In any university setting, especially one that claims to uphold diversity and inclusion, the Office of Affirmative Action should stand as a safeguard against discrimination. But at Penn State, our family learned the hard way that these safeguards can be nothing more than hollow protocols—used not to uncover truth, but to protect the institution from accountability.
Our ordeal began when my wife, a doctoral student at Penn State’s College of Nursing, faced inexplicable roadblocks in her program. After completing nearly all of her requirements, she was suddenly told to redo her final project—despite having passed every previous stage under the guidance of her project chair. When we raised concerns of retaliation and procedural violations, we were referred to the university’s Affirmative Action Office. We hoped for fairness. What we received was a performance.
From the beginning, something felt off. The investigators did not ask probing questions. They weren’t interested in policies, evidence, or outcomes. It became clear that the office’s role wasn’t to assess wrongdoing—it was to control the damage and manufacture the appearance of a fair process. Their goal was not to determine whether discrimination occurred. It was to document that an “investigation” took place so the university could claim it had addressed the issue.
The defining moment came when we asked a simple question: What is my wife’s current academic status? They couldn’t answer. Not because they didn’t have access—but because they weren’t prepared for us to ask. That question disrupted their timeline. It forced them to reveal what they hoped to delay: that the university had already moved to dismiss her, even as they pretended to be investigating.
In that moment, the illusion collapsed. Their job was never to seek justice. Their job was to exonerate the university and discredit the complainant. This was not a fair inquiry. It was a coordinated stall, designed to buy time, exhaust us, and suppress the truth under a pile of internal memos and vague findings.
We knew then that we had to protect ourselves—not just from academic retaliation, but from an internal system rigged to appear impartial while operating as an extension of the university’s legal defense strategy.
And still, we pressed on. We submitted formal requests. We tracked every communication. We recorded each inconsistency. We refused to be silenced.
What happened to us is not unique. Across the country, families and students place their trust in university offices designed to address civil rights—only to be misled by internal investigations with predetermined outcomes. These are not safeguards. They are shields.
We share our story not out of bitterness, but out of necessity. The public must understand that institutions can manipulate their own accountability structures to serve their interests. Transparency without honesty is deception. And policy without enforcement is injustice.
If you’re facing a similar situation—don’t wait. Document everything. Ask the questions they don’t want to answer. And most importantly, trust your instincts. We did. And it’s the only reason we’re still standing.