I didn’t know I had an eating disorder until I visited BYU’s Women’s Center in 2019.
Technically, I wouldn’t be diagnosed until I met with my (still current) therapist months later, but I wouldn’t have received treatment without the Women’s Center. I grew up in Arizona and transferred to BYU as a junior, so I didn’t know where to go when I realized my relationship with food was unusual. A friend mentioned the Women’s Center had a registered dietitian who students could meet with one-on-one.
I made an appointment, where I nervously — and rather ambiguously — explained my concerns. Eventually, I was referred to Center for Change, a center for eating disorder treatment.
Five years later, I found myself in the reverse role. “I had 27 cavities in high school from making myself throw up all the time,” the student across my desk casually shares, laughing. I listen and wait before responding.
“Is that still something you do?” I ask. “Would you like help with it? UVU has a registered dietitian you could meet with.”
Tell the Tribune: What do you think the future of DEI efforts in Utah should look like?
In the U.S., someone dies from an eating disorder every 52 minutes. That day in 2019, and hopefully that day in my own office, life-saving work happened. At the very least, my student knew that someone cared about them — that their life matters. That is the possibility, the vulnerability, in one-on-one meetings.
But the life-saving work, often prevalent in DEI services — like one-on-one meetings — can’t continue in the face of HB261.
HB261 — the “Equal Opportunity Initiatives” — went into effect on July 1. The bill-turned-law, known across college campuses as the “anti-DEI bill,” was introduced, passed through the Utah House and Senate and signed into law by Gov. Spencer Cox in 19 days.
Sponsored by Rep. Katy Hall and state Sen. Keith Grover, the bill purportedly “ensures higher education institutions remain a free marketplace of ideas.” Though the bill received intense public backlash and concern from educators, students and staff, Utah’s legislators moved forward with the bill. Such action directly violates Grover’s own proclamation that surrounding laws and policies, the “best decisions are made by those who actually participate in the classroom.”
I have been the person who participates in — and outside — the classroom; I taught first-year writing for two-and-a-half years, and worked in UVU’s Women’s Success Center for half a year before I lost my job. Yet, like many others who work directly and daily with students, I was never consulted on the unfolding changes.
Given the national rise of anti-DEI legislation at universities, HB261′s severity and rhetorical censorship is unsurprising. While not necessarily shocking, the bill’s effects are immediate and damaging: Many offices closed entirely or removed funding, resulting in sudden joblessness for many employees, like myself. And for those who did keep their jobs — like my colleagues at UVU — because the bill encourages reporting noncompliance with the changes, their workplace is now unsafe, uncertain. How are university employees expected to provide students support when they constantly fear being penalized? Is government overreach only Orwellian when it threatens white power?
Among the bill’s primary concerns are that DEI offices and services are open to all (as was instituted long before HB261), and that universities not assert “that an individual should feel discomfort, guilt, anguish, or other psychological distress solely because of the individual’s personal identity characteristics.”
A bill that bans feelings of guilt “solely because of the individual’s personal identity characteristics” is not a phenomenon; rather, it is an example of the way white rage works. Dr. Caroline Anderson writes, “The trigger, for white rage, inevitably, is black advancement. It is not the mere presence of black people that is the problem; rather, it is blackness with ambition … with demands for full and equal citizenship.”
Of course, the bill is more than purely white rage: it is male rage, straight rage, wealthy rage. This kind of rage is easy to enact, its consequences to ignore, when you are not its recipient.
Although Hall argued they “want everyone to get the support they need no matter what,” the reality is that the bill directly works against the ability for students to receive the individualized support they need. Relegating the issue as one of equality and not equity is a simple way to seem compassionate and inclusive. However, in a state where LGBTQ+ young adults’ suicide attempts are higher than the national average, where domestic violence is at a record high over the past three years, the bill is anything but compassionate and inclusive. It is, quite literally, killing our students.
I believe that in facing such bills, we can become discouraged and silent; it is a natural and convenient response. I also believe in inconvenience. I believe in Congressman John Lewis’s call for causing “good trouble, necessary trouble” in response to oppression. Call or write to your representatives; vote in local elections; join protests. Cause good, necessary trouble.
Devon Thomas
Devon Thomas (she/her) is a screenwriter and creative nonfiction writer from Gilbert, Arizona. She earned her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English from BYU. She currently lives in Utah with her cat, Callie, and husband, Nick. (Order not reflective of affection level.) She can often be found oil painting, reading romances or running around with one of her 10 nieces and nephews.
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