It’s hard to believe that this is my last article for the Denver Clarion.
Writing every weekend — or really every other weekend at this point — has become ritualized to a degree that makes it hard to fathom a routine without this outlet. That being said, I plan on savoring this last one as much as possible while I reflect on what this publication has done for me.
More than anything, the Clarion has solidified itself as a developmental space that will come to define the way in which I engage with this world for years to come. The quality of my writing has increased dramatically since my first article as a freshman, but more importantly, I have been able to engage with ideas and articulate frustrations related to injustices in a way that has brought meaning to my undergraduate experience.
The very first article I wrote back in 2022 concerned a series of restrictive educational policies passed through conservative state legislatures across the country. In the article, I discuss book bannings as representing a misunderstanding of what the educational process is supposed to be.
The process of learning is supposed to be, at times, uncomfortable. It is supposed to challenge the way in which you see the world. This is particularly true if you operate with privilege, as hearing about the way in which your privilege distances you from the ills of society is not a fun experience.
It can feel like someone is blaming you or trying to undermine your own sufferings. But, the process of learning is also supposed to show us that these uncomfortable feelings are what lead to interpersonal growth and a higher degree of awareness concerning the experiences of those we share this planet with.
Since that article was written, I have seen the ways in which society has continued to travel down the road I saw Republicans push us toward in 2022. We live in an extremely dangerous political climate where our neighbors are being abducted because their skin is not white, and students are being arrested for expressing their rage toward a U.S.-backed genocide in Palestine that continues to slaughter thousands of children.
The political crisis we find ourselves in has exploited our society’s distaste for being uncomfortable in a rather insidious way. The material conditions in this country are dismal; inequality is at a breaking point, and debt is burying millions of families in existential poverty. Yet, those in power, the same ones who want to ban books for making people uncomfortable, have exploited these material sufferings by telling us we feel this way because immigrants, leftists and gender minorities are trying to destroy our way of life.
We are told society is suffering not because it is harder to pay hospital bills while putting food on the table, but because people who are different from us are changing the way our world looks and behaves. In other words, these people are making us uncomfortable, and that is not okay.
We are also told the material suffering is our fault — a reflection of poor work ethic — but the way others make us uncomfortable is their fault. As a result, policies can’t make me work harder, but they can make those who make me uncomfortable disappear.
I believe that if we were all educated in an environment where being uncomfortable was allowed, if we were shown our country’s history through the lens of humanity instead of some whitewashed product that conditions us to behave the “right” way, we would not be in the position we currently find ourselves in.
We would understand that these feelings of being uncomfortable are the feelings we have the most control over, while material suffering is an area that requires collective action, not individual initiative.
I say all of this because my time as a writer at the Clarion has been a time of learning. It has been a space for me to unconsciously — and at times consciously — reckon with uncomfortable feelings. I have been given the room to explore injustices in a way that allows me to conclude that I am not directly at fault for any of the harm experienced by my fellow humans. But, my privileged identity as well as the responsibility of how I use my voice make it so I must say something.
As a writer, I also must remain vulnerable so that those who read my work, especially those who share my identity, understand that it is healthy to do the same. My vulnerability also has the potential to reassure others that they aren’t alone in a world that loves isolating the disquieted.
However, it is also my responsibility as a writer to make people uncomfortable, especially those in positions of power. And if you, for some reason, decide to measure my success as a student journalist, this is the metric I hope you measure it by.
From a reporting standpoint, I did not cover a story associated with DU until my junior year. Our school’s Turning Point USA chapter held a screening of a then-unreleased documentary that made a series of deeply disturbing, and completely baseless, claims about transgender people.
Hundreds of DU students, faculty and community members turned up to disrupt an event that was attacking the humanity of our trans peers. The pride I felt to be a DU student was palpable, and I understood from there on out that my role as a writer needed to reflect the compassion and communal commitment I saw that night.
Less than a month later, I found myself at our university’s Palestine encampment. I knew beforehand that I would be involved in any way possible if our school were to join the national movement. But, what I didn’t know was how those three weeks would become the most transformative of my life. It is hard to capture in words how this experience impacted me as a writer, activist and human being.
This academic year, I have primarily focused on using my platform to expose and criticize the mistreatment of community members and the mismanagement of resources on behalf of our university’s administration. From staff firings and defunding our food pantry to ending the right to protest, I have watched what it means to abuse power. Our Chancellor has refused to take responsibility while rationalizing his outrageous salary to faculty and staff experiencing the consequences of layoffs.
Through all of these experiences, I have tried my best to faithfully document while providing an analysis rooted in a sensitivity toward injustice. I have experienced rage at seeing those I care about get mistreated, and I have tried my best to channel that rage into an analysis rooted in truth.
All I can hope is that I made those subject to injustice feel seen, while making those responsible for the suffering of others uncomfortable with their actions. And if those uncomfortable feelings failed to translate into a learning experience, just know that the future of the Clarion is in good hands.
To all my editors, fellow writers, activists and professors — to all of those who made my experience as a student meaningful — know that the mark you have made on me will never go away. Know that whatever I do will take the form of an attempt to make you proud as I continue to seek out the truth and fight for what is just.
Sincerely,
Hampton Terrell
Opinions Editor Emeritus
