Last year, I wrote countless times about the segregation and disparity that quietly live within this campus. But today, I want to take that a step further, not to criticize, but to contextualize.
In my freshman year at Bucknell, I found belonging in small, scattered corners, in faces that smiled back, in clubs that became temporary homes, in fleeting moments that made the unfamiliar feel familiar. I carried those fragments with me, hoping that in my own role, I could help others feel the same. That was the goal, to build a space that felt whole.
But earlier this week, on a quiet Tuesday, that very idea shattered. At an event built entirely around belonging, “The Belonging Circle” hosted by Global Student Council, I felt the least like I belonged.
It was supposed to be a space of community, a moment for people to come together. Yet as the clock ticked and no one walked through the door, the room felt heavier by the second. We sat in silence, surrounded by the echo of empty chairs, and I realized that failure doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes, it looks like no one showing up.
And when someone gently reminded me, as we debriefed later, that maybe my skin color would never allow for belonging, I didn’t feel anger. I just felt the quiet sting of truth. Because that’s what it often is… not cruelty, but reality.
Color has always been a divider. But here, it feels sharper, invisible yet present in every space you enter. The shade of your skin doesn’t just reflect where you come from; it becomes a silent measure of how much you belong. You can be brown, but not “brown enough.” You can be yourself, but only if that self fits neatly within what people already expect.
I used to think community was about coming together for who we are. Here, it sometimes feels like we come together for how we appear.
Belonging becomes conditional, not about what you bring, but how well you blend. You can be part of ten organizations, lead five of them, attend every event, know every name and still feel like you stand on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. Because belonging is not about being there; it’s about being seen there.
And in that lonely room, after everyone had left, I understood something deeper. You can’t build belonging on this campus if people keep mistaking performance for presence. You can’t talk about community when people only show up for the idea of it, not the people within it.
Every new day here feels like a facade dressed in good intentions, a show of inclusion that hides the fractures underneath. Some are busy being the perfect image of what this campus praises, others fade quietly into the background, and in between, many of us are just trying to exist, too much for some, not enough for others.
This time, I don’t write to connect. I write to confront. To ask what diversity really means when people only celebrate it in photos and not in practice. To ask what belonging means when the only thing we do together is pretend it exists.
So reflect, not because the world is watching, but because you are. Don’t call yourself an advocate for inclusion when your actions exclude in silence. Don’t wear diversity like a badge when you never invite difference into your life.
Because the hardest truth I’ve learned is this: You can create events, send invites, put up posters and still end up sitting alone in a room built for belonging. And maybe that’s what this campus, what this world, needs to finally understand.
Belonging isn’t something you talk about. It’s something you show up for.
