Being black at U.Va.: a reflection
These were the best of times, these were the worst of times. Being black at U.Va. Well I was always black. My grandparents told me about Angela, Muhammad Ali, Spike, etc. at an early age. There was never any doubt before that I was black. But when I came to U.Va., my experiential blackness became something I even now have trouble explaining. Well of course, I must start off by saying: I am black and proud. I am proud for being the only black person in a class bringing up controversial racial discourse among the “dominant” group. I am proud for rallying/dialoguing as a community around the causes of Trayvon Martin, a living wage, the Memorial for Enslaved Laborers, queerphobia, honor reform, funding for the Carter G. Woodson Institute, etc. I am proud for knowing where the location of the “BB”, when the perfect time to print is at OAAA, what a “death march” entails, how Professor Harold lectures, and that “Spring Fling” is actually more for current U.Va. black students versus prospective students. But this school is complex, and there are moments where I felt less than proud, but had to wake up the next day and continue on. Like,