Speaking of Speaking English

The Shift

By the end of my second year in graduate school, I made a quiet but decisive shift: I moved from comparative to American politics. It wasn’t part of any grand plan. I just started to notice something. American scholars were often seen as experts on the politics of other countries—but rarely the other way around. I wanted to challenge that asymmetry. I believed international students like me also had something to say about American politics. We carried perspectives shaped by distance and difference. That, I thought, could be a contribution—not a liability.

But the moment I entered that conversation, I felt what it meant to be on the outside. I began attending seminars and workshops where I was often the only non-native English speaker—and one of the only racial or ethnic minorities in the room. The feeling of not quite belonging wasn’t imagined. It was structural, social, and deeply personal.

The Hurt

Articulating complex ideas in a second—or third—language isn’t just hard. It can be humiliating. The real challenge isn’t grammar or vocabulary. It’s knowing, deep down, that someone in the room is already questioning your intellect before you’ve finished your sentence. I didn’t need training in social psychology to know this was happening. Over the years, I heard it directly from people I respected—comments about my accent, my word choice, or the way I sounded “less certain.”

The first time it happened, it felt like a punch to the stomach. I tried to let it go. But those moments stay with you. They resurface in quiet hours. They chip away at your confidence. I don’t believe those colleagues were malicious. I think they were unaware. But even casual comments, when repeated often enough, add up. One remark may seem harmless. But when you hear it enough, it becomes something sharp. A thousand paper cuts, quietly accumulated.

The Turn

At some point, I wrote down what I was feeling. I shared an early version of this reflection while I was still in graduate school—still unsure if I truly belonged. I braced for silence. But something unexpected happened instead.

People reached out. Political scientists from across the field wrote to me. They offered mentorship, solidarity, support. Some of them became mentors who opened doors I didn’t even know existed. Others became collaborators, allies, friends. Their kindness helped me finish my degree. But more than that, it helped me believe that I had a place in this field—not as an exception, but as someone who belonged.

The Why

That experience changed how I show up in academia. These days, whenever I attend a conference, I extend a simple invitation: Let me buy you a coffee or tea. If you’re a graduate student—especially if you’re international, a minority, or unsure of your place—please reach out. I’ve mentored dozens of students across backgrounds, inside and outside academia. I do it because others did it for me. And because no one should have to navigate this alone.

I also carry that mindset into my teaching. I work hard to create spaces where students from non-traditional backgrounds can find their footing, develop their skills, and feel seen. I want them to know what I often didn’t: that their voice, however it sounds, is something to protect—not correct.

The Ask

If you’re a political scientist reading this, thank you. And I have one request: if you believe, as I do, that our field should be more inclusive and open to different ways of speaking, thinking, and being, then be mindful of how you talk about language. Please don’t write comments like “The author is not a native speaker.” It doesn’t help. It doesn’t improve the work. It just narrows the space of who gets to be taken seriously.

We don’t need more subtle signals of exclusion. We need more acts of generosity. Sometimes that means offering a second read. Sometimes it means choosing silence over critique. And sometimes it means using your voice to help someone else find theirs.

The Lesson

Because at the end of the day, doing scholarship isn’t just about publishing. It’s about belonging. It’s about finding your voice—and finding the people who help you keep it. That’s what makes the work sustainable. That’s what makes it matter.

And that’s the kind of field I want to help build—one conversation, one gesture, one shared cup of coffee at a time.