It has been a heavy season — in our region, in our nation, and in higher education itself. The deployment of federal agents to Coast Guard Island, the threats to undocumented and mixed-status families, and the dismantling of Federal programs like HSI, AANAPISI, and TRIO funding hit close to home. They are more than policy decisions; they are an assault on the very idea of education as liberation — as a pathway to belonging, dignity, and opportunity.
And this assault is not just financial. We’re witnessing a deliberate erosion of academic freedom — a narrowing of what educators can teach and students can question. Across the country, we’ve seen efforts to silence discussions of race, history, gender, and identity — the very subjects that help students think critically and connect learning to lived experience. The harm is not abstract; it’s personal. When ideas are censored, students’ lives and voices are diminished.
I know how it feels. I began my community college career as a TRIO counselor/coordinator at Chabot College, and I am a TRIO alum myself. Those student services and support programs — often built on shoestring budgets and extraordinary human care — shaped my life and career. They are living proof of what happens when we refuse to accept that circumstances define potential.
That’s why it pains me to see our own data from the college equity plans telling a different story — one in which too many students begin their Peralta journey without the structure or support that would help them stay the course. From Fall 2022 through Spring 2024, over 8,000 students started their studies across our colleges, yet only about 17% completed a comprehensive educational plan by the end of their first term, and just 22% by the end of their first academic year. That means more than 6,000 students were navigating their first year without a roadmap, without the guidance and clarity that can make the difference between staying on track or falling off. That’s not who we want to be. That’s not how a system designed for student success and equity behaves.
This is our moment to do better — not by blaming systems or scarcity, but by accepting that we are the system. Our structures, habits, and culture shape whether students feel seen, guided, and connected. The transformation underway across the District is not just administrative reform; it’s a mission-driven imperative to reimagine how we show up for students and for one another.
When I look for inspiration, I think of The Puente Project, which began in 1981 as a small pilot at Chabot College. Founders Félix Gálaviz and Patricia McGrath reviewed over 2,000 student transcripts to understand why Latino students were leaving college. What they found was sobering: students weren’t enrolling in college-level writing, weren’t seeking counseling, and were often the first in their families to attend college. Instead of blaming students, they redesigned the structure. They built Puente — a model combining rigorous instruction, sustained counseling, and mentorship rooted in cultural pride. Today, it’s a statewide model replicated at more than 60 colleges.
Puente didn’t wait for a mandate or a grant. It began with self-reflection, courage, and the belief that students’ success was their responsibility.
That same spirit lives here. The Restoring Our Communities (ROC) program at Laney began nine years ago as a grassroots effort to dismantle the stigma of incarceration and provide college access to justice-impacted students. Over time, it evolved — iterating, learning, and expanding from reentry services to college pathways inside Juvenile Hall.
A few weeks ago, I joined President Opsata, professors Roger Chung, Kimm Blackwell, and Zach Smith, along with partners from the Alameda County Probation Department and the Alameda County Office of Education, to confer an associate degree to Joaquin, who earned his AA while incarcerated. Seeing the pride in his eyes and his family’s, the creativity of faculty who adapt their teaching to cell pods instead of lecture halls, and the humanity of staff who see potential rather than pasts — I was reminded that transformation isn’t abstract. It’s built, one act of courage and care at a time. ROC didn’t wait for perfection; it built trust first. And trust created possibilities, from teaching single classes to building a music production studio, offering culinary arts, and expanding accessible academic pathways.
Claude Steele writes that identity threat erodes trust — and trust is the foundation for learning. In a district as diverse and complex as ours, trust isn’t automatic. It’s something we build, every day, through clarity, consistency, and care. Transformation asks each of us — classified professionals, faculty, administrators, and trustees— to be both learners and builders. It requires that we examine our own practices and ask: Are we making it easier or harder for our students to thrive?
Some days, I’ll admit, my faith wobbles. The weight of years of instability, broken systems and processes, and mistrust can feel heavy. But then something happens that reminds me what’s possible when we lead with purpose and love.
For a few brief hours last week, during our inaugural Peralta Pumpkin Pursuit 5K, all was right and good in the world. Perfect weather, a beautiful campus, wonderful people — and a ridiculously fun event that brought our community together. Over 300 participants, countless smiles, and more than $75,000 raised to support our students.
I had never run a race before, and yet there I was — running alongside colleagues, students, and neighbors, feeling what collaboration, pride, and joy can build. For a Foundation that had gone years without steady leadership, that event was more than a fundraiser. It was a reminder that Peralta knows how to show up. That when we come together with creativity, trust, and love, we can rebuild anything. That joy, too, is an act of resistance.
Our Transformation Plan asks us to unify as a district while honoring the strengths of each college. It asks us to design systems that are student-ready — not ones that wait for students to become institution-ready. It calls us to see every role, every department, every classroom as part of one living system — where grace, humility, and responsibility guide our collaboration.
This is not the first time Peralta has led with vision and courage. Our District offered the first Black Studies course in the nation at Merritt College — a course that helped shape the Black Studies movement and changed the trajectory of higher education.
That same spirit of innovation and recognition lives in the work happening today — in our Undocumented Student Resource Centers, Basic Needs Centers, and culturally grounded learning communities like Umoja, Puente, and SALAAM. Across our colleges, we’ve built spaces of belonging from limited resources and limitless love — food pantries, legal aid, emergency grants, and mentorship rooted in identity and pride. Each effort reflects our belief that stability, safety, and belonging are not extras — they are equity in action.
We cannot control what happens externally. But we can control how this District serves our students and how we each choose to contribute — constructively, courageously, and consistently — to improving outcomes for our colleges and, most importantly, for our students.
The path ahead will not be easy. Transformation never is. But we are builders of possibility. The same ingenuity that birthed our most groundbreaking courses, programs, and student services — and the same unwavering belief that education is an act of hope and a cornerstone of democracy — live in us now. In a moment when higher education is being questioned, diminished, and distorted, we must be its fiercest defenders: not through rhetoric, but through results.
It’s time for all of us to step out of our comfort zones and ask, If not us, then who? If not now, when?
With gratitude, courage, and unwavering hope,
Tammeil
Editor's Note: This article originated as an email message Chancellor Gilkerson sent to all Peralta CCD employees on October 27, 2025.
