational principles of white supremacy. As white supremacists would
attest, these statues and building names do, indeed, represent an important history. However, just
because someone dies does not mean they deserve to be mourned. As Mason (2018) reminds us,
“they symbolize a white supremacy that will be as permanent as the metal and stone from which
the statues were made” (p. 21). The institution must make a more concerted effort to engage in
practices that may be entirely antithetical to everything it once represented. I return to this in
more detail in my recommendations section (Chapter 7).
For now, I return to Carson’s second key point where he highlighted the racial
composition of UVA (organizational dimension). According to the University of Virginia
Diversity Dashboard, Black undergraduate students are only 6.61% of the student population (the
highest percentage within the last ten years was 8.39% in 2009) (Diversity Dashboard, 2019). In
contrast, U.S. Census data shows that Black people account for 18.3% of the Charlottesville
population (U.S. Census, 2019). Demetrius, a 2nd year Black student, described how the
percentage of Black students at UVA has not changed much since his mother attended the
university in the 1980s:
My mom went here, and UVA has actually gotten less diverse since the 80s. There are
less Black people here than there were in the 1980s. I shit you not. It’s not by much. Back
then it was 6.7 or 6.8 or something like that. My mom told me that this place was called
the Country Club before I actually came here. So, I wasn’t necessarily surprised by what
happened [on August 11th and 12th].

According to many of the student participants, the difference between the racial composition of
UVA and the greater Charlottesville area created a noticeable tension between community
members and UVA students. There was a negative stigma about the Black residents of
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Charlottesville that they were hopeless, perpetual guests in need of saving. For example, Anik, a
3rd year South Asian and Muslim student, described how the approach to community engagement
was motivated by a degrading “white savior complex” approach:
The program that I work with works with like refugees from the Charlottesville area, and
then some of the other people I work with, just the way that they’ll phrase like
interactions with this population, things like – like “when can I help them,” like “how can
I help.” And it's like—you don’t say you’re “helping.” Like you’re working with them.
You’re learning from them as much as they’re learning from you. But there’s this white
savior complex culture of student engagement and the intentions are good for the most
part, but then the implications and the impact of those intentions, they’re not good like all
the time because of those implicit and explicit biases that are present.

The root of the “White Savior Industrial Complex” stems from a colonial ideology that situates
people of color as “barbaric savages” who must be saved by “civilized” white people (Adams,
1988; Wright, 1988; Beck, 1999; Guillory & Ward, 2008). Cole (2012) defined it as “a valve for
releasing the unbearable pressures that build in a system built on pillage,” where “a nobody from
American or Europe can go to Africa and become a godlike savior or, at the very least, have his
or her emotional needs satisfied” (Cole, 2012). Under the banner of “making a difference,” many
of the white saviors “don’t always understand…that they play a useful role for people who have
much more cynical motivates” (i.e., “civilizing” the “uncivilized”) (Cole, 2012). The historical
origins of the white savior complex have since evolved into implicitly racist approaches to
community engagement work. Andy also shared the same perspective as Anik, describing how
the community engagement initiatives at UVA were situated as “charity” rather than a mutually
beneficial relationship:
I also think there’s a difference between a culture of the charity work to Charlottesville
versus partnering and being united with Charlottesville. It’s totally a white savior
complex.

Erica, a 2nd year Black student, explained how UVA students “look down upon” Charlottesville
residents, leading to a disconnect between the two areas:
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…there is such a disconnect between Charlottesville and the University of Virginia.
Because it’s very preconceived like, “Oh, Charlottesville is so white.” It’s not. The
university is white. The community around the university is very Black. And there’s such
a disconnect between those two that these two spaces need to connect more because it’s
not fair for people that live in Charlottesville. [UVA students] look down upon the
Charlottesville residents. You can’t look down upon people that just live here because
you’re just here for four years…and you’re leaving. These people have to live here, and
they have to deal with everything that you leave behind…You’re affecting everything
and everyone around you.

As a result of this noticeable disconnect between UVA and Charlottesville, some Charlottesville
residents are already conditioned to believe that UVA is not a welcoming place for them. Kaitlin,
a 4th year Persian student, described an encounter that her friend had with a group of 6th graders
while she was volunteering at a local middle school:
…my one friend, she volunteers in a middle school. And she has many middle schoolers
coming up to her and – they’re in sixth grade – and they’re telling her, “Yeah. We’re not
going to UVA.” And she’s like, “Oh, don’t say that.” And they’re like, “No, we’re not
going. We know by now.” And if that’s truth just statistically, that stinks. But even just
mentally to be that young and saying something like that is just very disheartening.

These 6th grade students already felt as though UVA was not a welcoming place for them. By 11
years old, there was a collective understanding of the disconnect between UVA and the
Charlottesville community that discouraged them from wanting to attend the university in the
future. Wyatt, a 2nd year white student, noticed that while the experiences of Charlottesville
residents are unavoidably intertwined with UVA, many of his white counterparts did not venture
out into the greater Charlottesville area besides the downtown mall:
…as students, I don’t think we see Charlottesville nearly as much as the community of
Charlottesville sees UVA. I drove around Charlottesville for the first time a couple weeks
ago and saw a different side that I had never seen beyond the downtown mall, beyond
Main Street. And some people never venture out during their four years.

By driving around Charlottesville, Wyatt developed a new appreciation for the city after he
realized there was so much more to see than just the downtown mall. Joaquin, a 3rd year Latino
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and white student who grew up in Charlottesville, described how his perception of UVA has
changed now that he is a student at the university:
I didn’t really notice this a lot when I was younger, but as I’ve gotten older as a student
here, I kind of take notice of the way students conduct themselves with each other and
how they might conduct themselves when they’re outside of the immediate UVA
environment. There’s almost a certain ownership that takes place. I don’t really know
how to describe it, but there’s certain locations. There’s the Corner, the Rotunda, Rugby,
where students tend to occupy. And there’s this sort of viewpoint where they kind of own
this space…But you don’t see a lot of people who live in Charlottesville historically
coming to those locations or really sharing it, so it almost becomes very student-centered.
And I think as a result, you don’t see a lot of these connections with the outside
Charlottesville communities, especially downtown, and other places outside of the
immediate UVA Center…This divide does exist between people that live here and the
people who are students who might not live here historically. It’s just very peculiar… So,
as students become “integrated” with the larger part of the Charlottesville community,
it’s really more like they’re kind of taking it over, and it becomes more of a UVA sphere
without incorporating the people who were originally there.

Joaquin believed that UVA students assume “ownership” over certain parts of Charlottesville,
which he noticed has caused Charlottesville residents to avoid those shared spaces altogether.
Instead of UVA students “integrating” themselves into the Charlottesville community, Joaquin
felt that some students were “taking it over” without acknowledging the permanent residents. As
Joaquin noted, this disconnected relationship between UVA and Charlottesville becomes far
more understandable when considering UVA’s involvement in the gentrification of the city. As
Cassie, a 3rd year Black student, describes:
I think that it’s hard for Charlottesville to influence UVA, because UVA has almost been
like a parasite that has taken over Charlottesville. When I think of Charlottesville, I think
of UVA.

The parasitic nature of UVA has manifested in the university’s territorial expansion and
systemic annexing of the City of Charlottesville. For example, forty years after the demolition of
McKee row, Vinegar Hill—once the epicenter of Charlottesville’s Black community—was
bulldozed in the 1960s in the name of “urban renewal” (Mason, 2018). As a result, “one church
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and thirty businesses had been leveled and 158 families (140 of which were Black) had been
displaced” (Mason, 2018, p. 24). Fifty years later, UVA has continued to dramatically influence
Charlottesville in regard to affordable housing, local businesses, and social impact.
In what Baldwin (2017) calls “UniverCities,” higher education institutions have
historically shaped urban policy, planning, and economic development within their respective
cities. Higher education institutions “are now the dominant employers, real-estate holders,
policing agents, and education and health-care providers in many major cities” (Baldwin, 2017,
p. 3). Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, “there was large-scale economic divestment from urban
areas, followed by the flight of largely white urbanites” (Baldwin, p. 4). However, residents have
recently “flocked back into cities looking for…university-styled urban experiences,” including
coffee shops, concerts, research and job opportunities (Baldwin, p. 5). As a result, “the urban
development of impoverished neighborhoods has been handed over to the for-profit arm of
higher education” (Baldwin, p. 5). This process is advanced by a “public-good paradox,” where
higher education institutions are able to capitalize upon their nonprofit status to “transfer…public
dollars into higher education’s urban developments with little public oversight or scrutiny”
(Baldwin, p. 8). In Baldwin’s (2017) summary of this “public-good paradox,” they explain how
Colleges and universities pay virtually no taxes on their increasingly prominent
downtown footprints. They also reap the benefits of police and fire protections, snow and
trash removal, road maintenance, and other municipal services while shouldering little
financial burden. Homeowners and small-business owners ultimately carry the weight of
inflated property taxes caused by urban campuses, and the cost of rental properties
skyrockets. (p. 8).

While not located in an urban context, the University of Virginia is no exception. Guian
McKee, Associate Professor of Presidential Studies at UVA, conducted a thorough review of
UVA’s impact on the City of Charlottesville’s economy. In alignment with Baldwin’s (2017)
“public-good paradox,” McKee (2018) found that “the UVA Medical Center is the largest private
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employer in the city, and UVA is the largest employer in the wider region…[however] UVA has
not explored whether, or how, it might contribute to solving such issues as workforce housing,
transportation, skill development, local wage growth, regional planning, or the formation of
partnerships both with and among surrounding local governments” (p. 204). Since the land
acquired by UVA is exempt from local and state tax rolls due to their nonprofit status, the
university’s expansion has remained relatively unobstructed. McKee (2018) discovered that the
UVA Foundation held more than $67 million in land, along with nearly $114 million in
buildings. In total, “the Rector and Board of Visitors, the university itself, and the UVA
Foundation own at least ninety-two tax-exempt properties,” which in 2017, had “a total assessed
value of more than $1.02 billion dollars” (McKee, 2018, p. 206). The UVA Foundation’s
property tax payments in 2015 totaled just over $1.33 million; however, if the university did not
have the financial protection of having nonprofit status, the ninety-two properties could generate
approximately $9.7 million in revenue if they were not tax-exempt (McKee, 2018). McKee
(2018) estimates that this could “fund about 12 percent of the city school system’s operating
budget, and it is nearly four times larger than the city’s fiscal 2018 contribution to its affordable
housing fund” (McKee, 2018, p. 207). Instead, the only funds allotted for the city’s fiscal budget
were for “service charges” and “property maintenance charges,” which generated a total of
$398,416 (compared to the potential $9.7 million from foregone taxes) (McKee, p. 207).
While the university does generate substantial economic benefits for the entire region
(including four other counties), UVA “does not accept special responsibility or concern for the
poverty and racial inequality on its own doorstep” (McKee, p. 208). As a result, the substantial
housing demand for university affiliates has “increased housing costs for middle- and lower-
income residents in the city and in nearby areas of the county. Such effects have exacerbated an
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existing shortage of affordable housing…[and] due to limited on-Grounds housing, a high
percentage of students live in neighborhoods near the university, often occupying houses that
would otherwise enter the wider rental or for-sale market” (McKee, p. 210). According to Data
USA (2017), 24.5% of Charlottesville residents live under the poverty line, 59% of whom are
white and 22.3% are Black.
Many of the student participants reflected on what it means to be a student at a university
that has contributed to the territorial expansion and subsequent gentrification of the surrounding
Charlottesville community. Brett, a 4th year white student who also grew up in Charlottesville,
explained how UVA, to an extent, is Charlottesville:
I don't know if it's Charlottesville influencing UVA so much as UVA influencing
Charlottesville. Mainly because we are in a way, Charlottesville. We control so much of
what they do, the billions of dollars we have invested in different things. They have a
final say of what happens in Charlottesville.

Brett highlighted how UVA essentially “controls” what happens in Charlottesville due to their
financial influence. Cassie described how there was little evidence of a “symbiotic relationship”
between UVA and Charlottesville:
Like there’s a whole like fair housing activism going on here, but UVA has taken over
Charlottesville to the point where it’s not like a symbiotic relationship. Like it’s not
something where you strengthen the community you’re a part of. Like people do…go
into the community and do Charlottesville based stuff. Like they volunteer at like the
homeless shelter, and I think there are people who genuinely care about the
Charlottesville community…but I think overall, UVA, they’re very disconnected. We’re
very disconnected from the Charlottesville actual community…like we’re only here for
four years at the end of the day, but these people live here. They work here. They die
here. This is their home. This is temporary for us.

It was interesting to hear how Erica—who previously explained that UVA students “look down
upon” Charlottesville residents—and Cassie both made an effort to humanize the Charlottesville
residents by highlighting how “These people have to live here, and they have to deal with
everything that you leave behind” and “This is their home.” Similarly, Lindsay, a 2nd year white
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student, drew attention to how the disregard for Charlottesville residents impacted the lives of
UVA service workers:
…the majority of the people that work in UVA don’t live even within 15 minutes of
UVA. So, it’s a long commute. And there is a housing crisis where people can’t afford to
live here, but they have to come work here. And that creates a dichotomy of UVA
students versus everybody else—of who gets to afford to live in this city versus who
doesn’t. And I think that residents become resentful of the UVA students because they’ve
taken their housing, they’ve taken their access to a lot of resources. And there’s also a
very negative relationship between UVA students and “townies,” because that’s what
they call them. And it’s not like a homogeneous relationship at all. And it’s also a very
race-based relationship.

Lindsay also made an attempt to humanize the Charlottesville residents, many of whom are
service workers at UVA, and condemned the condescending ideologies of some UVA students
who refer to them as “townies.” Prateek, a 4th year Black and Indian student, suggested that the
university subsidize on-campus housing to help combat the Charlottesville housing crisis:
…the university needs to subsidize their on-Grounds housing because Charlottesville has
an absolutely ridiculous housing crisis. And the reason why is because on-Grounds
housing is super expensive. Therefore, because of that the off-Grounds housing has to
match it because it’s a competition. So, if the university dropped the prices of on-
Grounds housing, it would force off-Grounds housing to lower their prices to remain
competitive. They’re talking about creating an initiative to force second years to live on
Grounds, and I don’t think that’s actually gonna solve the problem. I think that’s a
temporary answer to a much more in-depth issue. And I think the first way to solve it is
through the subsidization of on-Grounds housing. I feel like that would really help the
housing crisis, which in nature is racially motivated…it effects where different races live.
Obviously, the African American community in Charlottesville has historically been
disfranchised, and they financially are doing a lot worse than their Caucasian
counterparts. And this is due to Charlottesville’s long history of – and UVA’s long
history in general of removing land, purchasing it, and making it expensive. And it’s
gentrification and pushing these communities out.

While I cannot necessarily determine the feasibility of Prateek’s recommendation, I
included his response, along with the other participants, to demonstrate how cognizant they were
of their unique positionalities as UVA students. Each of them recognized the importance of
engaging with the community through an egalitarian approach, as they were well aware of the
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debilitating consequences that gentrification has generated in disenfranchising and further
alienating Charlottesville residents.
Nevertheless, while there may be a disconnect between UVA students and Charlottesville
residents, the histories of the university and city are forever intertwined. Thomas Jefferson chose
Charlottesville for the city’s proximity to whiteness, and his university has since evolved into a
space where whiteness has remained proximal to the institutional mission. Since its inception,
UVA institutionalized and intellectually advanced white supremacy while serving as the
epicenter for eugenic pseudo-science. The Ku Klux Klan found solace in Charlottesville,
participating in many of the city’s historic milestones like cheerleaders for a losing team.
Confederate soldiers are eternally memorialized in stone and structure, as statues and building
names continue to legitimize their “Lost Cause” legacies. All the while, enslaved laborers
remained hidden in the shadows of the pavilions as they were forced to build an institution they
could never attend. From cooking and cleaning over boiling hot cauldrons, to suffering from the
abuse inflicted upon them by autocratic students and faculty, for a while their memory would
only be commemorated through illegible plaques and unmarked graves. And in the end, just as it
was in the beginning, people of color continue to be displaced from their homes as Western
imperialism in its contemporary form fulfills its core objective like its forefather, colonialism.
Throughout this section, I explored how the geospatial dimension of UVA influences the
perceptual and behavioral dimensions of the campus racial climate, demonstrating the
interrelated relationship between the internal dimensions of the microsystem of UVA (Milem,
Chang & antonio, 2005). I provided a comprehensive review of the history of both UVA and the
City of Charlottesville to essentially contextualize them as catalysts to the “Unite the Right”
rally. Their interconnected histories have created a foundation of white supremacy that continues
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to buttress the contemporary manifestations of racism permeating central Grounds today. To
understand history oftentimes helps us make sense of the present, and as Biemann (2018)
articulates, “Knowing these histories at once adds a sense of urgency to the events of August
2017 in Charlottesville and removes a sense of surprise and shock from them. Historically
speaking, everything looks familiar and unspectacular: the return of an old tradition, the
repetition of dehydrated tropes, the stubborn resistance to common sense” (Biemann, 2018, p.
58). Rather than framing the City of Charlottesville as an innocent bystander void of
responsibility, we must instead understand that it is “less an idyllic ‘progressive’ town and more
a place where its white supremacist roots await activation” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 101). In August
of 2017, those roots were activated once more, as two centuries of white supremacy climaxed
into two days of irreversible destruction.
Fanning the Flames: President Trump and the “Unite the Right” Rally

“…I still think overall it had to do with this unaddressed problem that took place in
Charlottesville and in many other places in the country about how we deal with our history of
race and how that institution still perpetuates these issues.” – Joaquin, UVA, 3rd year,
Latino/white, he/him/his

The infamous “Unite the Right” rally arguably serves as the apotheosis of white
supremacy on a college or university campus in the modern era. As I have detailed in the
previous section, scholars have deeply interrogated the historical complexities that, in some
ways, operated as the underlying stimulus for the event. The central objective of this section,
however, is to illuminate the experiences of UVA students by investigating how the residual
consequences of the rally continue to impact the campus racial climate. However, before I
engage in this analysis, there was a series of incidents involving the 2016 presidential election
that established an important context for the rally as well.
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Similar to many of the racist incidents described in Chapter 4, UVA was also struck with
an anti-Semitic attack two weeks before the election when someone painted the Star of David
and the word “Juden” on a student apartment building (Hayes, Samaha & Ansari, 2017). A few
days later, two Muslim students discovered the word “terrorist” written on their dorm room door
(Hayes, Samaha & Ansari, 2017). Immediately after Trump’s victory, three campus police
officers drove around yelling “Make America Great Again!” through the speakers of their patrol
vehicles, and the officers were eventually placed on paid leave (Hayes, Samaha & Ansari, 2017).
Three days after the election, a gay student found the words “kill yourself, faggot” written on his
door (Hayes, Samaha & Ansari, 2017). Finally, “a student working in the campus library
received a call from a man spewing misogynistic comments, including calling her a ‘cunt,’ and
claiming that Trump’s victory had given him the right to do so” (Hayes, Samaha & Ansari, 2017,
para. 4). Nearly a year before the rally transpired, the stage had already been set for activation.
The events on August 11th and 12th were merely the climax to an already tumultuous
“Summer of Hate,” as the three months leading up to the rally were also inhabited by a
calculated attack by white supremacists who were outraged over the City of Charlottesville’s
decision to remove a statue of Confederate soldier Robert E. Lee from a local park. The authors
of Charlottesville 2017 reflect on “the role of University of Virginia as a bastion of proslavery
and white supremacist ideology and Charlottesville’s longstanding structural inequalities and
cultural erasures” (Varon, 2018, p. 39). The authors of the book, all of whom are professors at
the University of Virginia, reflected on how the “Unite the Right” rally was the inevitable
consequence of two centuries of shared history between UVA and Charlottesville. Louis P.
Nelson and Claudrena N. Harold begin their edited volume with a historical chronology of
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events spanning from the year 1607 to 2017. The more recent items on the list provided a
timeline of events leading up to the “Unite the Right” rally.
Beginning in February 2017, the Charlottesville City Council voted to remove the Robert
E. Lee statue and rename Lee Park to “Emancipation Park” (Nelson & Harold, 2018). In the
following month, several groups, including the Sons of Confederate Veterans, filed a lawsuit
against the city council for their decision, claiming the removal of the statue violated state law
(Nelson & Harold, 2018). In May 2017, Richard Spencer, founder of alternativeright.com and
alumnus of UVA, led a protest rally in Lee Park along with various white supremacist groups.
One month after the city council voted unanimously to rename Lee Park and Jackson Park,
dozens of Ku Klux Klan members rallied in protest in Emancipation Park, as former UVA
president Teresa Sullivan asked students to stay on campus and avoid conflict (Nelson & Harold,
2018). Two months later on August 10th, Jason Kessler, a UVA alumnus who was the lead
organizer of the Unite the Right rally along with Richard Spencer, filed a federal suit against the
City of Charlottesville after the city initially denied their permit to hold their rally in
Emancipation Park (Nelson & Harold, 2018). However, the next morning, Federal Judge Glen
Conrad ruled that they could proceed with the rally (Nelson & Harold, 2018). This chronology of
events “and their mobilization around the removal of Confederate monuments that enshrine
white supremacy laid the foundation for the more prolonged action scheduled for August 11 and
12, called Unite the Right” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 98).
On the night of August 11th, 2017, an image reminiscent of the years of Jim Crow was
recreated by an estimated 250 white supremacists. The “Unite the Right” rally began with the
white supremacists assembling on Nameless Field, directly behind UVA’s Memorial
Gymnasium, before parading down The Lawn to surround the statue of Thomas Jefferson in the
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center of Grounds. Nearly all of the white supremacists wielded tiki-torches in their hands—an
intentional symbolic nod to a Riefenstahl Nazi propaganda film (Gordon, 2018). The white
supremacists were met by a group of about 30 counter-protestors, some of whom were UVA
students, as physical altercations immediately ensued as the white supremacists shoved, punched,
and sprayed chemical irritants at the counter-protestors (Heim, 2017). Some of the Black
students who were counter-protesting were berated with monkey noises and racist epithets as
they locked arms with their fellow classmates (Heim, 2017). Some others fled to recruit faculty
members for reinforcement but were left empty-handed as they froze in the moment of crisis
(Jenkins, 2018). Willis Jenkins, Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Virginia, was
attending mass at St. Paul’s Memorial Church down the street from the Rotunda when the riots
erupted. He reflected on the moral dilemma he was faced with as a faculty member on Grounds
that day:
I am haunted by that moment. Of course we should not have relayed to the crowd of
untrained people inside the building, many already fearful of the situation outside, an
invitation to confront an armed mob, and of course all of us standing guard could not
have abandoned our post. But I am a faculty member, and those were our students. I
implicitly trusted that university police (who surely, I thought, must be monitoring the
danger) would step in before any bodily harm came to our students. That trust of course
turned out to be naïve. (Jenkins, 2018, p. 165).

Despite the university’s knowledge of the event, there was only one law enforcement
officer on the scene. It was not until several minutes later when the rest of the officers arrived on
campus to intervene (Heim, 2017). According to a report released by the Office of University
Counsel and university police,
…university officers knew that a march was planned as early as 3p.m. The hours between
the first alert and the actual march were spent liaising with white supremacists’ “security”
detail and sharing information with city police. By 9:10p.m., university officers were
stationed along the initial march route, though the white supremacists would deviate from
it…the university made no attempt to impede or halt its progress…the timeline notes that
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at 9:52pm, the UPD “express concern that changed route means that torches will be near
buildings and trees on Grounds.” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 108).

Woolfork (2018) highlighted how “the potential harm, for which university police ‘express
concern’ was the danger the open flames presented to the historic buildings and trees. Three
hundred men marching toward the Jefferson statue is not described as a risk that must be repelled
or mitigated” (p. 108). The incompetent response from university police resulted in student
counter-protestors being injured both physically and psychologically, as the university appeared
to have taken the side of their history rather than the present.
The night of August 11th was only the beginning. The next morning, the white
supremacist protestors and counter-protestors (which comprised of community members,
students, and activists from the surrounding area) assembled in various points in downtown
Charlottesville. Governor Terry McAuliffe declared a state of emergency after violence broke
out between the two groups (Nelson & Harold, 2018). The violence continued to escalate, and at
1:42pm, a car belonging to white supremacist James Alex Fields plowed into the downtown
mall, killing counter-protestor and Charlottesville resident Heather Heyer and injuring nineteen
others (Nelson & Harold, 2018).
Throughout my focus group interviews, I asked students to reflect on the events on
August 11th and 12th, and to describe what it has been like to be a student at UVA in the
aftermath of such a turbulent series of events. Some of the students were freshmen and
sophomores in the summer of 2017, while others were still in high school witnessing their
potential college choice erupt into a national spectacle of white supremacy.
Jenna, a 2nd year white student, was only a rising senior in high school at the time.
However, a few of her friends were a week away from starting their first semester of college at
UVA when the rally occurred:
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I actually had a few friends that were starting their first year right as that was happening.
And just to feel their emotion, and this university that they had been looking so forward
to, it was just such a shock to think they had so much expectation about what this
university stood for them. But then to realize what this university means to white
supremacists and how they value this university…it’s such a different dynamic... It was
hard for them especially…it was hard for them to process. But just recognizing the
history…of how this campus was made and what it still stands for people. People take
pride in the trauma they inflict on other people.

Jenna understood that the university’s reprehensible history has always been a source of pride for
white supremacists. In the same vein, Zara, a 3rd year Black student, believed the white
supremacists “chose Charlottesville for a specific reason”:
And I think like the narrative coming like out of like what happened was very much that
like we didn’t know. But we knew that they knew. And everyone knew like for months
prior because there was community support and community preparation, so the university
had no excuse. And even afterwards the idea was “This isn’t us,” but I think that it very
much is us, and I think that it’s important to realize. You’ve got two alumni who
graduated from here that lead the alt-right. They chose Charlottesville for a specific
reason.

Similar to how Zara emphasized the university’s inadequate response, Cassie, who was an
incoming freshman in the summer of August 2017, expressed her frustration with how the
university handled the situation despite knowing about it hours before:
…I think like no one can understand the gravity of [August 11th and 12th] unless you were
there. Because if you were there you realized like how serious it was. You realized the
poor planning, the fact that administration knew about it and didn’t stop it, the lack of
proper precautions that were taken…But like they didn’t stop it…They kind of just let it
happen and did more like reactive stuff versus actually like stepping up as a university.
And so like knowing all of that, I’m like, damn. But I have no choice to be here. Like it’s
a binding thing for me. My friends were like “Oh, I don’t know if it’s the right school for
you.” And I’m like well…I don’t know if it’s the right one or the wrong one, but I have
to deal with it now.

Cassie described how one cannot truly understand the gravity of the event “unless you were
there.” Alicia, a 3rd year Ecuadorian student, was also an incoming freshman; however, since she
was participating in a summer transition program, she was already living on campus. Alicia
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explained how the event triggered a traumatic emotional, physical, and psychological response
that resulted in her body “shutting down”:
I think it was the worst week of my life here. Like I’ll tell you right now, that week I
completely shut off. I had to go to therapy, like an emergency thing…[because] literally
that week I started losing sense in my body… And it started with my nose, and by the end
of the week I couldn’t feel my legs. Everything was numb. And my therapist, she’s like,
“It’s because you feel unsafe. Your body is trying to protect you.” So that week was so
intense…it gave me such hopelessness for this school, and it got me so scared that
nobody was here for me…my body physically was shutting down in order to protect me
from getting hurt.

Alicia proceeded to describe how her grandmother in Ecuador found out about the white
supremacist rally and tried to prevent her from attending UVA:
…somebody told my grandma…she was crying on the phone telling me like don’t go
there. Like they obviously don’t want people like us in that place, and just hearing her –
like how concerned she was – and she’s halfway across the world.

Alicia paused as she wiped away a tear that began to form beneath her eyelid. She took a deep
breath and composed herself as best she could. She then continued to explain how difficult it was
to be a first-generation student amidst all of the turmoil:
…it was a – like it was a tough thing to do. And to still come here and be like, “Okay,
I’m going to do it,” because like – getting here to this university was like – that was my
only parents’ goal was to get me into college. Like it’s just me, my mom, my dad, and my
sister here in the states. Like they came here for me and my sister to have better
opportunities and better chances. Like how am I going to not go to this place when
they’ve worked so hard to get me here already? Like you know, you start feeling this
guilt and all these different emotions. Like it was just so hard.

Alicia’s response demonstrated how much unaddressed trauma many students still cope
with in the aftermath of the rally. The memories still lingered within her mind, as she remained
trapped within an internal paradox of fulfilling her family’s dreams at a university that became
her nightmare. CJ, a 2nd year Pacific Islander student, also described how a sense of fear still
lingered in his mind despite not being directly involved in the rally. His fear came from his belief
that that something like the “Unite the Right” rally could very well happen again:
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I have this fear of what if it happens again? Because it can happen again. No matter what
they say and the regulations they have in place… even though they put these things in
place, it can always happen. That fear is always there. And like no matter what the Deans
say and that you’re safe, it’s always just lingering in my mind.

Carina also felt like it could happen again, and she believes the university is still not adequately
prepared for if it does:
I think that we’re gonna not necessarily gonna see another August 11th and 12th, but
we’re definitely gonna see kinda this really nasty manifestation of ignorance and bigotry
and sexism and classism. Just all the isms and the phobias. And I don’t think that the
university is adequately prepared for that.

According to Cassie, the expectation and anticipation that something like the “Unite the Right”
rally could happen again stems from her belief that racism and discrimination has become the
“norm” at UVA:
You should expect it. Like you should expect the racism and discrimination to be the
norm. So I feel like that’s what it is here. Like it’s just the norm. Every time I hear about
it, I’m like, “Oh, that’s just UVA.” Like that’s just what it is.

Thus far, the students in this section described what it was like to witness the events on
August 11th and 12th, some directly and others indirectly. However, throughout nearly half of my
24 focus group interviews, the participants frequently referenced one particular student as
someone who was uniquely involved. Armando, a 3rd year Mexican student, referenced this
student during his interview as well:
So I drove up like while it was happening… and I was also in like a group chat that was
with some minority students. And so one of the people that was affected was like a really
important person in the community, and she was hit by the car. So like it was literally like
a live feed. Like we saw – We were literally talking to her and then she stopped
responding, and then we had heard everything that happened.

Alicia described an incident where two university staff members held a meeting with student
leaders a few months after the rally. The staff members were in charge of handling the funds that
the university received in response to the Summer of Hate, which they claimed would be
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allocated for students who had been directly affected. Though, the survivor of the car crash was
in the room, and expressed how she never received any support. Alicia described the meeting:
These two ladies came in, and they were talking about August 11th and 12th, and how all
the funds were being collected…and the survivor spoke up and she’s like, “Where are
those funds? Because I haven’t seen any of that.” And they brushed over her. And so the
fact that they didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t take the time to explain – They were flat out
lying to our faces…and my friend, she was like “I have not seen a cent from them, not a
cent.” And so the fact that that summer was so hard for me because I saw that these
people will lie to our faces knowing that we know the truth. Like they don’t care. That’s
when you realize they really just don’t give a fuck about you.

I eventually had the opportunity to speak with this particular student that everyone kept
referencing. And within minutes of meeting her, I understood why the impact of the white
supremacist attack on her shook the UVA community to its core.
The Resilient Survivor: Natalie Romero

I first met Natalie, a 4th year Latinx student activist, when I walked into the Multicultural
Student Center on my first day at UVA. Throughout a series of focus groups, students continued
to share their praises about Natalie’s resilience and her transcendent leadership, insisting that I
find a way to interview her for the study. Luckily, she was the first person I spoke with as soon
as I walked in that basement door of the Student Union (Newcomb Hall). When I approached a
group of students sitting at a nearby table, I asked if they would be interested in participating in a
focus group since I had a few open time slots available. Before anyone answered, the entire
group turned to face Natalie who was standing behind them. “You’re going to want to talk to
her,” said one of the students, gesturing backwards, “She was there.”
Her presence commanded the attention of everyone in the room without effort. When she
spoke, everyone listened, as they appeared to have a collective respect and admiration for their
elder statesman. When I eventually sat down with her, it felt like I was speaking to a soldier who
was sharing her tales from the battlefield. Except in this case, it was the story of August 11th and
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12th, where she laid her body on the line to defend herself and her peers against the white
supremacist terrorists marching through her community. While the other members of the focus
group answered my questions for the first 15 minutes of the interview, Natalie scribbled notes
onto her consent form with bullet points that read: “affiliated funding,” “parties—white frats,”
“slurs in graffiti,” “mental health resources when asking 4 POC = ‘self-segregation,’”
“Deans ‘cultural camp,’” “emotions + politics,” “‘illegal,’” “Kapital of Konfederacy & KKK,”
“Summer of Hate,” “MAD BOWL,” and “plantation owner.” When she lifted her head to speak,
she turned to me and deeply exhaled. “Sorry,” she said, “I just got a lot of shit to say and I didn’t
want to forget anything.”
The chronology of events provided by Nelson and Harold (2018) was brought to life as
Natalie described what it was like to experience the “Summer of Hate” on the frontlines:
So July 8th is when the KKK came to Charlottesville. I was here, and there were other
first years, so like current third years that were orientees at that time. I was downtown
when the KKK came here, and there were UVA students that were not on the opposing
side of them. They were literally there with rope and like all this crazy shit…I was also
one of the students organizing around August 11th – or August 11th and 12th – the 11th is
when the white supremacists came with their torches and surrounded us at the statue of
Thomas Jefferson right in front of the Rotunda. I was one of the students that was there. I
was spit on. I was thrown liquid on. There was a tiki torch thrown at me. It was like me
and a Black student was next to me, and a disabled student was like further next to us like
in a wheelchair.

As the inferno of white supremacists surrounded their Founding Father, Natalie was caught in
the eye of the storm. The university police, who arrived far too late, attempted to disperse the
crowd to no avail. Natalie was left to question how her university could allow this to happen:
…when I asked the university why nothing had happened or like why nobody was
protecting the students that were there it was like, “We didn’t know,” but there’s like –
there was actual evidence that they had known for a while that that night was going to
happen and they were coming with the torches. Because in the community, at the
Walmart [where the white supremacists purchased their tiki torches], people were
attacking Black couples with their tiki torches.

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Nevertheless, the terror of that night would seep into the following day. Natalie, who just spent
the night being assaulted by Nazis, awoke the next morning with the same resilient mentality.
She rushed to downtown Charlottesville to protect her community once more, a deplorable déjà
vu to the same trip she took two months prior when the KKK held the rally in Emancipation
Park. When she arrived downtown, hundreds of white supremacists, many of whom were
wearing Trump’s “Make America Great Again” hat, clashed with counter-protestors into a
thunderous roar that could be heard, and seen, for miles. A video released by ABC News showed
clips of law enforcement with armored tanks, white supremacists and anti-fascist groups
attacking one another with bats and military-grade shields, and homemade videos of
Charlottesville residents who could see the clouds of smoke and tear gas fill the air just a few
blocks down the road (Proto & Shapiro, 2017). The video also showed a clip of the gray Dodge
Challenger, driven by white supremacist James Alex Fields, plowing through Fourth Street and
taking the life of Heather Heyer and leaving nineteen others in critical condition. Natalie was one
of the nineteen. She was quickly surrounded by counter-protestors who wrapped her head in
gauze and applied pressure to her fractured skull. A simple Google search of her name reveals
the images of her in a hospital bed. But as I talked to her two years after the attack, it was
undeniably apparent that she held no regrets about her activism on that August afternoon. It was
no mystery why so many students praised her as much as they did; she was a warrior in every
sense of the word.
Though, contrary to the university’s claims, Natalie did not receive any financial support.
Despite the university throwing a benefit concert on university Grounds, she described how none
of the money that was raised went to the survivors of the attack:
…August 12th, right? That’s the day that Heather Heyer was murdered. I was one of the
students that was hit by the car, and the university since then has failed – like when they
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had a benefit concert on university Grounds, like Ariana Grande, Stevie Wonder, like a
bunch of people came. None of that money went to any of the survivors. These last two
years they haven’t covered any of my student health – like the little insurance thing, and
I’m like how easy was it for you to do that when it’s like $4,000 in total and you raised
like hundreds of thousands of dollars off of my trauma? Why am I fighting to go to this
school? Like I was one of the students that was at the statue where you failed to answer to
your students. You failed to keep us safe. All of the police officers and the university
police, nowhere to be found.

Without any financial support from the university, her mother created a GoFundMe fundraiser to
help cover the medical expenses. Created on August 13, 2017, her mother wrote in the
description:
At a counter-protest for the Charlottesville White Supremacy rally, a 20 year old (my
daughter, a Houston native) was one of the people who got hit by a car. She's in the
hospital and we really will appreciate any help for the recovery expenses. Natalie does
not have health insurance at this time and has sustained skull fractures among other
injuries from the attack. Thank you and God bless you. (Chaves, 2017).

They were able to raise $154,355 from public donations, surpassing their goal of $120,000.
Without the financial assistance from the generous donors, Natalie would have been left with a
lifetime of medical debt. Regardless, the university added insult to the injury, as the benefit
concert proceeded without benefitting the student who needed it most.
Weeks after the attack, Natalie organized a meeting with university police that was
moderated by a UVA dean. However, Natalie described how the dean did not accommodate her
request to have an officer removed the room after she noticed him wearing a “Blue Lives
Matter72” band on his arm:
…my dean was pretty disrespectful in a situation in which I was being targeted by white
supremacists. I asked the dean if we could have a meeting with cops, and one of the cops
that came in was wearing a “Blue Lives Matter” band. So I asked her to tell him to leave.

72 Russell (2017) provides three reasons why “Blue Lives Matter” is a problematic slogan: (1) it makes working in
law enforcement a social identity equivalent to race; (2) it misconstrues history because “Blue lives” have never
lived under erasure, where their lives were considered less than, disposable, and constitutively hostile to order; and
(3) it misrepresents the present experience of the social life of police. What is more, the slogan is intended to mock
“Black Lives Matter,” a slogan associated with the Movement for Black Lives—an organization that is committed to
combatting police violence against Black people.
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I was like “I’m not going to talk to this cop.” More specifically because I just got hit by a
car in a rally where everyone had “Blue Lives Matter” patches, tattoos, hats, shirts, flags.
Why the fuck would I want to talk to him? But she told me that I was exaggerating when
I asked her to tell the cop to leave, and when I started crying, she was telling me that I
needed to stop overreacting.

Despite the dean knowing about Natalie’s experience with law enforcement, Natalie was still
forced to compromise. Rather than enacting a culturally and psychologically sensitive response,
the dean criticized Natalie for “overreacting.” However, this would not be the last time Natalie
was mistreated by a university official. At an orientation event with incoming freshmen the
following year, Natalie was invited to share her experiences during one of the sessions.
However, Liya, a 4th year Ethiopian student who was one of the orientation leaders, described
how a university administrator interrupted Natalie and prevented her from answering any more
questions:
The same girl that was a survivor of August 11th and 12th, she was an orientation leader
with me as well, and like at first I thought that would be very valuable for the students to
be able to hear her experience…but I remember after one orientation, one of our
supervisors or a dean or something pulled her aside and basically had her sit it out
because of all she was saying. Like they were basically silencing her, and I was like
“Why would you even give her the position if you wouldn’t even let her tell her story?”
And that was the big theme of orientation—sharing your story…But like you’re silencing
her, and you knew…that she had been through this, and you knew the type of person she
is where she would be blunt and honest about her experience, so why have it be a
symbolic thing to have her in this position if she can’t even speak her truth?

This appeared to be a pattern of institutional behavior in regard to disciplining student activists.
While the white supremacists were free to carry out their terror on UVA Grounds under the
justification of “free speech,” student activists were silenced, and in some instances even
punished, for attempting to extinguish the wildfire burning beneath their feet.
The Wildfire: Trump’s Presidential Rhetoric, Free Speech, and Student Activism at UVA

On October 7, 2017, three UVA student activists were arrested for trespassing at the
university’s Bicentennial Launch celebration (Nelson & Harold, 2018). The three students held
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up a banner on stage that read “200 years of white supremacy,” and within minutes, were
removed by campus police officers. Yesenia, a 4th year Honduran student, helped organize the
activist demonstration, and explained how the only white student protestor on stage had to ask to
be arrested after two of the Black student activists had been given no such choice:
UVA was having its Bicentennial Celebration, so this weekend was huge. Like literally
alumni came back, it was like a ticketed event in the lawn area. There was just a lot of
people of all ages and current students were there as well, even faculty…It was a huge
thing. So a couple of us, with tickets – I just want to make that known – we went and
disrupted the celebration. There were three folks that held a sign that said “200 years of
White supremacy,” and the rest of us, we were just there. They were in front of a
jumbotron, right? And so like we’re literally facing like a shit ton of people, and the rest
of us, it was dark out, and so we had just turned on our flashlights on our phones to put it
towards them, and they were covering their faces with the banner. So before this action
we had said that like we’re not going to pay attention – like we’re not going to obey
verbal cues. So like if we’re told by UPD or any of the deans or whatever to get down
and like stop doing this, we’re not going to do it… Long story short, they end up
arresting two of the people immediately who were both Black, and the third person, she
was a white girl who essentially asked to be arrested herself. And her standpoint on doing
that was just like, “Why are you arresting them? I’m doing literally the same exact
thing.” They gave her like three chances to get down, meanwhile the other two were
immediately arrested as soon as they were down. They ended up letting her go, too.

Liya noted how the immediate response from UPD to arrest the student protestors was drastically
different than the university’s “free speech” rationale that was granted to the white supremacists
on August 11th:
And I can understand the whole like being a public university thing so you have to do
certain things, but you flip it and you want to punish student protestors for exercising
their same rights? That’s the thing where I don’t fucking get, like you need to keep it
consistent.

The Bicentennial Celebration protest, and the subsequent disciplining of the student activists, is a
direct manifestation of what I discussed in Chapter 5. I provided a comprehensive chronology of
pivotal legislative decisions pertaining to free speech on college campuses, including Schenk v.
United States (1919), Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire (1942), Dennis v. United States (1958),
Brandenburg v. Ohio (1969), and Doe v. University of Michigan (1989). I then incorporated
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Davis’ (2017) analysis from their Protest Policy Project (PPP) to provide an analytical lens for
which to interrogate anti-activist policies on college campuses. My conclusion ended with my
central, guiding metaphor, where I demanded that higher education institutions protect their
students from hate speech and racial violence by choosing the side of the oppressed rather than
the oppressor. If not, students will be cast into the wildfire created by the cataclysmic inferno of
Trump’s rhetoric (and the mirrored rhetoric of his followers), subsequently establishing racial
violence as the norm in the process. In this subsection, I am continuing my analysis of free
speech, activism, and power by investigating how these compounding elements have collectively
impacted UVA throughout the Trump presidency.
On August 11, 2017, the Grounds of the University of Virginia became the epicenter of
the wildfire’s destruction. The white supremacists were given permission to wield their tiki-
torches and march down the Lawn, and along with the delayed response from law enforcement,
the university’s unwillingness to interject was enough of an indication that the “the distance
between the university’s white supremacist past and this current eruption was much closer than
two hundred years of elapsed time would suggest” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 108). This allowed for
the white supremacists to engage in “risk-free racism,” where the material consequences were
entirely sustained by vulnerable minoritized groups (Gillborn, 2009). In contrast, the
administrative decisions to reprimand the student activists at the Bicentennial Celebration and
silence students like Natalie Romero who wished to share their stories suggests that there is a
double standard in regard to who has access to free speech protections. What is more, the
decision to only arrest the Black student protestors reveals that there are unequal, racially
motivated biases at play as well. Woolfork (2018) asks a question that is central to this
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dichotomy: “Why has the university arrested more people for protesting white supremacy than
for promoting white supremacy?” (p. 98).
Scholars have situated this question within the specific context of the “Unite the Right”
rally. As the series of Supreme Court cases analyzed in the previous chapter have demonstrated,
there is an “almost insurmountably high bar” to reach “before [the Supreme Court] will punish
those who advocate or incite illegal action: the advocacy must be explicit, the illegality
advocated must be imminent, and the incitement must produce an actual likelihood of that
imminent illegality” (Schauer, 2018, p. 63). As a result of these strict regulations, “under
American law there is no such category as ‘hate speech.’ This principle mattered a great deal in
Charlottesville. It meant that when Jason Kessler applied for a permit to use a public park for the
Unite the Right rally for August 12—or indeed, when the Ku Klux Klan applied for a permit for
July 8—the City of Charlottesville had no power to reject these groups” (Kendrick, 2018, p. 71).
While it may be natural to advocate for higher education officials (and U.S. government
officials) to have the ability to limit racist hate speech, such power is underlined by an
unpromising history. If the past has taught us anything, it is that we must be hesitant to concede
such power to these governing officials, who have historically comprised of majority white men,
as there is far more evidence to conjure pessimistic predictions than to assume the possibility of
racially equitable and egalitarian outcomes. Kendrick (2018) explains how the U.S. has
a terrible track record with regulation. We have a history of censoring abolitionist
pamphlets in the South before the Civil War, of punishing socialists…during World War
I, of prosecuting a large-scale witch hunt against Communists during the McCarthy era,
and of leveraging the most repressive speech rules of the time to allow Southern states to
target the NAACP and block out-of-state newspapers’ coverage of the civil rights
movement. History suggests that, when it comes to speech, the cure has arguably been
worse than the disease. (p. 74).

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Kendrick (2018) argues that this is “precisely why censorship is a pervasive feature of repressive
regimes” (p. 73). It is rather unlikely to assume that people of color will ever be granted the
benefit of racial equity if the possessors of censorship power do not represent minoritized
populations.
University of Virginia Law Professor Frederick Schauer situated the complexities of free
speech doctrine in the context of his university. He explained how university administrators were
caught in a legislative dilemma since they were functioning within a public institution on state
land:
The arrival of torch-carrying neo-Nazis to Grounds August 11th presented a more
nuanced public-forum issue. As a public institution on state land, the university’s open
spaces are subject to the First Amendment, but they are also subject to regulation, so long
as it is content-neutral regulation…The administration may, for example, limit the use of
its property to those who have some connection to the university, but it cannot favor
certain connections over others based on a group’s views or politics. So it was that UVA
found itself forced to allow demonstrations by those whose views essentially the entire
university community found abhorrent. (Schauer, 2018, p. 66).

Unlike Clearview College from the previous chapter, the microsystem of UVA is dictated by the
other ecological systems in regard to free speech policies. Since UVA is a public institution, free
speech is regulated by the constitution (macrosystem) rather than by “moral or philosophical
questions” (Civil Liberties Law Review, 2015, p. 3). However, regardless of the legislative free
speech permissions granted to the white supremacists in this specific scenario, the university still
had no excuse to leave their students without adequate protection. Natalie, along with her fellow
counter-protestors, were surrounded by violent racists with no law enforcement in sight. It has
already been discovered that the university knew about the rally hours before it occurred, yet the
only involvement from law enforcement was when they were “liaising with white supremacists’
‘security’ detail and sharing information with city police” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 108). The
university can reasonably assert that they have no legal autonomy to prevent the rally from
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happening, but there is no justification for the trauma Natalie and her peers had to endure on that
August night.
Although free speech arguments are often bounded by the objectivity of constitutional
law, critical race scholars have argued for decades that “the constitution is not colorblind”
(Crenshaw,1989; Gotanda, 1991; Harris, 1993; Saito, 1997; Crenshaw, 2011). This notion is
particularly evident in the context of public universities that are regulated by the constitution73.
For example, Gotanda (1991) asserts that “a color-blind interpretation of the Constitution
legitimates, and thereby maintains, the social, economic, and political advantages that whites
hold over other Americans” (p. 3). And, to return to Gotanda’s (1991) “nonrecognition of race”
theme mentioned in Chapter 5,
Nonrecognition is a technique, not a principle of traditional substantive common law or
constitutional interpretation. It addresses the question of race, not by examining the social
realities or legal categories of race, but by setting forth an analytical
methodology…Because the technique appears purely procedural, its normative,
substantive impact is hidden. Color-blind application of the technique is important
because it suggests a seemingly neutral and objective method of decision-making that
avoids any consideration of race. (p. 17).

A public college or university can essentially utilize “nonrecognition” as a procedural
technique to justify racist hate speech on their campus by exploiting the constitution as a crutch,
and in the process, preserve white supremacy with legal protection. Thus, the unavoidable
outcome of allowing racist hate speech on college campuses through the rationale of “free
speech” doctrine is the following: if those in power (who we cannot trust will operate under
racially egalitarian motives74) will remain in power, then higher education institutions must
understand that there will forever be a “disparate impact—a differential impact on different

73 As opposed to private institutions who are not necessarily regulated in the same manner, but have the moral and
philosophical expectation of acting in the best interests of their students (Civil Liberties Law Review, 2015;
Thomas, 2019).
74 As argued by Kendrick (2018).
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people because of their race” (Golubuff, 2018, p. 87). This positions students of color as
perpetual targets, while white supremacists, as well as white student activists (as illustrated by
the university’s unequal disciplinary actions from the Bicentennial Celebration protest), are
granted the exclusive privileges of free speech protections.
Thus, if higher education institutions are unwilling to adopt an anti-racist positionality in
fear of legal repercussions, then the least they can do—if racial equity is truly an institutional
commitment—is protect student activists, and student activists of color specifically, when they
take it upon themselves to valiantly challenge white supremacy. However, as evidenced by the
university’s decision to discipline student activists of color and allow white supremacists to
terrorize their campus, UVA doubled-down on their historical commitment to maintaining white
supremacy in Charlottesville and beyond. Thus, the racist violence on August 11th and 12th “did
not disrupt the social order: it was the social order” (Woolfork, 2018, p. 110, emphasis added).
Throughout the focus group interviews, students reflected on this “social order” in
various ways. Kayla, a 2nd year white and Japanese student, described how the university’s
response to the rally was “disheartening” since their pseudo-neutral “free speech” justification
for allowing the white supremacists onto campus may possibly lead to it happening again in the
future:
…the way they talk about it – it’s almost disheartening. I feel disheartened after the
conversation, because they were like, “Basically, it could happen again. There’s nothing
we can do. Freedom of speech.” And that’s – as a minority student – that’s not something
you want to hear going into your university where this is obviously already a concern.
You’ve thought about it before you accept the offer and stuff. But that’s disheartening to
hear.

Kayla’s perception of the university had already been partially diminished before she ever
arrived on campus. She described how the rally was an influential factor in deciding whether she
wanted to attend UVA, and the university’s reluctant retrospective response was “disheartening”
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to incoming students of color. Marcus, a 2nd year Moroccan student, understood that the
university had to abide by constitutional regulations, but he emphasized how America’s flawed
history has demonstrated that legality does not necessarily equate to morality:
I think that’s where it gets tricky because I feel like public universities have to go about
things differently because they’re state funded and they’re under the jurisdiction of the
law, they have to abide by the U.S. Constitution, which is protected by free speech…So, I
guess if you’re looking at it from a legal perspective, you can see why they have to play
on neutral ground. But I think we’re all, at this point, in agreement that certain things are
above the law. And the common example is how slavery was once legal and speaking out
against that was breaking the law, and it’s the same thing here…just because something
is protected by the law doesn’t mean that it isn’t still harmful, and if it means setting a
precedent as a university to change those ideologies, I think – I mean I can’t imagine an
administration doing so, but the student body can push back against that and set that
precedent if they need to. And I – frankly I’m looking into doing so.

Marcus used the legality of slavery as a prime example of how something like racist hate speech
should not necessarily be condoned or justified by legislative arguments. He urged the university
to serve as an example of positive change rather than succumbing to the comfort of neutrality.
Just as the university was once the leading force in developing and promoting eugenic pseudo-
science, the university can seek redemption for their reprehensible history by becoming the
leading force of equity and justice, if they so choose. However, it will be undeniably difficult to
radically change UVA’s deeply embedded principles. Christian, a 2nd year African American
student, felt that the administration’s justification for the white supremacists’ right to free speech
aligned with core values established by the university’s founder in the early 1800s. However,
while “free speech” and “freedom to protest” were among these values, white supremacy was as
well:
Well, this is the school of Thomas Jefferson, so of course they’re gonna allow – they say
everyone has a freedom of protest and a freedom of speech, so I guess that’s why they
allowed that to happen. Also, I just think it’s Thomas Jefferson’s school. White
supremacists can do what they like at UVA.

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Valeria, a 3rd year Latinx student, also felt that UVA would not make any drastic changes to help
improve the campus racial climate for students of color because the university is “so American”:
UVA will never do anything about that because they’re so – I don’t even know what to
say – American? They’re like, “Oh well, freedom of speech,” but like that freedom of
speech – that puts Black people and people of color in danger.

Nicole, a 2nd year Latinx student, pushed this idea even further, stating that UVA is essentially a
microcosm of the U.S.:
I feel like we’re all pretty conscience that the racial climate is weird in the U.S. right
now. And UVA is like a little tiny extreme version of that. Like it seeps into
everything...if U.S. bureaucracy were a school, it would be UVA.

The idea that the campus racial climate of UVA is a “little tiny extreme version” of America was
similar to what students expressed in the previous chapter in regard to political polarization on
their campuses. For example, Simone, the 5th year student from El Camino State University,
explained how “…the climate of our campus alone is a direct mirror of what’s happening in the
nation as a whole.” Similar to the racial issues facing UVA, the racial issues facing the nation are
also the result of centuries of slavery, colonialism, and white supremacy. Pedro, a 3rd year
Mexican student, described how Trump is the culmination of what “America has always been”:
I mean, everything that America embodies for the past however many years it’s existed,
it’s like this sort of ahistorical revisionism where people are like, “Oh, this is not who we
are.” It’s like no, literally Trump is just an iteration of what America has always been.

Each of these students attributed their racialized college-going experiences to macro-level
political issues. Rather than conceptualizing their experiences within the isolated context of
UVA, the students understood that the university’s response to the rally was a byproduct of
various systemic factors that were augmented by the university’s flawed history. In the next
subsection, students will describe how they believe Trump “reactivated” (Woolfork, 2018) the
university’s history of white supremacy through his rhetoric.
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The Influence of Trump’s Presidential Rhetoric at UVA. Thus far, I have investigated
how Trump’s presidential rhetoric has influenced the behavior, ideologies, and incident
occurrences on college campuses within a national context (Chapter 4), which was then
narrowed to examine four colleges and universities in California (Chapter 5). To conclude this
section, I focus on how Trump’s presidential rhetoric has influenced UVA in particular, utilizing
its unique racial climate as a germane exemplar for analytical and theoretical sensemaking.
Recalling an age-old saying told to us in our childhood, Schauer (2018) states that “Our
parents admonished us that ‘stick and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt
you,’ but they were wrong. Insults, epithets, and racially abusive language can produce mental
anguish and contribute to the marginalization of targeted groups, encourage illegal
discrimination, and help create an atmosphere in which racial violence increases,” (Schauer,
2018, p. 64). In the context of the “Unite the Right” rally, sticks and stones did break some
bones, while the names and words fueled the wildfire.
As mentioned in Chapter 4, former KKK grand wizard David Duke publicly endorsed
Donald Trump for president during the white supremacist rally, saying, “This represents a
turning point for the people of this country. We are determined to take this country back. We are
going to fulfill the promises of Donald Trump. That’s what we believe in, that’s why we voted
for Donald Trump, because he said he’s going to take our country back” (Nelson, 2017). Since
1921, the KKK has solidified their place in Charlottesville. From recruiting their members at
UVA events to having their image forever memorialized in a UVA yearbook (Nelson & Harold,
2018), the white supremacist organization returned to the city in 2017 like a college student
returning home to their parents’ empty nest. Thus, Duke’s decision to endorse Trump during the
rally was no anomaly, but rather a furthering of tradition.
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Trump validated this tradition two days after the rally, stating at a press conference, “I
think there is blame on both sides… You had a group on one side that was bad. You had a group
on the other side that was also very violent. Nobody wants to say that. I’ll say it right now”
(Trump, as cited in Shear & Haberman, 2017). Although Trump called the white supremacists
“bad” (or “also very violent”—an important distinction that depends on whether he felt the
counter-protestors were the ones who were responsible for the violence), Varon (2018) argues
that he was employing a false equivalency between the two groups. They argue that “Trump
attempted to draw a parallel between neo-Nazi rioters, the Ku Klux Klan, and anti-Semites on
the one hand, and counter-protestors on the other” (Varon, 2018, p. 37). His decision to condemn
the white supremacists and the counter-protestors implicitly suggested that both viewpoints were
deserving of legitimacy. To return to Shafer (2017) and Picca and Faegin’s (2007) racialized
interpretations of Goffman’s (1956) “frontstage-backstage” theory, Trump’s rhetoric essentially
allowed the white supremacists in Charlottesville to act on the frontstage alongside the counter-
protestors, criticizing their performance as if they were both auditioning for the same play. When
in reality, the white supremacists should have never been in the running for consideration in the
first place.
The student participants at UVA expressed how the validation of Trump’s rhetoric
inspired the “Unite the Right” rally. Marcus specifically mentioned Trump’s response to the rally
as a possible source of validation for the white supremacists:
And even going back to the election, the fact that the President was able to confidently
say in public that there were fine people on both sides – it tells you everything that you
need to know about people who are supporting him and looking past that despite
everything that he said… there’s no way you can justify that. There were not fine people
on both sides...They’re neo-Nazis.

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Brett, a Charlottesville resident who previously stated that UVA is Charlottesville to an extent,
believes that David Duke’s endorsement of Trump demonstrated how radical conservatives see
Trump as an “icon”:
I don't know if I would say that what happened in Charlottesville was an anomaly, so
much as just like what happens when people feel emboldened to express who they
are…But yeah, definitely in Charlottesville, David Dukes endorsement of him definitely
helped. Alt-righters see Trump more as an icon of their movement.

Brett specified how “definitely in Charlottesville” David Duke’s endorsement was particularly
influential, and Charlottesville’s history with the KKK is a discernible reason. However, based
on Valeria and Nicole’s logic that UVA is essentially a microcosm to the U.S., Duke’s decision
to endorse Trump at the rally because he was “going to take our country back” can also be
interpreted as “and we’re going to take UVA and Charlottesville back, too.” The “alt-right
movement” that Brett mentions is a revival of white supremacist traditions where “Lost Cause”
narratives are the motivating force (Varon, 2018). In an analogous fashion, Trump’s “Make
America Great Again” campaign slogan implicitly suggests a return to de jure racism (Bobo,
2017)—a systemic manifestation of white supremacy that was superseded by Black resistance,
similar to the end of the Confederacy. Even so, while Duke and his followers attempted to take
UVA and Charlottesville back during the rally, they believed their “icon,” Donald Trump, was
going to do the same for their country.
Joaquin believes that Trump aggravated an already racially polarized political climate.
Rather than being the source of racism in Charlottesville, Trump “exacerbated” racial tensions
that previously existed:
Charlottesville also has a very long history of things, such as racist monuments. It’s one
of the biggest locations of slavery as an institution, gentrification, and a lot of other
things that still contribute to that problem. In terms of the election itself, I think it kinda
acted as a bit of a catalyst to accelerate some of the tensions that you see. And I
understand that August 11th and 12th sort of began after Charlottesville chose to remove
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a controversial monument of General Lee. And I understand that sort of inflamed
tensions, and I think it was again exacerbated by the recent election. But I still think
overall it had to do with this unaddressed problem that took place in Charlottesville and
in many other places in the country about how we deal with our history of race and how
that institution still perpetuates these issues. But again, I think it’s more than just the
election itself.

Joaquin’s belief that the rally was a result of “more than just the election itself” was also a
perspective shared by Carson. Carson argued that Trump did not cause the rally, rather, he was
an “aggravating” force that helped intensify racist sentiments:
Also, knowing what sparked this thing – all the events that happened on August 11th and
12th. Obviously, we have a new President with these views that are kind of pervading a
lot of the American psyche. But also, it was organized around the Robert E. Lee statue
being taken down and all of that controversy. So, I think that it wasn’t just this political
climate that was caused by this man that caused August 11th and 12th. I think it was
yeah, this is the reality of America. We do have this kind of political climate and this man
is kind of aggravating a lot of these racist sentiments. However, I don’t think it’s fair to
directly say that he caused August 11th and 12th.

In a sense, Joaquin and Carson both argue that Trump was not necessarily the source of the
wildfire, he was just fanning the flames. As a result, Prateek mentioned that white supremacist
groups have established a more visible presence around Charlottesville ever since the rally. More
specifically, a white supremacist group called the “Proud Boys” started to plant stickers on
students’ apartment buildings around the city:
With the whole Charlottesville riot ordeal, a lot of the white supremacists had cited
Trump as an inspiration, obviously, for speaking his mind and not being afraid to face
criticism for his convictions. But even this year, a couple weeks ago, friends of mine had
found Proud Boy stickers placed near his apartment complex, which was a facet of the
group that had been terrorizing Charlottesville back in August of 2017. And I think it
would be in poor taste to not associate the Proud Boys with Trump since they consider
Trump almost a martyr. And I think the fact that the Proud Boys still root around
Charlottesville and are apparently planting stickers around kind of bolstering their white
supremacist notions – I think the way Trump conducts himself really does boost these
people and make them feel comfortable doing so.

The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) wrote an extensive profile about the Proud Boys
organization, stating that “…the Proud Boys are self-described ‘western chauvinists’ who
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adamantly deny any connection to the racist ‘alt-right,’ insisting they are simply a fraternal group
spreading an ‘anti-political correctness’ and ‘anti-white guilt’ agenda” (Southern Poverty Law
Center, 2019). Prateek’s assessment that “it would be in poor taste to not associate the Proud
Boys with Trump” appears to be correct. The SPLC profile explained how “There is an obvious
overlap between their views and those of President Donald Trump, whose election in 2016
played a clear role in increasing Proud Boys’ membership. A red MAGA hat is nearly as
prominent at Proud Boys gatherings” (Southern Poverty Law Center, 2019). Furthermore, Jason
Kessler, UVA alumnus and organizer of the “Unite the Right” rally, was a former member of the
“Proud Boys.” However, he has since been “expelled” from the group after they condemned the
violence that occurred at the rally (Southern Poverty Law Center, 2019).
Unlike Kayla, who previously mentioned that she believed another “Unite the Right”
type of rally is within the realm of possibilities, Lucas felt that another rally would not occur
since people, including his supporters, have become desensitized to Trump’s rhetoric:
I don’t know if you can necessarily attach President Trump’s presidency with the events.
They were definitely supported and brought up because they felt comfortable enough
with his tone and how he’s talking about race to be like, okay, this is our time to come
back out. But I don’t know if like specifically on UVA’s Grounds if that would trigger
those actions again. Because we’ve already gone through four years of his presidency, so
I don’t think you necessarily have the shock factor of the statements that he says that are
so wrong…People who support him are used to that now. So, it’s not like, oh, we’re
openly gonna do this because we feel compelled to because we think this is okay because
a presidential candidate is saying this…Now it’s kind of like, he’s been President for four
years, I don’t know if it would have the same reaction as it did then.

Lucas posits that Trump’s followers will not engage in another large-scale public display of
white supremacy because there is no longer a “shock factor” that will garner national attention.
However, in an interview with The Chronicle of Higher Education, Carla Hill, an investigative
researcher for the Anti-Defamation League’s Center on Extremism, explained that the reason
white supremacists view college campuses as common locations for their public demonstrations
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is because “It has a lot of effects: It’s put in the paper there, people seeing it has an effect, the
campus having to denounce it, the media reporting on it gets more attention, the proof of them
doing it, the images of the material on campus, the people complaining about it. It’s
multipurpose; it creates more propaganda for them to use for their cause” (Hill, as cited in Kerr,
2018b). It does not appear that the effects laid out by Hill will change in the near future. Colleges
and universities will—and should—document, publicize, and denounce any public displays of
white supremacy. However, since this undivided attention is a motivating factor behind these
events, and college and university officials cannot simply disregard them as it would be ethically
irresponsible, these mutually dependent conditions leave higher education institutions entrapped
within an inescapable catch-22. Nonetheless, Marcus believes that Trump’s rhetoric and his
legitimization of white supremacy remains relatively unchallenged at UVA due to the “neutral”
approach taken by the administration:
It empowers the wrong people, it makes them think that their ideas are justified, they’re
legitimized, and that whatever they’re fighting for is gonna have a space to be fought for
because he’s opened this up for them. They’re like, yeah, our president thinks that what
we’re doing is worthwhile and we’re gonna keep doing it. Because not only that, our
university is allowing us to and is defending us in doing that because our administration
likes to be very neutral in things that they shouldn’t be. And that, I feel like, is another
way of just justifying that behavior because…they’re not denouncing us, and we’re not
being condemned for it so we can continue to speak out about it. I realize you wanna be
neutral, but you can’t allow a space where these ideas exist, you are minimizing people’s
identities, you cannot let them get away with that. It’s one thing to voice your opinion,
but if your opinion is literally delegitimizing someone’s existence, that’s a whole other
conversation to be had, it’s not a neutral ground.

Asher D. Biemann, Professor of Religious Studies at UVA, would agree, emphasizing that “there
is a right side and a wrong side…[and] we must, from time to time, make an effort, even at the
risk of oversimplifying the world, defend the right one” (Biemann, 2018, p. 58). The “wrong
side,” according to Marcus, is for the administration to allow rhetoric and behavior on Grounds
that minimizes people’s identities and delegitimizes someone’s existence. A neutral approach,
430
while intended to be diplomatic, is also the “wrong side,” as it perpetuates colorblind ideologies
that neglect the racialized experiences of students of color. Although the parameters of what
qualifies as defending “the right one” are understandably subjective, it is worth the “risk of
oversimplifying” to consider the degradation of someone’s humanity as universally intolerable
(Biemann, 2018, p. 58).
The findings thus far demonstrate why UVA officials must consider the influence of the
external sociopolitical environment when working to improve their campus racial climate. The
“Unite the Right” rally, while still a relative outlier, exemplified the threatening potential of
unfiltered white supremacy. The University of Virginia’s historical legacy of slavery,
microcosmic political structure, and national reputation was activated by Trump’s rhetoric into
an inevitable eruption, leaving university officials and students struggling to pick up the pieces.
However, in the next section, students reflect on how they believe the university employs a
“performative equity” approach to combatting racism on Grounds, which has consequently
placed the burden onto the students themselves.
Performative Equity: Student Labor and the Exploitation of Student Self-Governance

“It’s just the whole student self-governance thing…It’s really abusive here. They exploit us.” –
Camila, UVA, 3rd year, Latina, she/her/hers

One of the benefits of a microsystem-level analysis is the ability to thoroughly engage
each individual dimension of the microsystem. Thus far, I have demonstrated the interrelated
relationships between the geospatial, organizational, perceptual, and behavioral dimensions of
UVA’s campus racial climate. However, this section will explore the organizational dimension
of UVA in more depth, which is a dimension that was not comprehensively assessed in the
previous two chapters. This section will illustrate how some of the campus racial climate issues
have existed prior to the arrival of the Trump presidency, most notably pertaining to the
431
longstanding organizational processes and procedures that have influenced compositional
diversity outcomes and students’ perceptions of UVA’s campus racial climate.
There are only so many incremental changes an institution can make before the students
begin to realize how little distance has been travelled and how far you still have to go. In the last
two years of my undergraduate tenure at UCLA, me and my fellow student activists from the
Black Male Institute (BMI) formulated a list of demands for the university administration to
implement. What was most concerning about this list was how identical it was to the demands
we found in the university’s historical archives from Black student organizations of the past. It
appeared that progress was much slower than we imagined, and we were far closer to the starting
line than to the finish. My definition of “performative equity” aims to articulate this stagnant
evolution by amalgamating existing critiques of diversity and inclusion initiatives that have been
proposed by higher education administrators. The term is conceptualized through Harris, Barone
and Davis’ (2015) critical analysis of diversity and inclusion in higher education, Derrick Bell’s
(1980) interest convergence, Peterson and Spencer’s (1990) framework for organizational
culture, and Edward Said’s (2016) concept of hegemonic leadership.
The fundamental principle of interest convergence—that “the majority group tolerates
advances for racial justice only when it suits its interest to do so”—is an essential element of
performative equity (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 149). Harris, Barone and Davis’ (2015)
identify this connection, explaining that interest convergence “captures the process whereby
inclusion initiatives emerge with great intentions and expectations, but do not end with the
actualization of equity” (p. 22). They posit that the terms “diversity, “equity,” and “inclusion”
(DEI) have been co-opted by unconstructive administrative agendas that fail to critically address
longstanding, systemic campus racial climate issues. Instead, higher education institutions
432
engage in “token incrementalism” because “in terms of racial heterogeneity does not
substantially threaten generations of institutionalized racial privilege” (Harris, Barone & Davis,
2015, p. 24). Token incrementalism is not transformative, rather, it sustains the status quo
without challenging institutional hegemony (Harris, Barone & Davis, 2015). Edward Said (2016)
conceptualizes this purposely ineffective procedural strategy as hegemonic leadership. They
explain how hegemonic leadership
need not incorporate or dissolve all but the dominant cultural forms; it can even enable
the subalterns to take on their own formations. It is perfectly capable of devolving
cultural leadership to other groups. It need not secure the absolute cultural power of one
delegated group of organic intellectuals. It allows many inorganic intellectuals to function
in the field, recognising, representing, celebrating, and even supporting their diversity, at
least to the extent of guaranteeing that the medley of voices will be sustained. (Said,
2016, p. 190).

Higher education institutions, as could be projected through an interest convergence framework
(Bell, 1980), also benefit from hegemonic leadership approaches to institutional change in
material ways. For example, “the commodification of diversity for institutional benefit, or the
practice of marketing structural/visual diversity to attract students-as-consumers,” has
incentivized racial progress as a way to gain financial profit (Harris, Barone & Davis, 2015, p.
24). As long as an institution can appear diverse, inclusive, and equitable to internal and external
constituents, it has the capacity to superficially capitalize on their declarations for achieving
racial equity without having to produce substantive results. This limits the objectives of DEI
initiatives to a numerical value (i.e., financial profit, national ranking, alumni donations, etc.),
subsequently removing the humanistic element of the improving campus racial climate.
A common example of a performative approach to equity is the glorification of racial
demographic percentages in diversity marketing materials (i.e., compositional diversity). Higher
education institutions may point to an increase in the enrollment of students of color as a sign of
433
racial progress, but a numerical increase in meaningless if the students are not provided with
adequate resources and support services when they arrive on campus (Milem, Chang & antonio,
2005; Hurtado et al., 2012). Admitting students from underrepresented backgrounds without
providing substantive supplementary support can amplify their marginalization in a
predominantly white space, and reduce their adversity as an individualistic shortcoming rather
than a byproduct of systemic deficiencies:
The presence of racialized bodies in strategic, often highly visible, positions is presented
as evidence that racism has been eradicated and racial equality achieved, even while
underlying institutional structures remain fundamentally unchanged. In this context,
racial “diversity” becomes a highly valuable commodity and a powerfully legitimizing
institutional force. This logic constructs racism in relation to unequal access to existing
institutions and forecloses considerations of how some institutions need to be
comprehensively reconstituted or abolished altogether rather than simply “diversified.”
“Diversity” can thus participate in reproducing power relations and exacerbating their
effects. (Rosa & Bonilla, 2017, p. 202).

Performative equity approaches can also be utilized to stifle student resistance by
delivering incremental changes without transformative modifications to the status quo. Harris,
Barone and Davis (2015) provide an example of the Ford Foundation’s strategy to control and
forestall “urban revolts” during the 1960s:
In the 1960s, the Foundation began investing large amounts of money in the Congress of
Racial Equality and other civil rights organizations, such as the Student Nonviolent
Coordinating Committee and the National Urban League, in hopes of calming growing
racial unrest in U.S. cities. Interest convergence was exposed when the Ford Foundation
gave “massive help” to urban black communities so that racial tension would not ignite
the dissolution of U.S. cities, the rebuilding of which would fall to whites, not blacks. In
essence, the Ford Foundation invested time and money in race-based organizations to
conquer, divide, and “channel and control the black liberation movement and forestall
future urban revolts” (Allen, 1990, p. 73). (p. 30).

Throughout history, this component of performative equity has been employed to minimize the
possibilities of large-scale resistance and maintain hegemony in the process (Davis, Harris,
Stokes & Harper, 2019). However, student activists have consistently exposed these attempts by
434
their institutional leadership and relentlessly advocated for institutional transformation until
racial equity was achieved (Rojas, 2006; Rogers, 2012; Bradley, 2015; Mustaffa, 2017).
To an extent, an operationalization of performative equity is a reflection of the
organizational culture of an institution (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). In Chapter 2, I explored how
Peterson and Spencer (1990) separate culture into four broad categories: geospatial; traditions,
myths, artifacts, and symbolism; behavioral patterns and processes; and espoused versus
embedded values and beliefs. To review, the geospatial category refers to the visible physical
elements of an institution, including campus structures, styles, and patterns that signal deeper
institutional beliefs (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). The traditions, myths, and artifacts of an
organization refer to the organizational symbols that convey past and current ideologies and
assumptions that members consider to be important (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). The behavioral
patterns and processes comprise of the organizational operations that are cultivated and defined
by repeated organizational behavior (Peterson & Spencer, 1990). Finally, the espoused versus
embedded values and beliefs refers to how institutional mission statements “often present the
organization in its ideal, rather than actual, form” (Peterson & Spencer, 1990, p. 11).
Collectively, these existing frameworks have helped me articulate what I call
“performative equity.” Performative equity is a critique of uncritical approaches to DEI work
that identifies manipulative attempts to co-opt transformative equity strategies through
unintentional or even deceptive practices. Performative equity is operationalized in three ways:
(1) publicly portraying the institution as diverse, inclusive, and equitable through profit-oriented
marketing strategies while the promoted DEI objectives have not actually been achieved (i.e.,
interest convergence), (2) engaging in a pattern of implementing incremental changes without
simultaneously committing to a systemic shift in the institutional infrastructure (i.e., modifying
435
the hierarchical structure of institutional leadership, implementing anti-racist policies and
initiatives that challenge systemic inadequacies, divesting from racially discriminatory
institutional practices, removing offensive cultural artifacts/structures, etc.), and (3) stifling
student resistance by offering small-scale gestures that only allow for temporary and micro-level
outcomes (Bell, 1980; Peterson & Spencer, 1990; Harris, Barone & Davis, 2015; Said, 2016). I
purposely did not include race-based terminology in this definition of performative equity
because the framework can also be applied to issues involving gender equity, class equity,
disability-focused equity, and other issues pertaining to minoritized and marginalized
populations. However, for this particular analysis, I utilize this performative equity framework to
specifically identify and critique the racialized implications of ineffective diversity, equity, and
inclusion strategies at UVA.
UVA students expressed how they believed university administrators engaged in
performative equity approaches to issues on Grounds. There were three specific examples
presented by the student participants that were especially noteworthy: (1) the treatment of first-
generation students, (2) legacy student admissions, and (3) the construction of the “Memorial to
Enslaved Laborers.” Each of these examples aligned with one or more of the tenets of my
performative equity framework.
Dirty T-Shirts: First-Generation Students at UVA

The first example presented by the student participants was how the university
approached issues pertaining to first-generation students. Aligned with my first tenet of
performative equity—publicly portraying the institution as diverse, inclusive, and equitable
through profit-oriented marketing strategies while the promoted DEI objectives have not actually
been achieved—UVA students described how the university’s treatment of first-generation
436
students has proceeded in a disingenuous manner. Valeria described an incident that occurred
before UVA President James E. Ryan gave a speech about first-generation students on Grounds:
President Ryan is a first generation student and he had this really important speech to
give or something, and so they e-mail and they’re like – because we have LISTSERVs
for first-generation, low-income students – and so they’re like, “Oh, we’re going to need
50 students to be there just to kind of maybe speak or just be there to support him.”
Basically like cheerleaders. And they said if you have a first-gen shirt, wear it, like it was
a publicity stunt. Literally like a diversity brochure. Like “we need you to be poor and be
low-income and be first-gen for the camera, please and thank you.”

The specific email that Valeria was referring to was forwarded to me by another student
participant. The email was written by Associate Dean of Students Tabitha A. Enoch, who sent
the email through a first-generation student LISTSERV titled, “HoosFirst.” The email stated the
following:
Good Afternoon HoosFirst!

As some of you may know, this weekend we launch Honor the Future: The Campaign
for the University. There are a number of events taking place on Grounds however there
is one in particular where The President needs the assistance of the HoosFirst
Community. At 2:15 on Saturday, the President will offer his Campaign Kickoff Remarks
to a packed audience in Old Cabell Hall and I am told it will be one of the most important
speeches he’s given in his career. He is asking for first gen students to join him on stage
toward the end of his speech as a demonstration of his solidarity with other first gen
students, and to show that the future of the University belongs not only to donors, faculty,
staff and alumni in the audience but it also lies in the hands of you, our students.

The time commitment is about an hour on Saturday, 2:15-3:15. You will listen to the
speech backstage at Old Cabell Hall and then surprise the audience by joining him on
stage. You may wear whatever your heart desires, however if you do have an I AM
FIRST shirt, (and its clean ) we invite you to wear that as well. We are looking for at
least 100 first gen students to join President Ryan on stage. His plan is to thank the
participants with a pizza party!!! How can you say no to that!?!? You in?

Valeria interpreted the email as the university’s attempt to exploit first-generation students as
promotional tools. She felt that the university was treating them like “cheerleaders” for a
“publicity stunt” as if it were a personified diversity brochure. Cassie also reflected on this
437
incident, highlighting how the first-generation students were specifically told to make sure their
first-generation student t-shirts (t-shirts that read, “I AM FIRST” in UVA colors) were “clean”:
…they literally were like, “wear your ‘I Am First’ shirts, but make sure they’re not
dirty.” Basically like “make sure you poor people are clean.” I’m like…why would you
want all of us standing behind you like some fucking sing-along in our “I Am First”
shirts, but you had to add in “make sure they’re clean”? Because it’s like, “y’all are dirty,
smelly poor people.” Which is what a lot of people thought.

Regardless of Associate Dean Enoch’s intentions, Valeria and Cassie felt that the language used
in the email perpetuated stereotypes about first-generation students. Though, the primary concern
expressed to me by the first-generation student participants was not only that they were being
exploited as promotional tools, but that the university’s portrayal of inclusion for first-generation
students was not actually authentic.
During President Ryan’s inaugural address in October of 2018, he announced that
students whose families earn less than $80,000 annually will be able to attend UVA tuition-free
(Walsh, 2018). Additionally, students whose families earn less than $30,000 will also be eligible
for free room and board (Walsh, 2018). According to Walsh (2018), the University of Virginia
“meets 100% of its accepted students' demonstrated financial needs with loans, grants,
scholarships, and work-study programs” (para. 4). This initiative is designed to help first-
generation students gain access to higher education and help prevent outstanding student loan
debt (Walsh 2018). Anderson (2019) states that “from 2014 to 2019, the university experienced a
45 percent increase in first-generation students, with 502 now enrolled in their first year, and a
29 percent increase in low-income students to 336 enrolled” (para. 17). However, Erica, a 2nd
year Black student, explained that while first-generation students were being admitted to UVA,
they were not provided adequate support once they arrived:
438
But it’s just like you keep admitting the same amount – like the same type of students. Or
when you try to increase the number of first-gen, low-income students, you don’t actually
help all of them. You expect them to come in and do everything on their own.

Natalie shared this perspective, noting that UVA administrators try to advance “equality”
through their DEI work but not “equity”:
…when you mention to the administration, well, like we need more resources or this,
that, and the third, it’s always about like this equality, not equity, right? And they pride
themselves on talking about equity, but if you really cared about us, I don’t care how
many new first-generation, low-income students you’re accepting, you would give us
more resources so that we can strive. If you were going to accept us and you’re assuming
that we’re all in the same field, but you’re saying that you care about low-income first-
generation students…how is that helpful?

Erica and Natalie both explained that while the university can increase the number of first-
generation students on campus through their DEI initiatives, these efforts are relatively
meaningless if the students are not provided with adequate support. Thus, the increase in the
number of first-generation students is merely a symbolic (or, “performative”) gesture without
any substantive value.
Another concern was that the inclusion of first-generation students was approached by
faculty and administrators in a way that treated the students as a monolithic group. First-
generation students of color expressed their frustration with how the complexities of their
intersecting identities were not considered by the university. President Ryan, for example, was
also a first-generation student. In Kelly’s (2019) article, First in Their Families, they described
how President Ryan as a first-generation student who “grew up the son of adoptive parents Jim
and Sheila in Midland Park, a blue-collar town in Northern New Jersey” (para. 1). President
Ryan reflected on his struggles as a low-income, first-generation student, and expressed his
sympathy and understanding for current first-generation students who face the same obstacles
(Kelly, 2019). He eventually graduated from Yale University with a bachelor’s degree in
439
American Studies, then continued his education at the University of Virginia where he graduated
from the UVA School of Law. However, the first-generation students of color that I interviewed
believed that the university was attempting to capitalize on President Ryan’s image to convey
that they were supportive of all first-generation students. They felt that President Ryan’s speech
did not acknowledge the uniquely racialized experiences of first-generation students of color,
especially since President Ryan is a white male. Cassie felt that UVA should invest more effort
in supporting the racialized component of her first-generation college-going experience:
…at the end of the day, [President Ryan] was able to get to where he is because of the
other privileges he has in place…saying “I’m first-gen” does not automatically equate
your experience to my experience, or allows you to understand, because you don’t. Being
low-income, like that is a very like debilitative barrier…Like I think it’s valid. I’m not
going to take that away from him, but also you still got to where you are today, you’re
still the president of a university…but like at the end of the day, those other identities
held more weight than you being first-gen. Because being first-gen and low-income, and
a student of color… all these other identities makes your experience very different from
white first-gen students.

Alberto, a 1st year Black and Hispanic student, was also critical of how the university treated
first-generation students. Similar to Cassie, he emphasized how his experience as a first-
generation student of color was different than a white first-generation student since he did not
have access to the privileges of whiteness:
This country was made for you. Like my poverty and your poverty, we both poor, but bro
like I’m six steps behind you…you have a lot more privilege than everybody else, and so
you get to live your life without worrying about these things. And it’s easy for people to
be like, “Oh, you’re bringing race into it.” But it’s literally our whole lives are based on
that…There are financial issues that people have, too. But at the same time, your life is
not targeted…You don’t have to walk in the streets and worry about who is looking…just
walk in a corner store and people think you stealing. But when you’re working against
the system it’s like you’re swimming against a current…the fact that you have to swim
up a current just makes it 10 times harder…So when people don’t recognize their
privilege, and the fact that they do have a leg up, it’s as simple as that. You don’t have to
be my “white savior” and come and feel bad for me and pity, because that’s not what I’m
asking for. But just recognize that you have something that I don’t have, and because of
that, you have it easier.

440
Alberto highlighted how his racialized experiences as a student of color—which included being
racially profiled while walking on the street or in corner stores—made him feel like he was
“swimming against a current.” He felt it was necessary for President Ryan and other university
officials to make the intentional effort to recognize that the experiences of first-generation white
students were far different than his experience as a first-generation student of color. Cassie and
Alberto explained how there were debilitating barriers for any first-generation student, but for
students of color, these barriers were amplified by the compounding element of their racialized
realities.
According to the first-generation student participants, President Ryan’s speech was a
performative gesture that did not accurately represent the way the university supported first-
generation students of color. The symbolism behind the “performance” aspect of President
Ryan’s speech was a fitting metaphor for my performative equity framework, as students were
literally asked to “join him on stage,” so as long as their shirts were clean enough. Regardless of
the university’s intent, students interpreted this treatment of first-generation students as
inauthentic, disingenuous, and void of substantive impact. What is more, students of color
emphasized the importance of engaging in work related to first-generation student inclusion
through a racially salient approach. Treating these students as a monolithic group ignores the
complexities of their compounding identities as first-generation students of color (many of whom
are also low-income), subsequently limiting the potential impact of the large-scale DEI
initiatives that the university promotes.
Legacy and Privilege: The Watch List

The second example of performative equity involves what has been called the “Watch
List.” Throughout the last three years, the Office of the Vice President for Advancement at the
441
University of Virginia has been under scrutiny for engaging in inequitable admissions practices
that favor legacy students. The “Watch List75” provides a second review to applicants with
“certain qualities and connections, such as legacy students, the children of faculty members,
donor or staff recommendations, first-generation college students, athletic recruits, candidates for
the Reserve Officer Training Corps, and students selected for Virginia’s various scholar
programs” (Anderson, 2009, para. 2). However, it was found that wealthier students were given a
substantial advantage in the “additional review” process if they had a direct connection to a
university donor (Anderson, 2009). The Washington Post obtained the documents76 that outline
the specific contributions that trace back to prospective students’ families and friends (Tate,
2017). Details of the documents reveal
…164 pages of data and reports since 2008. The so-called UVA watch list sometimes
included jotted notes about a major donation (“$500k”) or a recommended decision --
“must be on WL” or “if at all possible A,” referring to “wait list” and “accepted.” The
names of the applicants and their relatives were redacted from the documents, and the
final admissions decisions were not included. The 2013 records revealed that one donor
was threatening to pull future contributions to the university after an applicant was put on
the wait list. (Tate, 2017, para. 2-3).

Shapiro (2017) found that “For the applicant whose file included the ‘$500K’ note, another
observation was included: the candidate’s mother was ‘BFF,’ meaning best friends forever, and
‘sorority sister’ with another individual whose name was redacted” (para. 24). For the applicant
in 2013 who was connected to the donor threatening to pull future contributions, a note was
written on the application that read “Best to resolve quickly, if possible" (Shapiro, 2017, para. 6).
However, these privileges were not limited to UVA donors. Gravely and Higgins (2017) note

75 The admissions procedure was officially titled “additional review,” but is referred to by students as the “Watch
List” (Anderson, 2009).
76 Jeff Thomas, author of Virginia Politics & Government in a New Century, used the Freedom of Information Act
to gain access to the documents showing the Office of the Vice President for Advancement’s involvement in
tracking “VIP” applicants who have ties to top-level university donors (Gravely & Higgins, 2017).
442
that “The documents also reference two separate applicants who had ties to Board of Visitors
members at other universities. One applicant had a handwritten note which said ‘W&M [William
& Mary] BOV’ while another said ‘dad on [Board] at Ole Miss.’ Both applicants were accepted
to the University” (para. 19). Despite the meticulous notes found on the application documents,
UVA denied that the Office of the Vice President for Advancement held any power over
admissions decisions (Shapiro, 2017).
However, in 2017, university spokesperson Anthony de Bruyn admitted that “The Office
of Advancement is occasionally contacted by alumni, friends and supporters recommending
students who have an interest in attending U-Va.,” adding that “Such a practice is not unique to
U-Va. and can be found at similar institutions” (Bruyn, as cited in Shapiro, 2017, para. 8-9).
According to Anthony de Bruyn’s claim, it appears that the justification for maintaining these
practices is that it has been utilized by other prestigious universities. However, using other
colleges and universities—who also partake in discriminatory practices—as a benchmark for
acceptability perpetuates a cycle of inequity that will continue to spread across higher education
institutions until it becomes irreversibly normalized.
UVA continued to deny any involvement in these inequitable practices since The
Washington Post report was officially released; however, UVA’s Student Council revisited the
debate in 2019 after new evidence revealed university officials continuing to engage in the same
procedures (Anderson, 2019). The evidence comprised of nearly a decade of email
correspondence between university personnel, some of which involved former UVA President
Teresa Sullivan (Shapiro, 2017; Kreth & Clukey, 2019). Senior assistant to the president Sean
Jenkins was the “central liaison in communicating information between advancement and
admissions personnel and individuals asking to flag certain applicants” (Kreth & Clukey, 2019,
443
para. 5). According to one of his emails, he claimed that the “Watch List” was “better than
outside recommendation letters” (Jenkins, as cited in Kreth & Clukey, 2019, para. 7). In another
email, university board member William Tyson thanked Jenkins for providing an update on a
student on the list, while also mocking the 2017 report from The Washington Post (Kreth &
Clukey, 2019). The email stated, “Many thanks Sean. Hope your doing well--and ignoring the
Washington Post. Good golly what a joke!” (Tyson, as cited in Kreth & Clukey, 2019, para. 23).
The Cavalier Daily found that the “Watch List” was used as recently as last year (Kreth
& Clukey, 2019). Echoing the response from university spokesperson Anthony de Bruyn in
2017, “Acting University Spokesperson Wes Hester said in an email statement… ‘However, this
practice allows development officers to serve as a buffer with those alumni, donors, and friends
who have provided prospective student endorsements during the admission cycle,’ confirming
this practice still exists” (Kreth & Clukey, 2019, para. 4).
In an article by Anderson (2009), Chris Sinclair, executive director of external affairs for
the First-Generation Low-Income Partnership—a nonprofit advocacy group for first-generation
and low-income students—was quoted saying,
The ‘Watch List’ is creating a category of students in the admissions process who may
not have to measure up to the standards of admissions because it can be offset by the
amount of money the person you’re related to is giving, or that a person high up is
familiar with you…That really disadvantages first-generation students…That’s another
hurdle that these students have to overcome. You have to be better than the privileged
people, then you have to outperform their level of connection. (Sinclair, as cited in
Anderson, 2019, para. 2-4).

In my review of the literature pertaining to this particular issue, I could not find any details
related to the racialized implications of the “Watch List.” However, if UVA’s practices are
similar to other university’s with substantial endowments, it is reasonable to assume that the list
is catered toward white students who have disproportionate access to these financial networks.
444
For example, Arcidiacono, Kinsler and Ransom (2019) recently found that 43% of white
students at Harvard University are either legacy students, athletes, or related to donors or staff.
Therefore, despite the university’s recent commitments to supporting first-generation students77,
what may lie beneath the surface are inequitable institutional practices that not only maintain
class inequities, but white hegemony as well.
This example aligns with the second tenet of my performative equity framework, as UVA
appears to be engaging in a pattern of implementing incremental changes without simultaneously
committing to a systemic shift in the institutional infrastructure (i.e., discriminatory admissions
practices that favor white legacy students). These practices have contributed to the maintenance
of white hegemony by prioritizing access to “intellectual property” (Ladson-Billings & Tate,
1995) to wealthy white students. In Chap

Asset Metadata

Creator Stokes, Sy (author)

Core Title Into the wildfire: campus racial climate and the Trump presidency

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

School Rossier School of Education

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Urban Education Policy

Publication Date 07/21/2020

Defense Date 05/12/2020

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag campus racial climate,critical race theory,Higher education,OAI-PMH Harvest,presidential rhetoric,Race,Racism,white supremacy

Language English

Advisor Harper, Shaun R. (committee chair), Carrington, Ben (committee member), Davis, Charles H. F., III (committee member), Howard, Tyrone C. (committee member)

Creator Email systokes@umich.edu,systokes@usc.edu

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Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus MC 2810, 3434 South Grand Avenue, 2nd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90089-2810, USA

Abstract (if available)

Abstract Understanding the relationship between the larger sociopolitical environment and campus racial climate is an integral component of creating and maintaining a safe, supportive, and intellectually stimulating environment for college and university students. Students are influenced by a variety of interpersonal and systemic factors that oftentimes traverse the boundaries of their institutions. If researchers were to exclusively focus on the internal forces impacting student lives, they would be ignoring a critical element of the college-going experience. In this dissertation, I constructed a Nested Contexts Ecological Model for Assessing Campus Climate (NCEMACC) to engage in a three-study methodological sequence examining the association between the sociopolitical environment and the organizational, geospatial, perceptual, and behavioral dimensions of campus racial climate. To formulate my analytical/conceptual framework, I used various tenets of Critical Race Theory (CRT) to serve as the analytical framework to critically examine the racial elements of presidential rhetoric and political decision-making. In the first study, I examined a dataset of reported racist incidents that have occurred from 2013-2018 through a theory-based data analysis approach. In the second study, I engaged in a phenomenological study at four colleges and universities in California to explore how college students’ racialized experiences have been influenced by the Trump presidency. Lastly, I employed an instrumental case study analysis at the University of Virginia (UVA) to interrogate the relationship between the Trump presidency and campus racial climate. This three-study sequence all contributed to answering a central research question. Implications for future research and recommendations for improving campus racial climate are discussed in the concluding chapter.