Speak Up About Mental Health

As students with schedules filled to the brim, we often


at length about our commitments, responsibilities, deadlines, and plans.


We focus on what’s coming


next: where we’ll go, what we’ll do, how we’ll act.

I think we can do better than that.


We can talk less


what we are doing and more about how we are feeling and being.


We can be less judg-


of ourselves and others for not fixing, accomplishing, and delivering.


We can use our voices to facilitate and enhance

the emotional, psychological, and social


of our environment.


I challenge you – as I challenge myself – to start a conversation about mental health. Let’s learn more about the sources and treatments of mental illness, and support those around us who suffer from its various forms. By speaking about mental illness, we can begin to reduce the stigma and ease the burden. Prepare for the conversation by reading this article and watching this short clip.





The Danger of a Single Story

In recent weeks, the phrase above has been constantly flickering in my mind. It’s the title of one of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s TED talks, one that I always go back to and rewatch. In contrast to what’s been going on in this country in the last month, this talk reminds us that there are multiple perspectives and narratives within each individual and among people. As writers, speakers, and citizens with a voice, we all have a story to share.

Sharing Adichie’s powerful TED talk for inspiration: The Danger of a Single Story

On the New Resistance

by Eva Dunsky, Writing Fellow ’17

Today at the Athena Film Festival, a bunch of powerful woman sat together on stage as an all-female Acapella group performed the rallying cry that was sung earlier this month at women’s marches all over the world.  When the singing died down, these powerful woman clapped enthusiastically, adjusted their blouses, and proceeded to absolutely slay.  The audience sat enraptured, and left inspired.  In other words, a typical Athena panel.

But this Town Hall was somehow different from previous Athena Festival programing.  Instead of being solely an unabashed celebration of womanhood in its myriad forms, it was laden with references to #45, or Voldemort, or the despot in office.  His name was never spoken out loud, and yet his his presence was heavily felt.

Towards the end of the session, a Barnard student took the mic and stood to ask a question: something along the lines of “How do we organize? How do we sustain a resistance movement when we don’t have the economic means or even the time to be out protesting every day?  How can we be sure that the frenzy surrounding Voldemort’s first month in office doesn’t die down and leave a wake of world-weary young people in its path?”

Dolores Huerta (will link to her wikipedia page) was having none of this.  She scoffed a bit, covered it up as a cough, and posited the following question: “When do you think organizing will be easy? When you have a full time job? When you have children to care for?”

I thought about this all night.  Tacit in Huerta’s response is a question about priorities—what will we fight for?  And what will we give up?  I worry sometimes that as college students trying to fend for ourselves in a highly competitive and stringently focused environment, it is easy to lose track of our priorities.  How important is it to keep our nose in the books, versus put our bodies on the line?  How much will that ‘A’ in Social Psychology matter years down the line when our rights have been eroded away?

Gloria Steinem ended the event by explaining that “What should I do?” is a passive question—and now is no time for passivity.  Instead, we need to wake up each morning and decide that we will do everything in our power to fight alongside the resistance.  Each of us holds a unique compendium of knowledge, and each of us has a power to resist in ways that no one else can.  Every day, from here on out, it is up to us to stay vigilant, loud, and informed.

“This is just the beginning,” said Steinem knowingly.  “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Understanding the Gender Deficiency In CS

As of 2014, only 10% of employees at Twitter were women software engineers — an embarrassing statistic that also found itself consistent with several Silicon Valley giants. Unlike other STEM fields, Computer Science (CS) has witnessed a decrease in women engineers since the 1990’s — an ongoing trend that makes it hard to believe that the first computer scientist, Ada Lovelace, was a woman, or that Grace Hopper built the first compiler for a programming language. This trend of moving away from computer science sees itself relevant also to young college women, and not surprisingly, to the women at Barnard. Although I currently pursue computer science as my major, my first introduction to the field involved initial feelings of intimidation. I had mentally characterized the field as an elitist male dominated club. This personal reflection on my initial encounter with the field, confirmed for me the existence of a concrete and prominent hindrance for women attempting to pursue CS — a hindrance that helps answer the question: Why is it still so hard for women at Barnard to pursue computer science?

Stereotype threat theory and the Sapir-Whorfian hypothesis amalgamate in unpacking this prominent roadblock. While Claude M. Steele describes the prevalence of a “stereotype threat” in his discourse to explain the psychological barrier that interferes with women’s identification and self-confidence in their abilities, Tom Shachtman’s “The Inarticulate Society,”discusses how language affects the way we think — a theory I use to frame how coding languages challenge our minds to think and structure information in different ways. Consequently, both Steele’s “stereotype threat” and the initially difficult process of acquiring a new language and way of thinking (though integral to growing as a programmer) dissuade women from sustaining their presence in the field.

As a speaking fellow, I aspire to extend the relevance of speaking in all contexts and show others how to leverage speaking skills to their advantage. Although this two-component hindrance lends itself heavily in erecting barriers in making women feel inferior, I want to help women overcome this pervasive stress and learn how to communicate in a way that allows them to learn confidently in an environment that may feel as though is rooting for their failure. Although this certainly applies to the difficulty in entering Computer Science, I will help my fellow Barnard women acquire the proper skills to combat the initial intimidation of any field so they can feel empowered to enter any challenging field they desire and feel equipped to succeed.

In his essay, A Threat in the Air, Stanford University’s Claude M. Steele discusses the prevalence of a lingering “stereotype threat” that can be applied in order to understand what stops women from staying in computer science. Steele explains that stereotype threat arises when someone is already in a space in which negative stereotypes about one of their identities is well known and the risk of potentially confirming that stereotype influences their “intellectual functioning,” and more specifically elicits pressure and stress (Steele 614). Before Steele dives into explaining how certain societal stereotypes mentally influence certain groups associated with that stereotype, he establishes his overarching claim that the individuals affected by this stereotype threat are those who care about success in school. His underlying reason for establishing such a foundation allows him to later show how consequently, these individuals “identify with school achievement” and as a result hold themselves to a certain degree of accountability to succeed (Steele 617). It is in that vulnerable space that the stereotype threats surfaces — in which this “self-identification,” or one’s attachment to a particular domain, potentially can be threatened. In fact, the more a person identifies with their domain, the more they are at risk of having their self-identification be threatened.

In my third year of taking computer science courses, a particular experience resonated strongly with this feeling of constant pressure during my learning process, a product of the stereotype threat’s pervasive nature. As Steele highlights, this nervosity was not a function of my personal lack of confidence in the field, but rather a result of fearing to confirm a stereotype that I never wanted to believe to begin with. Specifically, because I made a conscious effort to help debunk the validity of the “dumb woman in CS” stereotype, I felt at risk of failing at my own personal mission. My yearning to impact an overarching societal perception of the field stemmed from my strong self-identification with the CS domain.

I saw this feeling of pressure play out last year when I found myself struggling with a difficult coding assignment. A male friend of mine offered to help out. While I generally tend not to ask for help because I believe that sometimes struggling through the pain of not knowing something teaches you a lot (a point that I will elaborate further on), I also tend not to ask for help because I don’t want to challenge my ego. Naturally, my immediate reaction was a blunt, “No- I can figure it out.” My refusal to ask for help was further layered with a desire not to let a man be my immediate resort for help. Not to mention, saying that “I can figure it out” had the implicit intention of reassuring both myself and him that I was more than capable of solving the problem, even though he never denied my ability to do so. Again, my mental reasoning in this moment was a product of “interpreting,” as Steele suggests, my friend’s innocent inquiry question in a way that challenged my standing in the CS domain (Steele 616). Aware of my common habit of dodging help in all circumstances, he said genuinely, “It’s okay to ask for help, you know.” Perhaps because his words acknowledged to a certain degree that he respected my ability to code, I gave in for the first time. But everything that followed made me wish I never did — not because he wasn’t helpful, but because the way I interpreted the following interaction resulted in me again confirming (in my eyes) a stereotype that I was trying to hard to fight.

After explaining my confusion, he contemplated for 5 minutes and soon was explaining to me how it worked. My shock in his ability to solve the problem quickly overtook me. Rather than focusing on his thorough explanation as he spoke, I instead questioned my own abilities and used that time to compare our abilities: why is he so much faster than I am? Am I so slow at understanding this because I am a woman? Rather than learning something and acknowledging how normal it is to sometimes not know, numbness consumed me and an overbearing feeling of inadequacy lingered. I helplessly said, “You think I’m so stupid, don’t you?” Since that question is usually responded to with an immediate denial, I saw my question as a last effort to potentially salvage any respect he may have lost for me. “Um, no,” he responded, perplexed. His confused response confirmed for me that he was not questioning my ability- he was simply helping. Rather, it was my own interpretation of the situation that left me with residual feelings of inferiority. Similarly, several other women’s experiences in CS fall along similar lines.

The way to combat this involves inculcating in communities affected, confidence in uncertainty and lack of knowledge, and the ability to communicate in a meaningful way when answers are not clear. As a speaking fellow, I yearn to provide individuals with the tools to fight the impending war of emotional instability that the stereotype threat graciously welcomes. That involves, teaching women how to maintain mental clarity despite external pressure and teaching women not to conflate initial ignorance or struggle with confirming a negative stereotype about themselves.

Although the stereotype threat contributes in great part to explaining the gender diversity deficiency in CS, the challenge of learning a new coding language (and arguably a different way of thinking) is also an essential ingredient in understanding why women are so easily pushed away from the field. In his article, Tom Shachtman posits whether there is really a “standard” English. In exploring that question and discussing the barriers many non-English speakers face, he also delves into the many theories behind how language affects the way we think. Although the following theory usually finds itself applicable in the context of spoken rhetoric, I argue that its relevance transfers to the “language” of computer science, equally a communicative and syntactically rich language similar to English. In particular, he discusses the Sapir-Whorfian hypothesis — the idea that “we are the language through which we think,” pointing to the idea that our mental structure is shaped by the means through which we communicate (Shachtman 50). Although Shachtman makes clear that he disagrees with the Sapir-Whorfian hypothesis, he clearly finds more disagreement in an deeper conclusion implied by the hypothesis which suggests that some individuals are mentally superior to others who do not speak a certain language. While even I do not agree with such an elitist suggestion, I do not deny the validity in the idea that language affects the ways the way we think.

Shachtman showcases how differently literate and illiterate cultures think in an experiment where the two groups (literate and illiterate groups) were asked the following question: “In the Far North, where there is snow, the bears are all white. Novoya Zelyma is in the Far North. What color are the bears?”(Shachtman 45). While the literate group was able to easily use the contextual clues of the sentence to come to the conclusion that the bears are in fact white, the illiterate group was incapable of using the structure of the sentence to arrive at the same answer. This difference in categorization between literate and illiterate cultures suggests that language does in fact influence the way people think. In particular, this difference is the “commitment of word to space” that Schachtman cites Father Walt Ong Sr. citing in discussion of the transition from oral systems to writing systems (Shachtman 43). The “space” in which this word is “[committed]” finds itself differently structured depending upon language. As Aristotle put it, he envisions the space of “a great building with niches, patterns, details” (Shachtman 42). The Whorfian hypothesis imagines that these “[buildings]” vary in their intricate detail and pattern from language to language, consequently affecting the lens through which one views the world. Although the premise for Schatman’s article is not necessarily to hone in on the Whorfian hypothesis, his overarching discussion allows for much exploration of what the hypothesis does have to offer — content that should not be overlooked since it provides ample insight into understanding a roadblock for women in computer science.

In the same way that different languages affect an individual’s’ mental structure and organization, coding languages such as Python, C, Java and JavaScript apply similarly. Consequently, because coding languages challenge an already pre existing mental structure and impose the prospect of acquiring “fluency,” language acquisition is challenging. Acknowledgment of the parallel between coding language acquisition and traditional language acquisition finds itself necessary because it normalizes the initial critical period of pain that most individuals often encounter when they are first introduced to computer science. Because computer science demands a very technical, algorithmic and equally abstract way of communicating (i.e. coding) that can be a drastic change for some individuals, most individuals experience an intense period of difficulty in their first introduction to the field. It is during this critical period of time that most individuals often question their abilities and capabilities in the field and consequently, leave.

Although this critical period of pain affects both men and women equally in their first introduction to the field, the pervasive nature of Steele’s stereotype threat contributes to women “disidentifying” with their domain, more so than men. At least, the prevalence of men in the industry allows men to feel some degree of comfort that they will be able to overcome their pain due to the overabundance of male role models in the industry since role models “carry the message that stereotype threat is not an insurmountable barrier there” (Steele 625). As a result, these men feel that they, like the other male role models, can overcome the pain and succeed. However, the very conspicuous gender disparity of women in CS doesn’t provide women with the same number of examples to motivate them to stay. When women juxtapose their difficulty during the critical period with the fact that there are not as many women in the tech industry, these two pieces only serve as confirmation that perhaps CS is not for them.

Embracing this time of especial initial difficulty is essential to later success and enjoyment in the field. Sometimes, professors recommend that individuals “struggle” through a problem because learning how to deal with pressure and the uncertainty of a problem only makes one a stronger programmer. Although there is certainly a line to be drawn at which it is very essential to ask questions, it ought to be acknowledged that many professionals recommend embracing this critical initial process of pain since computer science in its nature often welcomes unpredictable problems during the coding process.

Women in particular are likely to take the easy way and out and resort to the help of a more experienced coder during this time period, seeing it as a reflection of their own inabilities and inadequacy. For example, a friend of mine (taking her first computer science course) found herself stuck on a difficult programming assignment. Although there is no denying that she didn’t work hard on the project, her immediate willingness to go ask a male friend to finish it for her almost discredited all of her previous hard work and thought into the assignment. Women need to have more sustained confidence in their ability to succeed no matter how uncertain any prospect of success like that may seem. But when one does choose to ask for help, she ought to be aware of how to ask for help. In particular, she ought to ask for help in a way that doesn’t detract from her learning, but only compliments it.

As a speaking fellow, I aspire to teach the fellow women around me to achieve these two main components: how to have more faith in oneself despite the ever prominence of such impending stereotypes threats and how to ask for help in meaningful ways that will empower one in the learning process. That involves using effective rhetoric to ask relevant, detailed and specific questions that support the learning process. My goal is not to impose upon anyone my passion for computer science, nor proclaim that computer science is the best field to pursue. However, my goal is to show people that there is no such thing as not having the “mind” for something. I reject the notion that one simply is not a “technical person” simply because I used this familiar argument to reason against any pursual of computer science initially. I hope that women will bask in the glory of the notion that they can do anything and not feel intimidated by underlying social threats or intellectual challenge. Although I’ve centered this narrative around computer science, perhaps these universal skills of gaining unwavering confidence to overcome societal threats, and knowing how to communicate in meaningful ways, can apply to several contexts beyond computer science.

Works Cited

Steele, Claude M. “A Threat in the Air. How Stereotypes Shape Intellectual Identity and Performance.” The American Psychological Association, 1997. Print.

Shachtman, Tom. “The Inarticulate Society: Eloquence and Culture in America.” (1995): 39–63. Print.

Trying hard as an act of faith

by Eva Dunsky, Writing Fellow ’17

I thought I had expressed myself clearly.  I was proud of the paper and proud of my insights on Borges—as such, I expected a grade commensurate with my efforts and pride. I received a 4/10 scrawled in tiny block print at the bottom of an exam booklet riddled with red ink.  I adjusted my expectations.

I consider myself fluent in Spanish.  So when I signed up for a literature course in Barcelona, I wasn’t too worried.  Though Spanish is obviously not my first language, I didn’t think it would be a problem.  For the first exam, I did all the reading and reviewed briefly the night before—well, actually two nights before, as the night before was Carnaval, a sort of Spanish Mardis-Gras that is best spent drinking Cava on the beach.  I felt that I had done the requisite amount of preparation—the same amount I would have done at Barnard.

I came to the exam with the course texts under my arm.  I took the test, and was happy with my insights.  So when I got it back, I was, to say the least, underwhelmed.  I took it to my advisor who smiled knowingly, winked at me, and asked if I had studied.

“Yes! Of course I studied,” I replied indignantly.  

“Maybe devote some more time to review for the next exam.  Feel free to ask me for help.”

I left with a queasy feeling in my stomach that I was quick to recognize as failure.  I felt ashamed, homesick, and overall in over my head.  Walking through the narrow streets of Barcelona, I thought back to one of the first students I had in the Writing Fellows program—an nonnative english speaker, and a first-year who was extremely reluctant to meet with me.  In fact, getting her to send me her availability was like pulling teeth.  When I did get her to come see me, she was always a bit distant to the point of being rude—when I asked her about her classes (never about her grades), she responded somewhat combatively that her grades were passing and besides, she didn’t even care about her humanities classes.

I remember wondering what her problem was.  Was it something I did? Did she resent having to meet with me? Why did she always tell me that she hadn’t worked hard on the assignment and thus didn’t care about the grade if she knew that would rub me the wrong way?

Two years after fellowing this student, walking through Barcelona and wallowing in my own failure, it hit me: trying is scary.  Especially because trying is not a safeguard against failing.  Staring down the barrel of my next exam, I felt fearful.  What if I try really hard, and still fail? What if it’s not enough? Wouldn’t it be easier to not try, or to claim not to have tried, and then explain away the bad grade through my own lack of effort rather than my lack of ability?

Being a second language student is acutely terrifying.  Jhumpa Lahiri says it best in her book In Other Words—writing in a second language means following the same heavily treaded paths in order to express a thought.  It’s a restriction of freedom.  It’s scary and unpleasant but might lead to personal growth and revelation, as is the moral of this essay.

I walked away from my abroad experience with an immense appreciate for second language students.  I struggled in a one semester class with a professor who was sympathetic to my situation—I couldn’t imagine spending four years at Barnard (a writing intensive school) amongst mostly native speakers.

If you’re a second language student, know that I support you and admire you greatly. Know that you have an ally in the Writing Center.  And if you have a second, drop by for my weekly hour—I’d love to hear what you’re working on. 

Writing Through Thick and Thin

As the semester nears its end I find myself returning to a method of planning for the fifth time in my college career. Realizing that this is the end, and work becomes inescapable, I discard my planner and place a blank sheet of paper on the table in front of me. I write out everything I must do before my flight departs at six am on the twenty-first, the date and time at which it must be done, and a star if it will take more than four hours to complete. This is when time begins to feel like an enemy. I text my father, requesting a pep talk, and he texts back a few hours later: “Home stretch. Stay on it.” Is the end of the semester a race? Should you cross the finish line emotionally out of breath, brain filling with lactic acid?

When the weight of time feels like my rival, I crave to exist in an ancient Celtic idea: thin places. It’s the belief that there are some places, for some people, where the barriers thin between the physical world and the metaphysical one. Here, time can collapse inwards, reality subverts, and, most importantly, you are uncovered. You feel the hold of time and reality reduced and you must face the space, and perhaps yourself, as if you are watching from the other side. The idea of thin places rears itself anonymously in culture—perhaps most famously by C. S. Lewis in The Chronicles of Narnia, and most recently in Netflix’s Stranger Things—but, as an Irish American woman, with a love of Celtic knots and drinking songs, I’ve experienced it in my own life. For me, thin places arise, in vastness and repetition: on a long dock, staring off into the foggy Øresund with a dear friend by my side; sitting in the passenger seat as my mother navigates through the snow-cleared highways hidden in the miles of the Deschutes forest; alone, wandering through the miles of literature in Powell’s books, of my home city.

I stare at the sheet of paper. I stand up, stretch my neck, then sit back down. I stare at the paper again, wishing for more blank space and fewer stars; for a body of water shrouded in mist and a disassociation from this burden of time.

Why We Write Heroes

by Geneva Hutcheson, Writing Fellow ’17

In the plethora of articles on the anti-hero, few seem to acknowledge that the anti-hero, despite his/her questionable means and motives, is essentially good, and beyond that, still a hero. And, on some level, we know this.

Critics praise the anti-hero for being human and relatable, for screwing up. But, unlike most screw-ups (which we all are at some point or another), the anti-hero ultimately makes the selfless decision — and, because the anti-hero must atone for greater sins than his magnanimous counterpart — goes beyond being selflessness, and becomes self-sacrificing.

One could argue, and I often find myself doing so, that we write heroes because we want to believe that humans are intrinsically good: that the bad boy will clean up his act, that the deadbeat father will come home, that the distant mother will realize her failures. Films and novels with truly unlikable heroes fail. No one wants to read about the schmuck who continues to be a schmuck — even in our fictional serial killers we seek remorse, and, when they fail to show it, we label them psychopaths. So, I do not believe we can blame the necessity of relatability for our inhumanly benevolent characters.

When we are shown characters, especially of the sitcom or romance novel variety, who seamlessly succeed in, if not solving their faults, producing the proper emotional reactions, we begin to view our own failures of the heart and mind as uniquely person faults. Perhaps the true reason we seldom write wicked, remorseless protagonists, is because they are more difficult to write.

In writing the darker sides of human nature, one must reflect, without blotting out the parts that bring guilt and sadness, on one’s own weakness.