Predominately Problematic

…but off to a PWI I went.

I follow The Anti-Intellect Blog because well, it’s awesome. It’s refreshing to see something other than the reality tv, silly prank videos, up and coming one hit wonders, and find your life’s passion memes in my newsfeed. Of late the discussion as been about attending PWIs and everything around that. Why people of my color choose/prefer them to HBCUs. People’s perceptions of the benefits of PWIs vs HBCUs. And the all too common misconceptions of the type of education one will get in a class of their ethic peers.

Well, what says I?

I went to a PWI/non HBCU. Twice.

The year was 1998. I was preparing to make the big decision, while my sister was away living the dream at Howard University. A very expensive dream. That’s pretty much where my mind was when decided what institution to attend. How much is this going to potentially cost my parents? Lae was in school already. I was soon off to somewhere. And after me, there were four more who would endeavor to be something better than our high school selves.

With that, I applied to all kinds of schools. Mostly because I did not think about the bottom line until it was time to pay it. I didn’t know much about HBCUs except that Lae was at Howard University, which was really far away, and that my Uncle always had something to say about some school in Texas (Prairie View A&M University). It didn’t dawn on me that there might be more to this HBCU thing because of how my high school life was set up. I didn’t like being one of few Black people in all my classes, but I found a way to survive it. I graduated conditioned to it. It was all I knew.

Conditioned or not, the real decision came down to money. With two sisters in private high schools, then one of them off to a private college, and many more on the way, I chose the cheap one. A good school, but it was the least expensive of all the schools who wanted me. I gave absolutely no thought to anything else. I know that my mother knew, but she never said a thing. She knew it wasn’t my dream, but I would never admit it. I deferred my dream thinking I was giving my parents the opportunity to give my other sisters theirs. Looking back, I was really just afraid to say what I wanted. #myhowthingshaventchangedmuch

I left for school knowing that I would be enduring the next four to five years. I knew that I would not see very many people like me. And I was actually kind of thankful for High School in that regard – because I already knew what it felt like, and I worked out all my issues with it…sorta. It was like I forgot every episode of A Different World. #ForShame

One of my first days alone in my triple in Hedrick Hall, I sat around confused. I did not know where to go or what to do. Eventually, I got thirsty, so I took my pitcher to the lounge kitchen and made some kool-aid – red kool-aid. Got some ice out the kitchen and carried it back to my room with the door propped open still. I sat at my desk, sipping my red kool-aid, looking out the window. Minutes later a Black girl, on her way to her room at the end of the hall, knocked on my open door.

          Um, is that kool-aid?

          Yea, I just made it…

     Would you uh, mind if I had some?

          Yea, sure… My name is…

And just like that, I made my first Black friend in my Residence Hall. One pitcher of kool-aid turned into spades and dominoes at least three times a week. Life Science study sessions in our elevator lobby – note cards posted on the wall. Fried chicken, cabbage, and cornbread during Spring Break because the dining hall is closed. Our numbers grew. What other reason could there be for Black kids living in Sunset Village (nicer residence halls) to make their way on a regular basis to the top of the Hill to hang out on my floor? We all looked like each other. Oh, and because I braided hair. If you needed your hair done, I was the person to see.

Eventually we all grew to take classes together. Plan trips into Westwood and Los Angeles as a group. Mended each other’s broken hearts. And plotted on the jerks who did it. Became RAs together. Let our off campus friends use our extra meals on campus. Spent summers working on campus and taking extra classes. And graduating together.

That community of Blackness is the reason I survived. Not graduated. I would have gotten a degree without them. I would not mentally survived that experience without them. You have no idea of the extreme deterioration of the psyche of a Black Woman at a PWI. Every day there is something passive aggressively said and/or with harmful ignorance done that eats away at everything you love about yourself. We were the real weapons of mass destruction, ticking time bombs living a history silently instructed in those classrooms. It drove me to a silent rage that if not released properly, would have had me in someone’s office explaining myself. Like when my group of (Black) friends and I were a little too loud studying outside of the RAs door. Having to explain California Law to white students who were certain that my being at that school was a byproduct of affirmative action. Seeing the shock in their faces when they learned that I wasn’t a student-athlete #IFitTheDescriptionTho. That I was actually a student, just like them. The Black Bruin Struggle is never ending…

High School did not prepare me for that. I had no idea what that felt like. And it hurt. When it hurt, we had a ritual. We would go eat in the dining hall, usually Covel Commons, and head back to my suite and play House of the Dead II on Dreamcast. I had the gun controllers. If it got really bad, we’d order Jose bowls from Jose Berstien’s. That’s when you knew ish was real. That was when the white noise was too loud. We needed Latinos and Zombies to help us drown it out. The relief felt in those moments, moments in which we did not say much at all. The nearness… That song has different meaning as I look back on this time.

I would have needed some of these safeguards at a HBCU. There is no doubt, being in a community full of your peers does not mean there will be instant relationships and connections. I mean, they didn’t always get along with each other. However, the probability of being able to create those things would have been higher, and much easier with a critical mass of people who already understood why I needed to wrap my hair at night, got concerned when we were out and the street lights came on, or how I look back so fondly on that one time my Mama almost whooped me blind – because losing my sight was her greatest act of love. People who would never bring me a pumpkin pie as a substitute for sweet potato, know that the penalty is death for cutting your partner at spades, and that red is in fact a kool-aid flavor. And it’s delicious.

Of all three of my graduations, I remember African Grad the most. The university graduation in Pauley Pavilion was an optical illusion at best and the department graduation was for show. African Grad was it. It was the one I wanted them to see. My parents could have been a Disneyland that Friday and Saturday – it would have not bothered me. But that Sunday night? I wanted them there to see. To see all the people part of MY UCLA. To meet all the friends, all the folks that watched me go from a boop you’re hella moded precocious first year student to a Boop, you’re hella moded and here is where I’ve cited my sources… #FACTS Alum. They felt all the love from the past five years in Westwood that day.

Knowing then what I know now, I may have made the same decision. However, it would have been more informed. I would have done my due diligence in research institutions of higher education. I would have considered the importance of being in a place with people like me the same way I considered the academic fields of study. I took for granted what it meant to be around people that looked like me. I gave very little consideration to that decision on my mental health because I had no concept of the consequences. Of which there were many.

And no concept of how much of that would be with me this very day. More than a decade later.