Graduation season brings me tremendous joy. I love seeing the various photos, video clips and stories of graduates who have overcome tremendous odds.
My inner crafting nerd marvels at the talent displayed on creatively decorated graduation caps. I look forward to hearing the commencement speeches given by celebrities, entrepreneurs and hardworking alumni. Graduations are a reminder that for many years, people of color were systematically kept out of institutions of higher learning. It’s why the traditions associated with HBCU graduations always captivate me.
Unfortunately, this year’s commencement season has been marked by institutional efforts to police how proud graduates mark the occasion. It reminded me that 20 years ago this week, I earned my first college degree.
Graduates of the University of Virginia (UVA) are very particular about language and tradition. We have grounds rather than a campus. We refer to students by their status (e.g. first-years, fourth-years) rather than the titles of freshman and senior. Long before tiki torch-wielding bigots descended upon Charlottesville, Wahoo Wah was the rallying cry that periodically rang out near my alma mater’s iconic Rotunda. Notable alums like Dawn Staley, Katie Couric, Leland Melvin and Chris Long shared the time-honored tradition of hanging out on the lawn, never the quad.
As the first person in my immediate family to graduate from college, I celebrated with gratitude and exuberance. I finished my time at UVA just three weeks after my beloved grandfather, Ted Louis Brown, suffered the first of what would become a series of heart attacks that would eventually claim his life. Defying his physician’s orders not to travel, my towering grandfather stood at the base of the lawn to see his first-born grandchild graduate. I keep a picture of him widely beaming as a reminder that no act of success in this life comes without the encouragement of people who often see more in us than we see in ourselves.
Twice a year for four years, he would pack his green conversion van with expert precision to transport my college essentials: halogen lamps; cases of ramen noodles; Bath and Body Works scented lotions; incense bearing names such as Egyptian Musk and Cool Breeze; and various black light posters purchased from the bookstore. Without fail, he would somehow convince the young men hanging out near the dorm to help him unload the van. Helping usually meant lugging the heavy items while he supervised from the side.
Together, he and my grandmother would always manage to slip money into my hands after a visit. My grandmother was a regal Southern woman who ensured that my wardrobe always matched the occasion and reminded me who I was and whose I was. With every conversation, I would make note of her class ring inscribed with “Amherst County Training School” rather than High School. Black students were trained to serve society. White students were educated to shape it. My aunts possessed the uncanny ability to place a phone call or send a greeting card when I needed it most. My great-uncle often volunteered to pick me up for a weekend respite from the stressors of being a first-generation college student that even my most well-meaning friends couldn’t understand.
