The Cost of Not Assimilating—And Why I Refuse to Pay It
TL;DR: Success in creative spaces shouldn’t require assimilation at the cost of identity. After leaving Brooklyn for the Hudson Valley, I realized that fitting in often mattered more than talent, vision, or persistence—but I refuse to conform to a system that values familiarity over originality.
A Shift in Geography, A Shift in Perception
In 2014, I left Brooklyn for New York's Hudson Valley. I expected a change of pace, a shift in environment, a new rhythm to life outside the city. What I didn’t expect was how much cultural place would matter—how identity, rooted in environment, determines belonging, power, and access. For minorities, cultural place is not just a backdrop; it is an ecosystem that nurtures or stifles, affirms or isolates. The cultural void of the Hudson Valley made me more aware of how valued my experience growing up in Brooklyn truly was. The shift in geography was more than just moving zip codes—it was a shift in how I was seen, valued, and measured against a set of unspoken expectations that had little to do with my talent, integrity, or work. In Brooklyn, my presence was a given, my identity woven into the fabric of the city. In the Hudson Valley, my presence felt like an anomaly, an exception rather than part of the norm. It was an unsettling reminder that cultural place is not just about physical location, but about the sense of belonging—or lack thereof—that it fosters for those who refuse to assimilate.
Brooklyn defined me. I developed my character, my values, my resilience. It shaped my humanity, providing perspective beyond my immediate scope. It was not just my home; it was a place where difference was expected, where culture wasn’t a performance but a lived reality, and where creativity thrived because it was challenged, not stifled. The cultural intersection of Brooklyn is something I deeply miss—the constant exchange of ideas, the blending of identities, and the unfiltered expressions of art, music, and storytelling that were embedded in everyday life. It sharpened my instincts, refined my perspective, and immersed me in an ecosystem where diversity wasn’t just represented—it was the foundation of the creative process. My experiences in the borough, from growing up among different cultures to working within the fast-paced creative industry, instilled in me a sense of resilience. I learned early on that success wasn’t just about talent; it was about persistence, vision, and the ability to carve out space when none was given. In Brooklyn, you earned your place. You proved yourself through your work, through your integrity, through the way you navigated the city’s relentless energy. Respect wasn’t assumed; it was built.
Assimilation Over Authenticity
Moving to the Hudson Valley forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: success here wasn’t about ability, creativity, or perseverance. It was about compliance. The expectation was not to contribute but to conform, to dim the intensity of my presence, to suppress the sharp edges of my perspective so that I could slide seamlessly into spaces that were never designed for me in the first place. Skill, vision, and persistence were secondary to familiarity, social ties, and the unspoken requirement of assimilation. If you challenged the status quo, you were deemed a problem. If you rejected mediocrity, you were labeled arrogant or uncooperative. If your name wasn’t one they recognized, it became a burden they refused to carry, reshaped to fit their convenience or dismissed entirely.
The deeper I immersed myself in these environments, the clearer it became that these spaces were built to sustain the comfort of those already in power, not to foster the innovation of those on the margins. They wanted my presence as an accessory, an ornament to their claims of inclusivity, but never as a force of influence. My existence was tolerated as long as I understood my place—silent, agreeable, grateful. But I don’t exist to be tolerated.
“I am not here to play small for the sake of someone else’s comfort. The price of assimilation was too high, and I refuse to pay it.”
The Erasure of Identity Through Names
My last name isn’t difficult—it’s only difficult for those who don’t care to get it right. Time and time again, I’ve watched people mispronounce it, sometimes with hesitation, other times with dismissiveness. I’ve heard it butchered, truncated, reshaped into something easier for them to say, as if my name’s complexity was an inconvenience rather than a part of who I am. When I would correct them, I was often met with sighs, shrugs, or outright avoidance—'It’s too much,' they’d say, 'I give up.' Yet, when it came to pronouncing their names, no matter their background, I took the time to get it right. I understood that a name carries weight, history, and dignity, and out of respect, I made sure to honor that—regardless of age, gender, or race.
The willingness to say a name properly is not about ease; it’s about respect, and that respect has never felt equally reciprocated. Names carry weight, history, identity. They tell the story of where we come from, of who we are, of the people who came before us. When someone mispronounces my name, when they decide it’s too inconvenient to say properly, when they choose to ignore its significance, they are making a choice—a choice to erase, to diminish, to signal that my identity isn’t worth the effort. It’s a quiet form of erasure, one that accumulates over time, reinforcing the notion that belonging is conditional, that recognition is a privilege rather than a right.
The Politics of Presence in Higher Education
I spent years working in higher education, navigating an institution where perception carried as much weight as expertise. As a tenured professor, I understood that my presence was questioned before I even spoke. My age, my background, my identity—these factors were scrutinized in ways that my colleagues never had to experience. So, I adapted. I wore suits to project authority, to signal my legitimacy, to command the room before doubt could creep in. I refused to allow my integrity to be compromised by assumptions about my qualifications.
But what I failed to do, whether intentionally or not, was play the game—both bureaucratically and culturally. I knew that the game was rigged, that my success within the institution was contingent on my willingness to engage in politics that had nothing to do with education. But I wasn’t there to compete with people who could never compete with me in the real world. I was there to teach, to empower my students to be better versions of themselves, to encourage them to question everything—even their teachers. My purpose was never about climbing institutional ladders; it was about dismantling them where they stood in the way of progress.
Creative Spaces: Finding Alignment and Rejecting Performative Communities
I have spent years engaging with local creative communities, searching for alignment, for collaboration, for the kind of artistic exchange that once came naturally in Brooklyn. Along the way, I encountered spaces where the unspoken rule was clear: access wasn’t granted based on talent but on social capital. These spaces weren’t about fostering creativity but about maintaining familiar circles, where originality was tolerated only when it conformed to the established mold. I quickly recognized these meetups for what they were—gatherings led by attention-seeking social capital hoarders more interested in reinforcing their influence than cultivating real artistic dialogue.
But in contrast to these performative spaces, I also found creative circles that truly valued innovation, expression, and mutual respect. These were the communities that resonated with me—places where work spoke louder than social ties, where ideas were exchanged freely, and where support was genuine rather than transactional. In these spaces, creativity thrived because it was driven by passion, not by hierarchy. I chose to align myself with these groups, rejecting environments where inclusion came with unspoken conditions and embracing those where authenticity was the only prerequisite.
A Declaration of Intent
I have come to understand that waiting for a seat at someone else’s table is a losing game. The spaces that demand conformity are not spaces meant for growth. Instead of seeking validation from gatekeepers who will never fully acknowledge my presence, I focus on creating my own opportunities, on forging relationships with those who see my value without requiring me to dilute it, on building platforms where I control the narrative. I am not interested in conditional inclusion. I am interested in carving out spaces where my work stands on its own, where my name is not a burden but a statement, where my presence does not require justification.
The question isn’t whether I belong—I know I do. The real question is whether these spaces have the courage to evolve, to break from the safety of their insular circles, and to truly embrace new perspectives. If they cannot, then I will not wait. I will continue shaping my own path, creating work that speaks on its own terms, and building spaces where authenticity is not just welcomed but celebrated. I move forward not as an act of defiance, but as a declaration of intent—an unshakable commitment to my vision, my purpose, and the legacy I choose to create.
