How the Suicide of a Missouri University Administrator Spotlights Black Women’s Mental Health in Academia – Black Girl Nerds

I’ve been struggling to wrap my head around the tragic loss of a Black woman, Dr. Antoinette Candia-Bailey, former VP of student affairs at Lincoln University of Missouri, a top HBCU. The heartbreaking details have me feeling sad and disturbed, as well as incredibly furious.

Dr. Candia-Bailey had disclosed she had been struggling with severe anxiety and depression, exacerbated by workplace bullying and harassment, often at the hands of university President John B. Moseley, a white man. After reaching out to university leadership about Moseley’s alleged abusive behavior, as well as that of other leadership towards her, she did not feel her appeals for help were heard. This unfortunate progression of events led to Dr. Candia-Bailey taking her own life.

Lincoln University’s online statement about the death of Dr. Candia-Bailey is brief but describes her as “a gifted colleague and always a passionate advocate for Lincoln University, HBCUs and other causes in which she believed.” The remarks, however, include no mention of the circumstances that possibly contributed to her death, or how it has shaken the university community — one of two historically Black universities in Missouri.

Reports indicate that Dr. Candia-Bailey had been terminated on January 3 “due to [her] continued failure to appropriately supervise [her] staff and continued failure to properly supervise the area of student affairs at Lincoln University.” She took her life on January 8.

Alumni and students have taken to social media to call for Moseley’s removal as president, using the hashtag #FireMoseley, after he voluntarily took a paid leave of absence.

The reality and severity of Black women in academic under attack in the workplace is costing us our well-being, our mental health, and for some, our lives. There is a plethora of evidence that spotlights the considerable challenges to Black faculty recruitment and retention. According to the National Center for Education Statistics, Black faculty comprise about 6% of all faculty in colleges and universities, despite representing 13% of the national population.

But more research and solutions are needed to address misogynoir, a term coined by Moya Bailey developed to describe “the specific hatred, dislike, distrust, and prejudice directed toward Black women.”

The world witnessed academia’s misogynoir in the treatment of Dr. Claudine Gay and Nikole Hannah-Jones. Dr. Candia-Bailey’s experience reflects a wider issue perpetuated within higher education.

Anti-Blackness and misogynoir are nothing new in academia. As an associate professor in higher education, I have experienced it firsthand. This has ranged from from receiving low scores on faculty evaluations for no explained reason to blatant racism from my white counterparts. The microaggressions I have been subjected to are persistent and widespread in academia, despite being told that I am asset to the team. In reality, over time, my credentials as a Black woman and status within the university were viewed by some as a threat.

I know what you’re thinking, and let’s go ahead and say it: How did a white man become the president of a Black institution? Well, good question because there’s some history behind that.

During the Reconstruction period, after the Civil War, certain religious groups established Black colleges in an effort to teach Black people trades and prepare them to be teachers and preachers to other Black people. However, it was never the intention to have Blacks and whites attending school together.

Many of these white religious groups made substantial financial investments in the Black colleges and were reluctant to entrust control of the institutions to Black people. Over the years, the educational mission of the Black schools began to change. A determined effort was made to bring Black people up to the so-called standards of Western civilization.

As a result, many of these schools began to teach a college-level curriculum and evolved into the HBCUs we know today. However, the rule remained that the HBCUs would continue to be governed predominantly, if not exclusively, by white faculty and administrators. This presents an uncomfortable question about why this ideology is still being upheld. How can it possibly be right if it perpetuates a systemic problem?

It’s the advice from my mother and grandmother that has always stuck with me: as a Black person, you have to work twice as hard just to get your foot in the door. It took me twice as long as my white counterparts to get promoted from assistant professor to associate professor, despite being equally or more qualified. Then there was the additional work required that was not even counted towards my academic package but certainly contributed to my anxiety and burnout.

Not long ago, there was a trend on social media stressing the importance of listening to Black women, as opposed to questioning their experiences or gaslighting. There is truth to the trend, but we rarely see it played out in real life. Black women’s voices are often questioned and muted, and there’s not enough being done to amplify our voices.

Luckily, I had an ally (a white manager) who utilized his privilege to speak up on my behalf after a racist comment was made to me in a faculty meeting. Because of that, it allowed my voice to go much farther than trying to do so on my own. I feel so bad that Dr. Candia-Bailey did not have someone to do that for her.

EXHALE, a well-being app specifically for Black women and women of color, reported that nearly 40% of Black women have left their jobs because they felt unsafe in their identity. More plainly, we don’t feel safe in our own skin at work. Black women suffer when we are isolated, particularly when there is little to no diversity.

As I work through this terrible loss of Dr. Candia-Bailey, who was failed by the very institution she graduated from, I think about myself and other Black women who have struggled with similar burdens. She did everything she was told to do but her cries for help went unheard. With nowhere else to turn, she unburdened herself of her own pain. As we step into our roles every day, it is a glaring reminder that we have a responsibility to listen, build and protect Black women. It is a matter of life and death.