A Different World: From ‘Old School’ to The New School

I knew I was offbeat as soon as I stepped on campus the first day of Freshman Week, a celebration for new matriculated students of Howard University; it’s a claim to fame for the school and the time to make a long-lasting first impression. The overt clawing for pack leadership carried throughout the week as each clique formed and established their reputation. There was a lot of twerking, and many freestyle rap ciphers occurred on our picture-perfect campus center, which is affectionately called The Yard.

I attended “The Mecca,” “How-Hard” University, the Black Harvard, the model for all other historically black colleges and universities, known as H.B.C.U. Black teenagers dream to attend the illustrious Howard University, known for its top medical, law and business schools, but also for producing alumni of great stature such as Thurgood Marshall, Zora Neale Hurston, Toni Morrison and Amiri Baraka – as well as P. Diddy, although technically he never reached the alumni status. We were told to be grateful, to follow in the footsteps of giants and all the African-Americans who were the firsts in many fields. It seemed like the perfect university to attend as a young black woman searching for her place in a predominantly white world. Not only does an H.B.C.U. equip African-American students as professionals, but it also establishes a sense of history, community and identity in the African-American community.

Despite this sense of community, the options for our future at Howard seemed limited. The pre-determined lives of my classmates were one thing that I found disturbing. They were sent to become doctors, lawyers and politicians by their parents who were doctors, lawyers and politicians. In contrast, my mother would support me if I decided that riding elephants in a circus was what I wanted to do. She’d probably even learn to sew and make all my feathered, bedazzled costumes. A friend of mine once told me that she wanted to be in the entertainment journalism industry but her father, who was a doctor, threatened to cut her off financially if she stopped studying biology. Her father didn’t believe that journalism, particularly entertainment, would provide a stable income or job security for her. This was a little disheartening as her story reminded of many others at Howard and led me to wonder if in old age they would regret being forced to love a profession they weren’t passionate about. In time, I realized how an environment oppressing personal creativity and ruled by a corporate, robotic mindset had affected me.

We were expected to be molded into the image of our creators, the Howard men and women who preceded us. It felt like a religion. At times, I stepped back to analyze my defense of and pride in the lack of overall investment in students provided by HBCU’s and wondered if I was a member of a cult. There are moments when students can feel at the mercy of the Howard universe, especially when they live in hotel rooms, hoping for a chance to receive housing, or starting the first day of class with zero credits because the registration site notoriously crashes within five minutes of opening. Leaving the school was seldom heard of, and if you did there would be ridicule from many – I’m also guilty as charged – because you don’t leave Howard. I returned each semester with the fear of leaving the “Howard Bubble” and being ejected from the “Black Ivy League” in the back of my mind.

I had a breakthrough one night as I sat in my dorm room with a serious case of the blues that had plagued me that entire semester. Style blogging was a booming arena and I took interest in fashion journalism, specifically fashion magazines. Initially, I was afraid of pursuing it because it wasn’t very traditional compared to my broadcast journalism degree, but I eventually gave in and took on a summer fashion internship and fell in love. It took me three years to find the courage to forge my own path, but I felt passionate about something for the first time and I didn’t look back. I took a year off, at first planning to return to Howard to finish my senior year, until someone convinced me to apply to The New School. I was growing tired of the limiting scope of education, lack of funding for student enrichment, the resistance to creative freedom. I was told The New School was a place for “cool, smart and creative people.” That seemed like just the place I needed to be, but never knew where to find. After a visit to The New School, I was sold. I had not felt as at home in such a long time. I was entering an environment that fostered creativity and taught me how to use my most useful skills to create opportunities, and for once I felt that my tuition would actually be used in a responsible way.

Immediately after completing my first day at Lang, I was struck by the stark differences between Lang kids and myself. They were peculiarly welcoming and warm, something I hadn’t had a genuine experience with for quite a while. The overall vibe of the student body seemed carefree, judgment free, and non-hurried; no day mirrored a day at Howard. I started wondering if I looked different, and if it was obvious that I was new here. I imagined my presence to be similar to Mr. Smith entering The Matrix, everyone could tell he and his posse had breached the surface. I waited for the first sign that New School kids weren’t any different than the kids I knew through H.B.C.U.’s, but it never happened. It turned out they are incredibly passionate and enthusiastic, staunchly committed to equality and super hippies. I use the term hippies in the most endearing way. Even the fashion kids have hippie tendencies, and I have to say, I really love it.

Every day hasn’t been a perfect, blissful walk through The New School. Sometimes the discussions can become overly heated, and a bit of fresh air outside the classroom is needed. The smell of smoke in the courtyard can at times be a little overwhelming; sorry, I’m not a smoker. A lot of literary snobbery occurs at Lang, often followed by a chorus of eye-rolls and intellectual snark that only a Narwhal can pull off. I credit Howard University for teaching me that who I am as a young black woman is of higher value than society has the tendency to propagate. However, I wouldn’t trade my unorthodox New School experience for anything. I am provided with information and experiences that contribute to my evolution as a conscious citizen of the world and not just a sector of it. My professors challenge me every day – all of whom I am still not used to call by their first names – as well as my classmates whose worldly knowledge and experiences complement each subject matter; I am treated as a human being and not as a ‘type’ or person of color.