I lost my Black job, now what? Insight from ODEI’s only student employee

As a kid, my parents always supported my artistic urges, purchasing tablets, camcorders, video editing software and the like. I could never exactly pinpoint what my artistic niche was, but I knew for sure that I loved capturing the essence of humanity and then showing it to fellow humans. News about my passion spread across campus so quickly that I was eventually offered an internship at the University of Michigan’s Office of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion as their sole engagement intern. Despite my excitement to serve the U-M community, the time spent in this position has not been the dream that I initially expected. 

Before arriving here on campus, I was gifted a Canon camera by a loved one, a gesture based on my childhood passion for digital design. I then took this camera with me to my first U-M tailgate, thrown by the brothers of Lambda Theta Phi Latin Fraternity Inc. Shortly after, it hit me — I decided to repurpose a private Instagram account I had once used as a journal for close friends. Clearing out the old posts, I publicized the page and began using it to showcase and promote my photography. The page was titled “almaticpulse,” a moniker I’d used for a long time as the title to a playlist of songs that just feel like me. Since then, that has been my alias as a photographer.

Eventually, I created a website based on Instagram. As Almaticpulse, I’ve been invited to capture many events on campus, from birthdays, greek probates, Dem Viet Nam, the annual Vietnamese culture show, to events for Arab Xpressions, the Spectrum Center and the Black History Month Ceremony. My camera has served as a VIP pass to the various cultural pockets here on campus. It was in one of these pockets that I met my friend and mentor, Nolan Bona, a seasoned videographer and all-around inspiring creative. Nolan and I exchanged names and favorite colors, not long after we were trading jobs and opportunities.

One day in January 2024, Nolan called me asking to share my experience on campus as part of a media highlight for Black History Month. After weeks of filming, the video was posted to U-M socials like Instagram and LinkedIn, flipping the hourglass on my 15 minutes of fame. Weeks later, just when I’d thought my river of clout to have run dry, I was contacted by the DEI Strategic Plan team. In short, they saw my video on LinkedIn and wanted to offer me a job in the University’s Office of the Provost to give them insight into the student experience. I said yes.

I walked into the regal Alexander G. Ruthven Building — a space I’d only ever seen in the videos of protest occupations circling on my Instagram — for my first day of work on March 4, 2024. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and started my job with a team who I would quickly grow to call my family. The four members of the DEI Strategic Plan team were my supervisors. Over the course of the year up until this past Thursday March 27, I watched these people pour their hearts and souls into upholding the core values of DEI with the utmost professionalism and morality. Despite this commendable and tireless work, these three values continued to be called into question, facing all kinds of ridicule, specious claims and censorship. Working alongside these supervisors daily, I not only learned (insert author thought here), but I expanded/informed my knowledge about the place DEI has — or, in our case, had — on our campus.

I will admit, as a Black American from Detroit — the former Blackest city in America — I’d never seen these words grouped together before stepping foot at the University. The Merriam-Webster dictionary describes diversity, equity and inclusion as “a set of values and related policies and practices focused on establishing a group culture of equitable and inclusive treatment and on attracting and retaining a diverse group of participants, including people who have historically been excluded or discriminated against.” 

From Campus Day, Festifall, the Summer Bridge Scholars Program and the Comprehensive Studies Program, my school did everything in its power to show me that it was fair, broad and varied. I’d begun making friends from countries I’d never heard of, through STEM and business courses with professors who took time to help me understand concepts like reading graphs or calculating marginal costs, all while establishing my foundation as a first-generation college student in the wider world of higher education. Among it all, I’d begun to feel welcomed at my school, comfortable even.

As a result of the academic excellence I’d displayed before college, I was offered generous scholarships and opportunities that made me feel valued as an academic. The LEAD Scholars Program was marketed to me as a network of support for high school students who demonstrated the values of leadership, excellence, academic achievement and diversity. And for as long as I have been a member, this has rung true. A program mentor quickly took note of my talents and would often contact me to photograph LEAD events. My fellow LEAD scholars were dentists, animators, engineers, entrepreneurs, doctors, teachers, students — most importantly, we are humans. Those who support the dismantlement of these programs would say that I was not valued for my merit, but instead awarded due to its juxtaposition with my identity.  

Due to legalities following Executive Order 14151, many of these esteemed academics have had the rug swept from under them. 

I watched. I watched as the news spread. I watched panic cloud the minds of my loved ones. I watched questions race through the minds of my peers: “Did you see the email?” and “What am I going to do?” 

I told them — and partially myself — that it would be okay. The University I belong to is fair, broad and varied, I told them. In a fair system, we are innocent until proven guilty, I told them. And what did the LEAD Scholars do that was so prosecutable anyway? As I deliberated with friends, we reread the entire email. As a result, the realization set in that communication about our scholarship’s cancellation would only happen at a town hall about two weeks from the time we received the initial email. I started to foster doubts about the program directors’ regard for our humanity. I felt unseen, betrayed and dehumanized. What I did not feel, however, was the urge to protest.

The ODEI at the University has provided professional development resources that have advanced the skill sets of current U-M faculty and staff, facilitated the development of accessible learning resources and accommodations for students with disabilities, implemented support systems for first-generation and transfer college students to navigate academic challenges and funded research initiatives focused on understanding and addressing the world around us. Despite this, my department and its members have been accused for their implementation of  “forced illegal and immoral discrimination programs” as described by President Donald Trump in Executive Order 1415 published in January of this year.

But many don’t understand what’s so wrong with DEI in the first place. How does the seemingly positive connotation of each of these words get so misconstrued that they’re criminalized as a group? If you believed that I was here to defend DEI and its effectiveness, then you are sadly mistaken. DEI as it existed here at the University did not operate to its full potential, nor anywhere near it. While that may be hard or surprising to hear from someone like me — it is true — but not for the reasons you may think.

Despite my wholehearted support of the core values of DEI, I do uphold certain critiques about the work I’ve observed and taken part in so far. Though I was hired to “bridge the gap” between students, staff and faculty, many of the initiatives I inherited didn’t honor the principle of intersectionality due to hyperspecificity. Most notably, there was a disproportionately small amount of programming that was centered toward interacting with or including the broader student population and their perspectives. I believe that my employment was a direct attempt at combating this, though not immediately effective. 

As a result, ODEI programming severely lacked in its advocacy for transfer, military and other non-traditional students. As the only student employee in ODEI, I was tasked with typical intern tasks in addition to strategic campus engagement related projects. I quickly made notice of the lack of encouragement of cultural and creative expression on social media and other digital platforms relevant to the department. The DEI 2.0 Plan team then connected me with the ODEI social media team manager who was meant to integrate my ideas with ODEI’s existing media image.

Unfortunately, I was only ever able to finish one video project for the social media team due to miscommunications and unexpected regulations from both ODEI partners and higher level administration that seemed to me like a misalignment of Regent’s and employee’s opinions against student’s needs. I encountered a kind of subjective censorship many times throughout my internship from both ODEI partners and higher level administrative officials. There were times where I watched initiatives that I felt would truly make a difference be undervalued or even discarded for reasons of personal agenda and not collective advancement. We spent meetings revising the colors of infographics protesting our humanity to the University’s Board of Regents instead of taking walks across campus to see that our “grand impact” truly had only just scratched the surface. 

For the first few months at my job, this infuriated me. As a result, I quickly took matters into my own hands. In the fall of 2024, I signed ODEI up for Festifall, crafted an engaging logo with exclusive merchandise, created an AI tool to help departmental employees navigate their Google Drive archive, planned a summit to educate the campus on democracy and civic engagement and came up with so many unused social media engagement strategies that I don’t even want to hear the words “content creator” anymore. But despite all my work, and the work of those around me, we never amounted to being a big enough band aid for such a large and meticulously constructed system.

My most recent project was titled “Mosaic Imagination,” a student grant showcase I’d been planning for months, set to occur on March 31. We’d planned to include presentations from various student organizations on climate change, healthcare advancement, cultural traditions, innovative fashion, and modern literature and film in addition to student performances. Coincidentally, I received news about the LEAD scholarship cancellation as I was sending emails out to the student violinist and vocalist we’d hired as performers, a bump in the road but still I rode. I continued designing marketing materials. And while preparing for the Instagram takeover of “@umichstudents,” I received news that the takeover had been cancelled. Again, no biggie, I took the L and kept it pushing. Finally, on Thursday, March 27, I entered the regal Alexander G. Ruthven Building for work at noon in the conference room 4140 to a sight that struck my heart like pins.

Tens of my bosses and colleagues with their eyes sunken, some still wet with tears, sat as my supervisors escorted me out of the meeting. Hours later, I would learn that my bosses positions had been eliminated and alongside them, my title as the DEI student representative. Among the talk of legalities I could only think about the implications that the loss of a position would have on my colleagues who I’d grown to know as heads of their households, and providers for their families. What could they be thinking right now? What more could they have given to a campus and an administration that failed to see the true value of their efforts in the first place? 

Yes, ODEI’s impact fell below a technical bar, but, from my perspective, that bar has had a nearly 250-year head start. Were the shortcomings of such a broadly ranging and various communal support system fairgrounds for the upheaval of their progressive foundation? They were not. I see this destruction as a complete disregard for the humanity of all those who benefit under a society which upholds the basic principles of fairness and variety, across the entire scope of human life. Or, in short, everyone. My supervisors were just four members of our small community here at the University. However, this action is a demonstration of the greater emergency state of our divided nation. One who overvalues the profitability of man-made products in comparison to the toll taken on the lives of the men who actually make them. As an American, I see more clearly now than ever that I am judged on the value of my assets and color of my skin rather than by my insight and the content of my character. 

My photos and captions from events on campus have often been used to promote the campus’s diversity, many without credit. I have produced a Women’s History Month collage, a Black History Month collage and taken plenty of photos at Trotter Multicultural Center to be published on @umichdiversity. I have also had my personal narrative and likeness highlighted for lucrative purposes like Giving Blueday, the campus’s single largest fundraising event. Some examples include a collective montage, a personal highlight and a sweet photo posted on @umichlsa to name a few.

I am beyond grateful to have reached my goal of serving as a proud representative for my various communities. However, the use of my likeness for morale in conjunction with the successive dismantlement of the system that uplifted me makes me feel tokenized and exploited. 

So what now?

Well I, for one, will not protest for the recognition of my humanity.

Why spend time questioning why initiatives promoting human dignity and good ethics are considered controversial by some, or trying to convince these same humans of such basic morality? I propose that the most powerful response to division is solidarity through forms of civic engagement like mentoring, philanthropy, community service and engagement, organizing progressive initiatives and taking generally good care of one’s local community.

Throughout my journey, I’ve witnessed firsthand how photojournalism and storytelling can bridge divides. Thanks to my guise as almaticpulse, my camera became more than just a tool for capturing light — it grew into a means of connection, understanding and exposure. 

In my eyes, our very presence on this campus, our achievements and contributions, are themselves revolutionary acts. We don’t need institutional support to maintain our commitment to DEI or any other basic human moral; these principles live in our daily actions.

I challenge you right now to envision a truly inclusive campus. What would this mean to you? How would you expect to show up? Who would be allowed in your community? Who would advocate for the little guy? How would your ideal society handle differences? Once you’re able to answer these questions, it is my belief that you’ll have more than enough means to lend a hand in molding a better world not through protest, but through positive action and unwavering solidarity.

Losing my position at ODEI has, ironically, given me more freedom to do what I’ve always loved — capturing people and sharing them with other people. And so, I will continue to document our community’s journey, because many powerful statements are made not through words, but through the simple act of bearing witness to each other’s humanity. 

Victoria ‘Tori’ Wilson, Photojournalist and Former Student Auxiliary for the Office of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. For more information about my work, or in the case that you’d like to contact me, please visit almaticpulse.com.

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