The Pressure to Represent

Happy New Year! I hope everyone's holiday season treated them well. I got some much needed sunshine and am happy to be back. At my university, I am a writer for The Drum, Penn State Student Black Caucus's semesterly zine. We're dedicated to informing, highlighting, and sharing Black stories and art! 

This past semester was my first time writing with them and it was fantastic. Everyone was welcoming and dedicated to creating a rich, engaging piece of art. The theme was Black Creativity. I wanted to share the zine because it truly was a labor of love. Below, is my article and I've linked the title to the full zine for your reading pleasure. I'm so excited to share what's next this upcoming semester! Here's to a creative and abundant 2026!

The Pressure to Represent: Navigating Identity as a Black Creative on Campus

By Michaela William

A few weeks ago, my fiction writing class read and discussed two stories from Nigerian writer, Pemi Aguda. Beautiful tales haunted by the ghosts Black women inherit. During a small-group discussion, one of the guys laughed. Said he wanted to know “what the author’s mom did to her”. The group chuckled. I didn’t. His tone wasn’t cruel, just careless. Assuming that Black women only write from wounds, not wonder. That our creativity must be born from personal pain, never from possibility.

Moments like that linger long after the class ends. If I spoke up, would I become that student—the one who always makes it about race? But if I didn’t, was I agreeing? These are the mental gymnastics that come with being a Black creative on campus. You’re constantly editing not just your writing or artwork, but your presence.

There’s this unspoken pressure to be the “right” kind of Black creative—socially-conscious and articulate, but palatable. The kind who can speak to identity without making people uncomfortable. 

Sometimes, I feel like my presence in creative writing spaces is both a gift and a curse. I’m proud to bring my unique perspective to the table, offering up insights rarely considered. Diverse perspectives are necessary to craft worlds beyond our own knowledge and experiences. But there are moments I catch myself shrinking. Slowly but surely, sanding down my edges so no one thinks I’m overly sensitive, political, or, worst of all, angry. 

I don’t carry this pressure alone. I bear the legacy of Black creatives who came before me. Artists and educators like Mary E. Godfrey, Penn State’s first full-time Black faculty member, shaped not just curriculum but what it meant for Black students to see themselves there. Sculptor Oliver LaGrone left countless pieces of artwork across Penn State campuses during his time as an artist-in-residence. Penn State’s Archives and Special Collections preserve Black literature, posters, and artwork in their Black History & Visual Culture collection. This history reminds us that we’re not the first to navigate our creative identity here, and surely not the last.

Despite the odd jokes and isolation, there’s power in our presence. We don’t need to perform our identity or culture for those who may not understand. My Blackness isn’t a costume to take on and off to appease an imaginary audience. It’s the lens through which I create, never a limit.

We can’t control how others interpret our art or presence in creative spaces, but we can insist on its fullness. Representation isn’t a weight we choose as Black people, but it’s one we must shoulder with dignity. For centuries, our image, our voice was shaped by ugly stereotypes. The Black writers, musicians, and photographers of yesteryear bust down the door for us to have a seat at the table. Now it’s up to us to bring more seats, so the next Black creatives won’t have to wonder if they belong.

We are the resistance we’ve been waiting for.