Editor’s note: The following article is an op-ed, and the views expressed are the author’s own. Read more opinions on theGrio.
It’s homecoming season in African America, and if you know or are in cahoots with Black folks who attended, graduated or matriculated from one of the nation’s historically Black colleges or universities, you’ve probably noticed a certain glow about them. During late September through early November, they don’t even walk, they float. Yes, homecoming season is a joyous time for all of us who graced campuses across the HBCU diaspora.
My household, in particular, knows this life very well. Every year, my wife and I circle the dates on the calendar for our respective homecomings with an understanding, of sorts, that those weekends are both sacred and “days off,” so to speak. I matriculated at Morehouse College in Atlanta, and my wife graduated from Howard University in Washington, D.C. — where we live — two of the most vaunted and celebrated of those glorious bastions of Black academia. That means that our homecomings (Morehouse, of course, pairs our homecoming with our sister school, Spelman College, creating the greatest portmanteau of all time, Spelhouse) are the litest, hypest, most-can’t-miss activities of the year. And we’re proud HBCU alums, so we make sure to engage with and enjoy all of the experiences of our respective schools. Hosannah in the highest.
Despite living in D.C., marrying a Howard alum and even teaching at Howard, I haven’t been to Howard’s homecoming since the 2000s. As a matter of fact, until I started teaching in its School of Communications, I hadn’t set foot on Howard’s campus during its homecoming week until this year. And that’s because of one simple tenet: We may be a mixed HBCU household, but we don’t mix homecomings.
On its face, that sounds crazy, ridiculous even. And…
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