Christopher Rhoads

My mother always dreamed that I would someday attend college.

To her, college was the first step to living out the Ameri-can dream.

Early in my life my mother emphasized the importance of education.

“You aren’t gonna struggle like I had to,” she would say.

Growing up, I had aspirations of becoming a prestigious attorney.

I thought I would attend the prominent John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. Or so I planned.

The summer of 2000 strained our relationship. My mother fought to maintain control, while I fought to gain some.

Her ultimatum: “Go to Shaw, join the army or get out of the house.”

I knew Shaw was my next stop.

The trip down South was long. It gave me more than enough time to contemplate the seemingly doom-filled future I now faced.

I never thought I would attend a black school.

This was because I feared that when I got out into the job market, I might be discriminated against for having a degree from a black school.

I also wanted to show that I was special by graduating from a school that may not have had my best interest in mind.

Now, here I was, contradicting myself on my way to Shaw University. What impact would this decision have on my life? Only time would tell.

At Shaw, I ran into horrid registration lines which seemed more like welfare lines. Dissatisfied, I planned to transfer.

Again, I questioned the validity of black schools, however, some things changed my view of Shaw.

Some staff members made me feel comfortable by going that extra mile for me when I was given the runaround.

I realized that it wasn’t a matter of black colleges, but of the staff and faculty, the facilities and the academics.

Another incident that changed my perception was a speaker’s message during freshman orientation.

She spoke on the subject of being black and possessing self-pride.

Now sure, I’m a very confident young man, at times close to being arrogant and even conceited , but even I felt like there was something missing at times.

Then it happened. She supplied me with part of the complex puzzle I like to refer to as my life.

She told the students in the gymnasium one significant thing: “You are black, you are special.”

Simple, isn’t it? “You are special.”

I heard that before when I was young.

But it felt different hearing it at the end of my teenage years.

Besides, when I attended prep school for my freshman year of high school, I never felt like I belonged.

It always felt like I had to work twice as hard to be accepted.

Now, I work twice as hard because I now know that you must work hard in order to succeed.

I may not have realized that I was still fighting some invisible, oppressive, self-imagined system.

I learned that the only system holding me back was my own self-doubt.

Self-doubt is more atrocious than Jim Crow and more containing than the bondage of slavery.

There is no bigger crime than locking down your own mentality.

Cages were not meant for the human mind.

So, just maybe, black colleges actually do have a purpose.

Maybe, this lady’s reassuring words were all that I needed to move on in life.

Maybe a majority college is less suited for me.

And, just maybe, the true purpose of a black university is to facilitate my journey to pride by enhancing my black experience.