Let’s talk about rejection—not the kind that humbles you but the kind that makes you pause, tilt your head, and say, Really? This is the best you could come up with?

FIRST - HOW TO WATCH THE GRAMMYS - CLICK HERE!

And now… Last year, I applied for a prestigious Poetry Director position at a low-residency creative writing program way out west. Picture it: a program nestled in a space so white it could double as a glacier. I wasn’t deterred by geography, demographics, or the challenge of being one of the only Black women in the room (been there, done that, thrived anyway). I applied with the full force of my credentials: 23 years of Spoken Word artistry, two MFAs, nine countries, countless workshops, over 300 colleges and universities, and two decades of proven teaching experience—in-person, online, and everywhere in between.

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The first email I received was promising: “Congratulations! You’ve made it to the first round of consideration.” A small but meaningful nod to the fact that my work had caught their attention.

The second email, though, gave me pause: “Hey, you do know this is in Western Colorado, right?”

I had to reread it. Surely, this was a generic email sent to all candidates. But then again, you never know. Was this an honest attempt to gauge my commitment, or was it a thinly veiled question that hinted at their discomfort with me in their program? It was as if they wanted to confirm that I—a Black woman with an unapologetic presence—had made a “mistake” by applying to their serene, monochromatic academic bubble.

By the time the third email arrived, I wasn’t shocked. It was the classic rejection letter: “Thank you for your interest, but we’ve found other candidates more qualified.”

Let me pause here to tell you what I wanted to write back.

More qualified? In the country? For a low-residency poetry program?

Let me break this down for them.

I’ve walked the halls of low-residency programs not just as a graduate (Antioch and Queens University of Charlotte) but as someone who has taken the very structure of those programs and woven it into my teaching philosophy. I know the grind of balancing artistry and academic rigor because I’ve lived it. I know how to foster connection in asynchronous environments because I’ve done it—successfully—for years, including at Southern New Hampshire University and Clark Atlanta University. And I know how to meet students where they are, no matter their background, because my life is a testament to reaching across divides.

If this is about credentials, I have them. If this is about experience, I live it. And if this is about something else—something unspoken but painfully clear—that’s not on me.

The truth is, I am uniquely qualified for this role in ways their “more qualified” candidates couldn’t possibly be. I’ve stood on stages in nine countries, taught workshops that pulled the shy and uncertain into the light of their own creativity, and connected with students from every walk of life. My teaching isn’t confined to the pages of a syllabus—it’s in the energy I bring, the stories I share, the way I make room for everyone to feel seen, heard, and empowered.

But here’s what I know about rejection: it’s not always about you. It’s about what they weren’t ready for. Maybe they weren’t ready for someone who disrupts their norms. Maybe they weren’t ready for a Black woman who embodies excellence in a space they didn’t build with her in mind. Or maybe they just weren’t ready for me.

And that’s fine.

Because while they were busy drafting rejection letters, I’ve been busy thriving. Teaching. Writing. Building stages for voices that deserve to be heard. I’ve spent my life turning obstacles into stepping stones, and this is no different.

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To those programs, committees, and gatekeepers who still can’t see what’s standing right in front of them: I’ll keep applying. I’ll keep showing up. Not for you, but for the students who need me, for the stories that need to be told, and for the spaces I’ll create when yours proves too small for my vision.

And to anyone out there feeling overlooked: remember this—you are not defined by their inability to see your worth. You are defined by how you carry on, how you rise, and how you continue to shine in spaces they couldn’t imagine you reaching.

They skipped over me. But I’m still here, still building, and still unstoppable.

Signed,
Queen Sheba
#TheQueenSheba #GrammyNominated #BlackWomenTeach #StillUnstoppable

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Skipped Over but Still Unstoppable: Title: Skipped Over but Still Unstoppable: A Poet, A Professor, and a Reminder of Who I Am - Me to Me

Let’s talk about rejection—not the kind that humbles you but the kind that makes you pause, tilt your head, and say, Really? This is the best you could come up with?

FIRST - HOW TO WATCH THE GRAMMYS - CLICK HERE!

Let me break this down for them.

Because while they were busy drafting rejection letters, I’ve been busy thriving. Teaching. Writing. Building stages for voices that deserve to be heard. I’ve spent my life turning obstacles into stepping stones, and this is no different.