Coven’s rose emblem is known for its beautiful petals, but would not be its glorious self without its thorns. Our thorns protect us, ground us, and challenge us. Thorny as Hell is a campaign created to celebrate and acknowledge the petals and thorns--privileges and disadvantages--that make us the beautiful survivors and thrivers we all are.

On the first day of Chemistry 101, I sat behind a black woman in Gross Hall.  Lecture hadn’t even started yet and we were among the first of the freshman to grab center aisle seats for a clear view of the blackboards. I was staring at the box braids on the back of her head, when a wave of surprise hit me. I had never before been in an upper level science class with a black student. In fact, I had never been in any upper level class with a black student.  As I mentally backtracked through my high school schedule, I realized that I had met black friends only in after-school activities, like basketball, track, or theater, but never in the classroom. I suddenly vividly remembered sitting in AP Literature, discussing the Color Purple with classmates, none of whom were black. My skin was the darkest of anyone in the room and I’m relatively white-passing. How could I have been completely oblivious to this glaring symptom of education inequality, especially as a minority myself?

I think it’s because, for me, being a light-skinned, wealthy minority in the San Francisco Bay Area was a non-issue. I don’t mean that there were never racial microaggressions (because there were) or that I was never reminded of my otherness (because I was), but that my education was unencumbered by my multiracial background. I was provided with every opportunity that my white peers enjoyed and I was always encouraged to pursue my wildest dreams. The only real difference between me and them was the way that my family became well-off. My father is an Iranian refugee and my mother is a Mexican-American woman who was the first in her family to go to college. Our financial flexibility is a recent product of generations of perseverance and sacrifice.

My perspective growing up was that my parents achieved the American Dream despite the many obstacles in their way. I felt, and I still feel, that I honor them by taking full advantage of every opportunity their success has provided for me. Waking up at 7 o’clock in the morning for tutoring in high school was never a burden, but rather, a privilege. My dad told me of how he struggled to teach himself English with no help when he finally made it to America. I am blessed to have help whenever I need it. But I never fully noticed how unique my family’s situation was in the greater context of racial inequality in both my hometown of Menlo Park and the world.

All it took for me to become aware of my blind spot was sitting behind a woman in Chem lecture. This awareness has only grown thanks to the many people in my life who continually challenge me to look closer at my place both on Duke’s campus and in the world.  My Baldwin scholar community helps me to grow by sharing the full spectrum of their identities and emotions with me and allowing me to do the same. All of the Above, the monologue showcase I’ve been involved in since freshman year, encapsulates this culture of growth through vulnerability. Each year when I read the anonymously-submitted stories, I am reminded that all Duke students are grappling with the layers of their identity and how those layers have changed as they become adults at Duke.

If there is one thing I want to take away from college, it’s to continue to respect this greater context as it applies to everyone I meet. Even if it means doing something small, like walking to class without my headphones in my ears, openness will be my mantra as I enter the second half of my already transformative college years.

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Leila’s story as a fourth-generation American can be a source of inspiration for all of us. While it is important to recognize that the American Dream and hard work alone do not guarantee social mobility, the very fabric of America is made up of immigrants who have given up everything to create the life that they envision for themselves and their families. Our family backgrounds, racial history, and environments in which we grew up come together to form our unique identities. Leila reminds us to observe and reflect on the stories around us, which may help to appreciate our own identities within a greater context.