Then and Now: Reflections on Identity and Leading with Purpose

Behind the Board is a space for APF’s Board of Trustees to share their expertise in psychology, offer perspectives on the field today, and explore how philanthropy helps turn psychological knowledge into real-world impact.

In 2004, APF President Dr. Melba J.T. Vasquez wrote about her identity as a Latina woman navigating a white world, from her childhood in a small Texas town to the highest levels of academia and leadership. We invited her to revisit that work and reflect on what has changed, what has endured, and how leadership became a way of turning painful experiences into something purposeful.

Many of the challenges Dr. Vasquez spoke about 22 years ago are still present today. Experiences of being overlooked, underestimated, and navigating consistent bias can take a toll. At the same time, they shape how people lead, advocate, and show up to support others.

There’s something powerful about learning from leaders who are willing to share their own experiences. We invite you to listen to the stories that shaped Dr. Vasquez, and how these moments were channelled into leading with intention.

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The following are slights and oppressive experiences that I shared in an article which I wrote for Psi Chi in 2004 (https://doi.org/1092-0803.Eye8.3.18). For many of us from diverse backgrounds, these experiences are often compounded by multiple dimensions of discrimination. For me, that meant experiencing them both as a woman and as a Latina woman in a predominantly white environment. Many of us navigate the impact of how others perceive our intersecting identities, and these (often negative) perceptions create real barriers to achievement. At the same time, there’s the added struggle in how these experiences make us perceive ourselves. Over time, the messages we get from others about who we are can internalize.

In the 20 years since I wrote the initial article, so much has changed, but it’s just as striking how much has endured. The contexts may shift, the language may evolve, and opportunities may change, yet many of the underlying experiences remain deeply familiar. I’ve made a few light edits to the piece linked above, and I’d love to highlight both what’s evolved and what has remained constant.

I grew up as the first born of two first-borns, and was essentially treated like a princess by parents, grandparents, 16 aunts, and uncles! It wasn’t perfect, because we were poor, but I did not know that until I was 6 or 7. However, when I entered elementary school, I experienced discrimination and negative treatment for the first time in my life. I grew up in a socially segregated period of time, and I did not really have a white friend until after I graduated from college. For instance, I had a white boyfriend in the second grade; it may have only lasted a few days, but one day this boyfriend told me that his mother (the school nurse) said that he could not be my boyfriend anymore because I was “Mexican.” I remember going home and asking my mother what was wrong with being Mexican. When my mother became very angry, I learned to not share those kinds of painful experiences with her as much anymore. I did not want her to be upset.

I did eventually learn how to interact in the white world. My parents sent me to Catholic school for part of my childhood; I attended it in the 3rd through 7th grade, and I believe that helped with my academic skill development. 

Despite their elementary educational levels, my parents were politically active in the local community, valued education, and served as positive role models. Being a good student was my ticket for approval from a variety of people. I was an officer in high school, and was in national honor society, student council, homecoming royalty, a cheerleader (one of the first Latinas in my small central Texas town of San Marcos). 

Unfortunately,  I quickly learned to not trust my white peers or most of my teachers, for good reason. I would find out that my fellow high school cheerleaders had social events, but purposefully excluded me because of my identity. I once overheard a “favorite” civics teacher wonder what they were going to do about “those minorities” who were winning leadership elections, with disdain in her voice. 

These experiences are only a small glimpse of many, and one cannot grow up with those experiences without being affected! These were my teachers and my peers, people I was supposed to feel safe and accepted with. These experiences changed everything for me. It was jarring to know that no matter how friendly, academically involved, or sociable I strived to be, people would still find ways to judge me.

These oppressive experiences can be very demoralizing, rejecting, painful, and lead to silencing of ourselves and questioning of our voices. Of course, I learned that we can’t stay in our sadness; we have to allow our anger and frustration to be experienced so that it can help transform us into constructive action. What has changed over time is perhaps the language we use to describe these experiences and the spaces where we can name them, but the emotional weight, and the need to transform pain into action, remains the same.

One of the myths, of course, is that accomplishments, status, and salaries will pave the way to a life free of problems. Credentials, positions of influence, and money are indeed forms of power and make us more visible. However, the glass ceiling is alive and especially working for most of us; especially for women of color. We are each reminded on a regular basis that credentials and status don’t protect us from hurts and offenses. I struggled with many painful, discriminatory experiences throughout my career, but have also had the support of so many family, friends, and colleagues. What has changed is access; in my experience, what has not changed is the persistence of these barriers, even at the highest levels of academia.

Today, we see evidence of hate and abuse directed to those of us who are “othered” by the current environment on a daily basis. When we experience the pain of oppression, it is often shameful. We can erroneously feel that we have erred in ways that extend and affect our families and communities, which is an incredible burden. Each of us has countless stories of a range of failure and oppressive experiences. They include almost imperceptible slights and subtle dismissal by bosses, waiters, clients, classmates, colleagues, or strangers we might meet or interact with across a conference table, at a restaurant, at a party. They assume that we have nothing to say, or do not want to speak. We might be mistaken for one of the wives or girlfriends or even workers or servants; we are seen as a marginalized member or guest who may not even be able to speak English. At best, we spice up the crowd with exotic ethnicity. These moments may seem small in isolation, but their impact weighs heavy over time.

The African American or Latina or Asian American member of the 20-person corporate team whose new board member assumes she is a secretary and nonchalantly asks her to make a copy of something. These are all painful dilemmas about which we have a choice to act, or to let go of. In either case, we know that we can’t let these experiences define us . . . yet, they take a toll. That familiar tension between resilience and exhaustion hasn’t gone anywhere.

Within these ongoing realities, I have also seen how engagement in leadership and action can reshape what is possible, both for myself, and for others who share these realities. As I mentioned earlier, status and credentials don’t shield us from discrimination or the hurt caused by it. What they can do, however, is create access and influence that help open doors for others. That responsibility became an important part of how I built my own path.

Throughout my career, I chose to engage in various leadership positions, including President of the American Psychological Association (2011), and more recently of the American Psychological Foundation (APF), because I believe that one must be at the table in order to try to have a voice, and to truly make a difference. APF in particular is structured to fund psychological research that prioritizes people and their well being, especially with regards to supporting research by and for those from marginalized backgrounds. It has been especially meaningful to be a part of uplifting research that reflects and responds to the lived experiences of communities that have too often been overlooked.

More recently, we have begun to fund Direct Action projects that apply evidence based interventions to help communities in need. The funding supports those who turn psychological research into action, to support the most vulnerable communities. This demonstrates one of the most important changes I’ve seen over time- not just naming inequities, but building ways to tangibly address them.

I have stood on the shoulders of many, and continue to offer my shoulders to those who value equity, who understand that diversity makes us strong, and who strive for a just society.  Channeling difficulties and pain into efforts that make a difference in society is a form of ongoing healing, both on an individual and community basis. This is what endures the most: The responsibility and possibility that comes from turning lived experiences into lasting change.

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Stories like Dr. Vasquez’s show us how lived experience, identity, and leadership can come together to build a more equitable future in psychology. Make a gift to APF and help transform those stories into lasting impact for people and communities.

Learn more about APF’s Board of Trustees.

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