When I was a kid, my mom picked what I thought was an unusual vocation for me. While most people were thinking about being doctors or astronauts (or, in my case, a full-time ninja – I wasn’t as concerned about my 401k back then), she thought my professional destiny lay in engineering. I had some aptitude for it, but probably not more than the average nerd. The fact that I was terrible at math back then didn’t shake her faith in me. In her mind, it would be a good way to bring more strength to the local Black community and provide well for a family, in a dignified field that would spare me from the manual labor of the shipyard. Working with engineers (though she was not one herself), I think she admired the fact that they created things that were useful. Whether it was a building, a satellite, or a torpedo, she seemed to appreciate the honesty that comes with making a direct contribution to a collective effort. Prestige was secondary: purpose, selflessness, and dignity were everything. She wanted that life for me, and to some degree, I took her up on it and pursued that path.
Decades later, however, I’ve realized that I lost sight of what she wanted me to do on that path.
The academic journey that I’ve chosen has opened up a world of opportunities for me, even beyond the ‘wow factor’ of the fancy title I will walk out of here with. Recently, however, when looking back at the cumulative work that I’ve done since coming to this institution, I found myself troubled. I’ve spent the last few years working on a project that has garnered a fair amount of attention and promises to be of some interest to scholars who share my discipline and subject area expertise. But now, a previously unasked question has occurred to me that I can’t ignore: so what?
Perhaps unique within my program (I’m the only US-born Black PhD student), I find myself questioning how directly useful this work may be to my community. Sure, the topic and findings might be interesting and maybe even revealing. But how will it make the lives of underprivileged groups any better in a practical sense? While this is not a consideration that all academics feel compelled to confront, it occurs to me that perhaps my being lured into similar thinking is a dangerous mistake. Do I, as a Black man with this incredible opportunity to cultivate useful skills and tools, have an obligation to work primarily for the direct benefit of underserved communities of color? Sure, the visibility of a high-achieving brotha does itself provide value, both as an example and a rebuke to a society that has historically placed obstacles in the path of Black excellence. More importantly, it can show young POC what striving and succeeding can look like. But outside of the symbolism, failing to actively promote better circumstances for one’s community, in my opinion, makes such achievements seem hollow.
Don’t get me wrong: there is nothing wrong with thinking in the abstract and getting excited about creating new knowledge for its own sake. That’s a dream that our grandparents had for us as they changed the diapers of wealthy White children in Louisiana and swept factory floors in Detroit. But the world that they hoped would accompany such luxuries – a world where equality was a given – hasn’t materialized yet. There is still too much work to be done.
Particularly as a planner, which provides a diverse but useful skill set for community improvement and progress, it strikes me that limiting our work to engaging in abstract planning thinking in academic settings is the height of privilege. We often create a product that serves only our own interests and creates opportunities only for our own ambitions. All without having any direct connection with the core aims of urban planning or the people that we claim to care about. That’s deeply troubling, especially when those people need the support, expertise, and resources we could provide. However, like any other profession, there’s the grinding work and the prestige work. One may provide the day-to-day labor necessary for real progress and change, while the other gets you noticed and promoted. Academia isn’t any different. That’s why being an incredible instructor and community activist scholar won’t get you tenure, but writing a book and a few articles will. A conscious choice about who we most intend to serve through our work – the Ivory Tower or the broader community – has to be made, and consequences of that decision can be broad and long-lasting.
Despite the passion many of us have for our work, I sometimes think that our efforts are less like art and more akin to when a modern priest recites a homily in Latin: a precious opportunity to connect with people where they are, missed because of the exclusionary pretensions that we refuse to abandon. The vast majority of people will never read a scholarly word that I write. And most of those who want to likely won’t be able due to the barriers that universities erect to keep people out. Just like a detailed site plan which is put on a shelf, unused, to collect dust, most dissertations and academic articles, no matter how many hundreds of hours of effort they consume in their creation, will inevitably also be shelved with minimal public impact. If we’re lucky, our work will be periodically cited by students trying to make clever points in their homework.
So does this long-winded pity party or unusual scholar rendition of “Dust in the Wind” mean that I’m intending to leave academia behind? Or, on the flip side, that I’m going to solely occupy my time here writing plans for community progress with an engineer’s precision? As to the first question, yes, but only when I’m good and ready (and preferably with that fancy title I’d mentioned earlier). In terms of the second part, well, maybe not all the way. But this does signal a conscious shift in how I intend to approach my opportunities as an academic.
It would be unfair and foolish to condemn others for the incredible conceptual work they’re doing, because it can be meaningful, and it often provides the spark for practical inspiration. And for all I know, one of my classmates may be the next Friedrich Nietzsche or Voltaire (or, knowing the crowd I hang with, Karl Marx). In other words, not everybody needs to walk out of their urban theory classes and run to the nearest community development corporation meeting. But maybe I do, at least sometimes. I don’t know that I can continue to do this work if, following the inspiration that comes with new knowledge, I don’t take the difficult next step of figuring out how it can translate into on-the-ground change. I don’t know that I can settle for another “so what?”
Many look at activists and scholars as the extreme ends of a spectrum, with practitioners occupying much of the space in the middle. However, I believe that a person can occupy all of these spaces. Never perfectly, of course. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try. In this effort, we should be more intentional about where we put our creative and analytical energy. All of the grand ideas that we could ever dream up will amount to little if we never seek concrete ways in which they can be applied to make society better. Some academics may look at this kind of thinking as a shackle. I’m choosing to look at it as a tether – a way to affix my efforts to something beyond myself, and to provide a reminder that the best way to be great is to first do good. That way, even if it is not my destiny to be well-known, at least I can take solace in knowing that I helped create part of the blueprint for making this place a little bit better. I think my mom would have approved of that approach. And it’s a lot better than staking my happiness on how many people cite my dissertation.
Fear of a Black Planner 