The C in D.C: Learning My History Amongst The Mecca

Howard University, 'the Mecca' for some who don't know, is a Historically Black University; an HBCU. Meaning it was established and is promoted as an institution for the advancement and greater education of Black people; moreover, minorities.While that implies several things, likely some of them true, it does mean that the history and contributions of Black people are truly highlighted, analyzed and celebrated. Most importantly, they are talked about to begin with. Though I didn't transfer from a backwards college in California nor an ignorant one, I should confess and explain that history - my history - was neither discussed or revered. We got the obligated synopsis of Mr. Columbus and his colonizing claim to fame; The Revolution and the American audacity for freedom; Slavery and its ugly omnipresence; Civil Rights and the endless struggle. A recap, if you will, that gets pawned over year after year in grade school. Admittedly, a large reasoning for my initial application to such a school, an HBCU, was that yearning and curiosity that college ignites: who am I? Where do I come from? What do I believe?

These thoughts had never been mauled over too much because I, for a long time, have been somewhat embarrassed at my lack of even knowing about my people. Suburban raised, I knew more and felt most comfortable with my Caucasian counterparts than with those who looked, hailed from and were seen as 'like me'. For some, this may seem like an easy fix: read a book, look it up or seek it out. For me, however, it was a mindset I was craving. A total overhaul of ideology, commonality and reference. And with that...here I am.

A part of my rigorous first semester at Howard is the mandatory selection of an African history class. Gleefully I signed up for what is, in so many ways, the first attempt at my history. Foremost, there is, in fact, a difference between 'African History' and 'African- American History', not just geographically, but in all other facades. Howard certainly distinguishes as such, and so, now do I. The choices were endless - The Harlem Renaissance, Intro to African Literature, African Systems of Thought, Black Asthetics, Contemporary Black Writing - and so was my decision as to where to begin this historical wonderment that had, in part, brought me to the East Coast. My decision was Afro - 193: The History of West Indians in America. As I sit in this class now, like I will for the next 14 weeks, already my horizon is on the brink of awe. Names I have vaguely skimmed in textbooks are now being brought to life in full dimension,through reflective context and most importantly, laiden with the truth. A raw truth already shocking, a tad disheartening and seemingly too blatant to be true, but it is. Black history is American history. Visionaries who would otherwise be lauded with awards, titles and respect had they been white, are so readily dismissed by the very history they were born to create. Students of life never introduced to the very people who died upholding the 'dream' and 'promise' of life and liberty that make America what it is.

Here, at the Mecca, actual home to names like Thurgood Marshall,  Kwame Toure or as the world has come to know him,Stokely Carmichael, this history - our history - has a place. And here, at Howard, I have begun to find what I have been looking for on the path to discover the answers to those universal collegaite questions of self...