Diversity

At a certain point I started getting invited to join diversity groups on campus. I think it was because I had been attending events here and there, and thus I was seen as someone who might potentially show up to regular meetings. With those stellar credentials (or as my very first editor-in-chief would say, in reference to his own career, “minimal competence rises to the top!”), I was elected a voting member of the Council on the Status of Women and a co-chair of the Pan Asian Council.

But I was a DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) newbie. I kept wondering to myself at Zoom meetings, “What exactly is DEI? How to we achieve it? Why is it so controversial?” Till then I had kept mostly in my own area, trying to keep my head above water at my job, and had not had much time to think about the institution of the university as a whole. But when I became editor, I realized that including a diversity of voices was my main priority for the magazine. I wanted to know what other people were doing, and there were many role models nearby.

This year I put on my name tag and attended both the Celebration of Excellence and Achievement among Women and the Diversity Catalyst Awards. The spring awards ceremony season is a joyous time. Students, staff, and faculty who have worked so hard all year are celebrated; often families are in the audience; often tears are shed at the podium.

Among her remarks preceding the Diversity Catalyst Awards, Dr. Liz Tovar, Executive Officer for DEI and Associate Vice President, said, “We want everyone in our community to feel comfortable being who they are.” These words stuck with me more than many a technical definition I’ve heard.

What I’ve also learned in my DEI apprenticeship is that the process of understanding and elevating who people are, and asserting who I am, involves plenty of discomfort, awkwardness, and foot-in-mouth moments. I’ve learned about the importance of taking risks, of giving and receiving grace.

When TIR debuted its Jeff Sharlet Memorial Award for Veterans in 2013, I was trepidatious. I am the furthest thing from an expert on anything having to do with the military. My late father’s response when asked why he had joined the Army was a raised eyebrow and an “I was drafted!” He was not in a war (there wasn’t one at the time) and came away mainly struck by the absurdity of large bureaucracies.

I am a timid liberal-arts geek who is chronically clumsy and so physically inconsequential that the campus geese stare me down on the riverbank as I walk to work from my car. I could not imagine being qualified to advise on the writing of those who have passed basic training, piloted airplanes, worked in combat zones.

Over the years of the contest, there have been many learning moments. We’ve heard feedback about extending the contest deadline (disrespectful of those who had followed the rules) and about the phrase “thank you for your service” (superficial and clichéd). But I’ve also been approached every year at the AWP (Associated Writers and Writing Programs) conference by at least one veteran who is grateful to have been named a winner or runner-up. Although Bob Sharlet, who founded the contest in memory of his Vietnam-veteran brother, passed away in 2019, a new benefactor stepped in, Amy B. Kretkowski of the Veterans Law Office here in Iowa City. In this way, the contest has continued, and now I can’t imagine us without it.

At the AWP conference a few years ago, I attended a panel of women veterans. These women had performed aeromedical evacuations, been part of intelligence missions, and served at an embassy in a not-too-friendly country. But among the many stories, I’ll never forget one thing that was said when the topic turned to sexual abuse cover-ups in the military: “When you report a problem, all of a sudden you are the problem because you are the snitch.”

Despite all our differences, that statement resonated with my lived experience and those of a high percentage of people, especially women, in my life. I learned something about power, about institutions, and about DEI in that moment. If I had shied away from a group of people different from me, I would have never gained that insight: that it’s not about you and how tough (or not tough) you are. That label—whether snitch, complainer, not-one-of-the-guys, or any term meant to silence—is a tool of oppression.

With excitement for the insights to be gained from the diverse voices in this issue, and with warm congratulations to the winners of our tenth year of the veterans’ writing contest, I want to send out special thanks to our contest judge this year, Jerri Bell, who was on that panel at AWP.

—Lynne Nugent