The Life I Might Have Lived If I Had Never Attended an HBCU

I sometimes wonder what my life would look like if I had never attended an HBCU.

Not because I think attending an HBCU magically made me who I am. It didn't.

But I do believe it changed the direction I was headed.

And the funny thing is, I almost didn't go.

From kindergarten through high school graduation, I attended predominantly white schools. I grew up in a Black neighborhood, but most of the Black kids in my neighborhood went to the same schools I did. So while I was surrounded by Black people at home, my educational experience was predominantly white and it was the same for the kids in my neighborhood.

That was simply my normal.

When it came time for college, my plan was to attend a predominantly white institution.

It made sense. It was what I knew.

Then reality showed up with a financial aid package. The PWI offered me a partial academic scholarship. An HBCU offered me a full academic scholarship.

Now, I'm many things, but stupid isn't one of them. I went where the money was.

And that decision changed my life.

I Thought I Knew What It Meant To Be Black

I had already started becoming more conscious of my Black identity during my teenage years. My father played a major role in that. So did music.

Public Enemy. Boogie Down Productions. Artists who weren't exactly making songs designed to keep everybody comfortable at the dinner table. They were giving me information, perspectives and questions that weren't necessarily being handed to me in school.

I was beginning to understand that being Black in America wasn't simply about the color of my skin.

There was history behind it that wasn't being taught. There was culture behind it that I didn't always see. There were experiences behind it that I never really had.

There were things my parents understood because they had lived them that I hadn't yet experienced myself. I was beginning the journey.

But the HBCU solidified it.

Same Skin. Different Experiences.

One of the most eye-opening things about attending an HBCU wasn't simply being surrounded by Black people. I had been surrounded by Black people my entire life in my neighborhood. It was realizing that we hadn't all experienced America the same way.

I would meet somebody and we'd start talking about where we grew up, what school was like, how teachers treated them, what their neighborhoods were like, what their parents taught them, and what they thought about race.

And sometimes I'd think: Wow. We are both Black, but we came through two completely different worlds.

I had been educated in predominantly white schools. Some of my HBCU classmates had spent their entire educational careers surrounded primarily by Black teachers and Black students.

Their reference points were different. Their experiences were different. Their understanding of certain racial dynamics was different.

And instead of making me think one group was right and the other was wrong, it made me realize something much more important: Context matters.

I Learned To Pay Attention

Before college, I knew how to interact with people. The diversity of my upbringing gave me that. But the HBCU taught me to pay attention to something else: how people were interacting with me.

I started noticing the difference between being accepted and being tolerated. Those two things can look remarkably similar if you aren't careful.

That didn't mean every uncomfortable interaction was racism. It didn't mean every white person secretly disliked Black people. And it certainly didn't mean every Black person automatically had my best interests at heart.

It meant I became more observant.

The HBCU taught me to look beyond the surface of an interaction and consider the circumstances surrounding it.

• Look at the history.
• Look at the behavior.
• Look at the pattern.
• Look at the context.
• Then make your judgment.

That was discernment.

My HBCU Didn't Teach Me To Hate White People

This is where I think the conversation about HBCUs sometimes gets unnecessarily stupid. There are people who hear "HBCU" and immediately assume that students are being taught some kind of anti-white ideology. 

That wasn't my experience at all. My HBCU didn't teach me to hate white people. It taught me to love Black people.

There's a difference. A pretty important one.

Loving your own people doesn't require hating somebody else's. Understanding Black history doesn't require rewriting everybody else's history.

Being proud of Black accomplishments doesn't require pretending other people haven't accomplished anything.

And learning about racism doesn't mean believing every white person is racist. That's kindergarten-level thinking.

My HBCU gave me something I hadn't fully received before: A concentrated education in Black history, culture and experience.

Not because Black history is the only history that matters. But because it was the history I had the least opportunity to learn about in the educational environments I came through.

What I Didn't Know I Didn't Know

That's probably the biggest gift the HBCU gave me. It showed me how much I didn't know. Not just about Black history. About myself.

Growing up in a predominantly white school system, I became accustomed to an environment that didn't always center my culture or my history. I didn't necessarily recognize what was missing because I didn't know what I was missing.

The HBCU started filling in some of those blanks.

I encountered stories, perspectives and pieces of Black history that weren't part of the education I had received growing up.

And suddenly, some things I had heard from my father while growing up made more sense.

Some of the music I'd been listening to made more sense.

Some of the things I had observed but couldn't quite articulate finally had context.

It was like somebody handed me several missing pages from a book I'd been reading my entire life.

What If I Had Gone To The PWI?

This is the question I keep coming back to :What if I had received that partial scholarship and gone to the PWI?

I probably would have done fine. That's the strange part. 

I already knew that environment. I probably would have graduated, gotten a job, built relationships and continued living my life.

Maybe I would have eventually discovered more about Black history.

Maybe I would have become more conscious of racial dynamics through work, relationships, travel, books, music or simply getting older.

Maybe.

But I don't know.

What I do know is that I wouldn't have had the exact experience that changed me.

I wouldn't have sat across from people whose Black experiences were completely different from mine and had those conversations.

I wouldn't have heard their stories.

I wouldn't have had those moments where I realized that two people could share the same skin color while having completely different understandings of what that skin color meant in America.

And I wouldn't have had the same environment in which to explore my own identity.

That's the part people sometimes miss about education.

Education isn't only about what somebody puts on a chalkboard.

Sometimes it's about who you meet.

Sometimes it's about the conversations you have in a dorm room at 2 AM.

Sometimes it's about realizing that something you thought was universal was actually just your personal experience.

Sometimes the most important lesson isn't: "Here's the answer."

It's: "You need to ask a better question."

The HBCU Expanded My World

My HBCU didn't shrink my world. It expanded it. I went into college with a broad understanding of how to interact with people from different backgrounds. I came out with a much deeper understanding of my own.

That may sound like a small distinction. It wasn't. It gave me another lens.

It taught me that Black history isn't simply a collection of dates, famous names and February school projects.

• It is connected to American history.
• It is connected to economics.
• It's connected to education.
• It's connected to neighborhoods.
• It's connected to music.
• It's connected to politics.
• It's connected to family.
• It's connected to how people see themselves and how other people see them.

And sometimes, understanding those connections changes the way you interpret things happening right in front of you.

That doesn't mean automatically blaming racism for every negative experience.

It means not automatically dismissing it either.

Again: Context.

I Didn't Leave With Hatred. I Left With Perspective.

That's probably the simplest way I can explain what the HBCU did for me.

It didn't teach me to hate. It taught me to understand.

It didn't make me suspicious of everyone who wasn't Black. It made me more conscious of the world around me.

It didn't teach me that Black people are better than white people. It taught me that Black people have a history worth knowing, a culture worth understanding and accomplishments worth celebrating.

Most importantly, it gave me a stronger sense of identity.

I had spent the first 17 years of my life learning in an environment where Blackness wasn't necessarily the center of the educational experience.

My HBCU gave me the opportunity to make it part of the center of mine. That's a lesson I might have eventually learned somewhere else.

But I don't know.

And that's why I sometimes wonder about that other version of my life.

The version where the PWI gave me the full scholarship.

The version where I never stepped onto an HBCU campus.

The version where I never met all those people who came from experiences completely different from mine.

Maybe I would have turned out exactly the same.

I seriously doubt it.

Because sometimes the most important decisions we make aren't the ones we carefully plan.

Sometimes they're the decisions made because one school offered you a partial scholarship and another school offered you a full ride.

Sometimes the universe has a strange sense of humor. And sometimes, apparently, financial aid is destiny.

One thing I know for sure though... I did four years of school without needing a student loan. 

Won't He do it?

Who All Gonna Be There?

There’s a slang phrase that gets asked almost automatically whenever somebody gets invited somewhere:

“Who all gonna be there?”

Before the date, the time, or even what the event is really about gets a second thought, that question jumps straight to the front of the line.

Now, to be fair, sometimes it’s a legitimate question.

Maybe you’re trying to avoid an ex.
Maybe there’s somebody you truly don’t get along with.
Maybe past experience has taught you that certain combinations of people can turn a peaceful evening into an episode of reality TV nobody asked for.

That part makes sense.

But let’s be honest, most of the time that question isn’t about safety, peace, or avoiding drama.

It’s about measuring the event’s perceived value.

People want to know if the “right” crowd will be there.

Will the popular people show up?
Will there be enough status attached to the room?
Will it be “worth” their time?

In other words, some folks aren’t deciding whether to attend based on the person who invited them.
They’re deciding based on the guest list’s social ranking, like they’re evaluating a nightclub instead of responding to a personal invitation.

And that’s where the common sense part gets lost.

The person inviting you thought enough of you to include you.
Out of everyone they could have called, texted, or told, they thought, I want this person there.

That alone should mean something.

Instead, the first response becomes a quiet judgment: Who else made the cut?

There’s something a little insulting about that.

It subtly tells the host that their invitation alone isn’t enough.
Their presence, their company, and their event only matter if enough “worthy” people are attached to it.

That’s a selfish way to look at relationships.

Sometimes showing up should be about supporting the person who invited you, not auditing the room before you decide if it meets your standards.

Not every gathering needs to pass a popularity test.

Sometimes the real question shouldn’t be “Who all gonna be there?”

It should be: “Do I value the person who invited me enough to show up?”

When Accountability Becomes “Hating” or "Racism"

Somewhere along the way, correction started getting mistaken for persecution.

As a 54-year-old Black man, I come from a generation where being checked for how you carried yourself, how you spoke, or how you presented yourself wasn’t automatically labeled as “hate” or “racism.” Sometimes, it was simply accountability. Not every critique is an attack, and not every consequence is oppression.

Too many young people today have been taught that any pushback against their behavior must come from jealousy, hatred, or bias. If someone questions how they act in public, how they dress for certain environments, or how they speak to others, the immediate response is often, “They’re hating” or "You're being racist against me." 

No, sometimes people are responding to conduct, not identity.

And let’s be honest, the fault doesn’t begin with the youth. It starts with the generation that raised them. Parents who replaced discipline with excuses, structure with friendship, and accountability with endless validation helped create this sense of entitlement. When children are taught they should never be corrected, they grow into adults who think every criticism is discrimination.

Common sense used to tell us that freedom of expression doesn’t mean freedom from consequences. Somehow, that lesson got lost.

The Mannings vs. The Sanders: Two Families, Two Cultures, One Game

If there’s one thing football has always been good at, it’s showing us who America really is. You don’t even need to look at the scoreboard — just watch how we talk about players, how we celebrate them, and how we tear them down. Nowhere is that clearer than when you compare two of the sport’s “first families”: the Mannings and the Sanders.

On one side, you’ve got the Mannings — Archie, Peyton, Eli, and the new kid on the block, Arch. The clean-cut Southern gentlemen of football. The type who’ll throw for 450 yards, four touchdowns, beat you by 28 points and still say “it was a team effort” in the postgame interview. They don’t talk trash, they don’t dance in the end zone, and they definitely don’t remind you how great they are — even though everyone already knows.

Then you’ve got the Sanders clan — Deion, Shilo, and Shedeur — the walking embodiment of “I told you so.” The shades, the chains, the music, the swagger, the showmanship. Theirs is a brand of confidence that was born in barbershops and raised on the block. It’s unapologetically loud. It’s meant to be seen. Because for generations, if you weren’t seen, you were invisible.

Here’s the thing though: neither family is wrong. They’re just different expressions of greatness. The Mannings built a legacy through quiet dominance. The Sanders built theirs through loud excellence. But our reaction to each says more about us than it does about them.

Mainstream America has always had a soft spot for the Mannings — the wholesome image, the self-deprecating humor, the humble superstar vibe. That’s the “right” way to succeed. It’s the classic narrative of the quiet professional, the humble champion. They receive the benefit of the doubt, the presumption of excellence, the infinite grace. But when Deion celebrates his way? When Shedeur points to his watch after a touchdown or posts a highlight-laced reel on Instagram? Suddenly, it’s “cocky,” “disrespectful,” or “too much.”

The contrast is cultural, not moral. In Black culture, being flashy isn’t arrogance — it’s celebration. It’s survival. It’s the way you honor the work it took to get there. Historically, culturally, the Black experience is often rooted in expressive, loud, and yes, sometimes "flashy" displays of achievement and personality. It's a style that commands attention, often because it has to. It’s the complete opposite of "act like you've been there before"; it's "let them know you're here now and you deserve to be celebrated." In white culture, aka "Mainstream America," humility is the gold standard. The Mannings fit that mold perfectly! The Sanders don’t. And that difference is exactly why one family is seen as “classy” and the other as “showy.”

When a white athlete like Peyton or Eli is reserved, it’s seen as humility. When a Black athlete like Deion or Shedeur is reserved, they can sometimes go unnoticed (ever heard of Herman Moore or Everson Walls?). But when a Black athlete is expressive and loud, it's often labeled as arrogance, a lack of respect, or a distraction. It's a double standard as old as the game itself. 

Now, fast-forward to 2025. Arch Manning and Shedeur Sanders are both trying to carve their own paths. And if we’re honest, neither has lived up to the mountain of expectations yet. But look at how the narrative plays out — Arch is “still developing,” “just needs time.” Shedeur? “Overrated,” “too distracted by fame.”

See the pattern? Same struggle, different storyline.

The Mannings represent America’s comfort zone — steady, predictable, respectable. The Sanders represent what makes America uncomfortable — confidence without apology, success that talks back. And when you line those two energies up, it’s not just football anymore. It is a cultural commentary wrapped in shoulder pads and touchdown dances.

At the end of the day, football is big enough for both. There’s room for the Manning handshake and the Sanders two-step. But the question is — can America handle both equally? Or do we still only have grace for greatness when it comes dressed in a quiet suit instead of designer shades?

Because one thing’s for sure: both families have changed the game. But only one has been allowed to do it without having to explain why.