At The University of Alabama, there’s no shortage of performances that celebrate inclusivity. We host events that mock outdated stereotypes, panels that applaud “open dialogue,” and contests that claim to challenge the old definitions of identity. But somewhere between the performances and the applause, something gets lost. The gestures feel good, even look good, but they often replace the harder work of reflection and accountability. It’s easy to perform awareness, but it’s harder to actually do it.
There’s a quiet shift happening on college campuses across America, one that has been growing and taking new shapes for many years. Sometimes it’s the soft shrug, the awkward laugh, the “don’t make a big deal out of it” that follows a racist joke or a sexist comment. It’s the silence that fills the room when someone says something distasteful and no one challenges it. That silence, that comfort in tension, is how complacency grows.
At universities across the country, we’ve become far too comfortable calling ourselves “inclusive” without asking if we actually are. Inclusion was once printed on brochures, written carefully into mission statements and spoken in speeches at orientation; however, prejudice shows itself in the everyday, in dorm rooms, classrooms or group chats, and is often met with silence rather than action.
The truth is, prejudice on college campuses rarely looks like it did decades ago. It’s rarely over the top. It’s quieter now, casual, coded, almost disguised as humor or tradition. This generational shift trades activism for “slacktivism”: visible, viral, but often missing the hard work behind it.
A student makes a joke that crosses the line, but it’s brushed off as “just messing around.” Black Student Union President Jordan Stokes said in an interview with The Crimson White last year that the majority of racism she experienced on campus was a subtle or everyday kind of racism. A professor in class consistently misgenders a student or dismisses a concern about bias, and everyone just pretends it doesn’t happen.
When it comes to bystander reactions, silence is not neutral — it further encourages acts of aggression.
The harm of that attitude goes deeper than a few uncomfortable moments. It tells marginalized students that their safety, dignity and sense of belonging are conditional, that they are welcome here but only if they don’t make others uncomfortable by pointing out discrimination. It teaches everyone else that empathy is optional, that silence is the polite choice and that defending someone is somehow not being able to “take a joke.”
The responsibility to create a shift in this type of attitude lies with all of us: students, faculty and administrators. It’s not enough to issue a statement after something happens; it’s about what happens before. It’s about the conversations in classrooms, the tone set by leadership, and the courage of students to speak up when it would be easier not to. The standard for a truly inclusive campus cannot be “no scandals.” It has to be “no silence.”
What would it look like if the University truly lived up to the ideals it prints on banners? It would look like peers correcting one another without fear of backlash. It would like a campus culture where inclusion isn’t an announcement, but an instinct. When we normalize casual cruelty, when we allow microaggressions to pass unchecked and when we decide it’s “not worth the argument,” we create the very environment we claim to oppose. The danger isn’t that hate shouts, it’s that decency whispers.
The question is not if prejudice still exists, it’s if we’ve grown too comfortable living alongside it.
