キャリアニュース2020年12月5～9日

My hands shook as I sat down to write the email. “I wanted to let y'all know that I use they/them/theirs pronouns,” I typed. “I know that gender-neutral/non-binary pronouns are not a common staple in our language, but I ask that you please do your best to respect them.” Proclaiming my identity—one I had still not quite figured out yet—to a group of co-workers made me feel incredibly vulnerable. But I knew that if I wanted to survive graduate school, I needed to be open with my labmates, no matter how scared I was. After a few anxious moments, I clicked “send.” > “I'm constantly learning how to exist in this world as my true self.” During the months leading up to graduate school, I had been exploring the idea of using gender-neutral pronouns. I didn't know whether they'd suit me; I just knew the words “she” and “woman” didn't feel quite right when they were used to describe me. I had come out as queer during my last year of college, thanks in large part to support from the tight-k

Income inequality in college attendance and graduation in the United States was troublingly large before the pandemic. Without an aggressive infusion of federal support for schools and students, these already sizable gaps will likely widen into chasms. Historically, a poor child in the United States has had a 10% chance of eventually earning a college degree; for children from well-off families, it's over 50%. The pandemic is widening these differences, thereby increasing poverty, reducing social mobility, and stunting economic growth. Data from the National Student Clearinghouse show that first-time enrollment at colleges and universities in the United States decreased by 13% from fall 2019 to fall 2020. At community colleges, the traditional gateway for disadvantaged students, freshman enrollment plunged 19%. Drops were largest among Black (18.7%), Hispanic (19.9%), and Native American (23.2%) students. Low-income college students have historically been half as likely to graduate a