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When you are Black in America, especially in spaces that were not built with you in mind, success alone is not enough. Excellence will not shield you. Confidence will not protect you. At Lebanon Valley College, I learned that firsthand.
I came to LVC as a criminal justice scholar ten years ago. I am the first Black professor to ever earn tenure and promotion to Associate Professor in the college’s 159- year history. I am a Fulbright Scholar. I have authored several peer-reviewed articles, contributed original research to the field of criminal justice and criminology, and committed my career to building a more just and compassionate world. I have credentials that speak louder than words — yet even they could not drown out the institutional indifference and disrespect I have faced.
Let me be clear: I am not a Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) scholar, nor am I a figurehead for diversity initiatives. I am a criminal justice and criminology scholar — respected nationally and internationally by my peers for my academic work, my research, and my contributions to the field. My expertise, my reputation, and my leadership stand on their own. I was hired to bring academic excellence to LVC, and that is exactly what I delivered.
And yet, at every step, I was reminded that my confidence was not welcome. My pride in my accomplishments — the kind celebrated in others — was perceived as arrogance when it came from me. I spoke with the same passion and conviction that earned me accolades across other institutions, but here, it only seemed to make people uncomfortable.
It wasn’t just silence — it was action, too. Colleagues used racially inappropriate language toward me, diminishing and excluding me in spaces that were supposed to be professional. I did what they tell you to do: I reported the incidents. I trusted the system to do right. Instead, the college chose to do what institutions have done for generations — nothing.
The message was clear: my dignity was negotiable. Their comfort mattered more than my humanity.
And it wasn’t just me. As the only Black professor on campus for several years, I received no ACE support — no Academic, Cultural, or Emotional support — from the institution. None. The very same support that would have recognized the isolation, the extra burdens placed on my shoulders, the double standards I navigated every day. The same ACE support the college consistently fails to provide for the few minority students it recruits from cities like Baltimore, Philadelphia, and other urban areas. They promise those young people an education. They sell them dreams of belonging and success. But once they arrive, they are too often left alone to navigate a campus that does not understand them, support them, or even seem to want them to succeed.
It is a betrayal dressed up as opportunity.
The contradictions didn’t stop there. Recently, I was relieved of my Spring 2025 teaching and advising duties after sending emails to students — emails that some claimed they found “threatening.” The emails, intended to be humorous and relatable, were twisted into something it was never meant to be. Yet while I was punished swiftly and harshly, colleagues who have used blatantly racially charged language faced no consequences at all.
That is the difference: an attempt at humor — imperfect, clumsy, at worst a poor choice of words, perhaps — versus the undeniable harm of racial disrespect. But in the eyes of the institution, my actions were met with heavier sanctions. There were no clear college guidelines for such discipline, no policies that dictated the punishment I received. It was arbitrary. Selective. A decision made not out of fairness, but out of fear and discomfort with who I am.
The punishment they handed down — stripping me of my teaching and advising — was not just meant to discipline. It was meant to publicly shame me. It was a message, loud and clear: stay in your place, or pay the price.
I refuse. I will not be deterred. I will not be silenced. I will not allow anyone’s fear of Black excellence to define my worth or diminish my impact. When institutions punish Black excellence, they reveal their own mediocrity. I am not broken. I am not deterred. I am exactly what they fear most — undeniable, unmovable, and unbought.
I didn’t earn my success at Lebanon Valley College because I am Black — I earned it because of the strength, intellect, and resilience that Blackness teaches. That is what institutions like this one so often fail to understand. My presence was not a favor they granted me. My contributions, my leadership, my scholarship — these are assets that enriched the college. They always were.
And yet, the story repeats itself: when Black excellence walks into the room, it is too often seen as a threat, not a triumph.
I am proud of what I have achieved. I am proud of the students I have mentored, the research I have published, and the lives I have touched. I know that my success is real, even if some choose to look away from it. I know my value, even when others refuse to name it.
Respect should not have to be demanded. Dignity should not be conditional. And no amount of excellence will ever make a system see you fully if it was never built to.
What happened to me at Lebanon Valley College is not unique. It is part of a larger story about how Black achievement is both celebrated and punished in America — admired from a distance, attacked up close. It is a reminder that change is not just about representation. It is about creating institutions that are capable of honoring the humanity of those who break their barriers.
Until then, excellence will continue to be seen as a threat.
Dr. Terrence Alladin is an Associate Professor of Criminal Justice at Lebanon Valley College and U.S. Fulbright Scholar in Belize for the 2024-25 academic year.
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