The interview room felt clinical—sanitized, even. The walls were the kind of white that made my heavily melanated skin seem ten shades deeper. I was always acutely aware of my Blackness in academic spaces, where people who looked like me were scarce. This moment was no different.
An empty chair sat tucked under an expansive grey table, across from an older white gentleman with thinly framed glasses and a crisp button-up shirt. The doctor stood when I entered, and he extended his hand; he was exceptionally tall and wore a cheerful grin. In almost military fashion, I stretched my hand to his for a firm, professional handshake.
