HBCU vs.

The debate. As old as the grease at Church’s. Possibly older than Methusela. Definitely older than Cicely Tyson, however old that is.

What is the debate? HBCU or PWI.

I’m not here to opine on which is better (even though, unlike many of the people who love to keep an HBCU name in their mouth, I have attended both an HBCU and a PWI).

Really, I just want to tell you what the hell you have been missing if the only time that you ever stepped foot on an HBCU campus was to go to your little cousin’s/brother/sister/friend graduation and/or shit talk.

You know that spark that you see in someone’s eyes, the smile spread across their face, the high pitched “whaaat, EYE went there too!” that jumps out of their mouth when you tell a new acquaintance that you graduated from the University of Alabama?

…

Me neither.

But when I say Spelman, things happen. The understanding of my character and my excellence shines through, unspoken. It’s a connection that the vast majority of HBCU graduates feel with not just their alma matters, but with their classmates–and really, with themselves. And no, I’m not opining on my subjective observations–it’s fact. There are so many statistics on the outsized contributions of HBCUs that I won’t waste my own time recounting them. We all have Google.

Really, people who have never matriculated through an HBCU will never understand their true importance because the person they could have been, who would see in the way that only an HBCU can allow you to see–that person was left sitting on the steps of the admissions office at UGA. What is most remarkable, really, about the HBCU experience is just being there. At no other point in an African-American person’s life will they ever be surrounded with a critical mass of black minds seeking excellence and purpose, all in an institution that was created for the sole purpose of propelling them to success.

I mean, shit. Some PWIs were founded on the backs of actual slaves, and funded with blood money. Contrast that. When I walked through Spelman’s gates, I have never felt more safe. Safe in myself. I never had to be black-Khadijah. I could be just Khadijah, because everyone was black. I could be different and the same and my being wasn’t simply wrapped up in my skin, but wrapped up in my soul. Not only could I see myself more clearly, but I could see my people around me as well. I beheld the shades of black I never knew, from first-generation college to Comic Con cosplayer, and they were splendid.

The way that you see yourself, when you no longer have to see yourself through a white-gaze-colored lens…that is 20/20.