In one generation: Did I harm my child by sending her into a white institution in pursuit of opportunity?
In another: Did I harm my child by keeping her in an under-resourced Black institution in pursuit of community, equity, or racial belonging?
Either way, why does the Black child keep getting handed the bill?
I came across a post the other day that asked a question I haven’t been able to shake: Why must Black children choose between academic preparation and racial well-being?
Whew.
Maybe it landed especially hard because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about HBCUs, Black educational spaces, and the power of intentionally investing in our children. Or maybe it’s because, when I look back at my own journey—from the Black excellence I experienced through Jack and Jill, my family (that 3rd generation of an HBCU grad staus), church, to my years at Howard University—I know what it means to have spaces that affirm who you are while expecting you to excel.
So, in the spirit of this little blog of mine—where apparently I write about whatever has me thinking on any given day—this is what’s on my mind today:
Why are we still asking Black children to choose?
THIS. All of this.
And the question I keep coming back to is: Why must Black children—and Black families—be asked to choose at all?
Why must culturally responsive, affirming, Black-centered education somehow be positioned as the alternative to an academically rigorous education?
Why can’t our babies have BOTH?
From their foundational years through college, Black children deserve schools where they are challenged intellectually AND affirmed culturally. Schools where excellence is expected, their history is honored, their brilliance is recognized, and they don’t have to trade pieces of themselves for access to opportunity.
I remember being struck by a story connected to The 1619 Project about how the author of the prokect intentionally keeping their child in an underperforming Black school rather than automatically pursuing what was perceived to be the “better” educational option. Whatever one thinks about that individual decision, the larger question has stayed with me:
Why are Black families still being placed in a position where that decision has to be made?
Why should a family have to choose between a school that sees their child’s humanity and one believed to offer greater academic opportunity?
And maybe this is also why I feel so strongly about supporting scholarships and programs that affirm Black children.
I am a product of those spaces.
Growing up with organizations such as Jack and Jill of America gave me opportunities to be surrounded by Black children and families where Black achievement wasn’t unusual—it was expected. I saw Black excellence. I experienced Black excellence. And, perhaps most importantly, I learned early that I belonged in spaces of excellence.
Church provided another one of those spaces for me.
And I want to emphasize that because organizations like Jack and Jill may not be accessible to every family. Our churches can still be incredibly powerful places for building identity, community, leadership, scholarship, and belonging.
Kyles Temple AME Zion Church has been that place for me.
It provided—and continues to provide—a community where faith, service, history, family, leadership, and Black excellence intersect. Long before the world started talking about “culturally responsive environments,” many Black churches were already doing that work: seeing our children, calling out their gifts, celebrating their accomplishments, giving them opportunities to lead, and surrounding them with generations of people invested in who they would become.
These experiences are precisely why I choose to support scholarships and programs for Black children today.
Somebody created those spaces for me.
Somebody invested.
Somebody donated.
Somebody volunteered.
Somebody made sure there was a program, a scholarship, a church activity, a college tour, a mentor, or simply another successful Black adult in the room saying, “Yes, you can.”
Now it’s our turn.
And this is also part of why I will ALWAYS make a plea for our HBCUs.
My experience at Howard University taught me that Blackness and brilliance are not competing ideas.
I didn’t have to leave my culture at the door to be intellectually challenged. I was surrounded by Black excellence—not as the exception, but as the expectation. I had professors who challenged me, poured into me, knew me, and expected me to succeed.
Howard really was A Different World.
And with A Different World being introduced to another generation, I hope we remember what made the original idea so powerful. Hillman may have been fictional, but that experience of walking onto an HBCU campus and discovering this extraordinary universe of Black intellect, culture, friendship, debate, love, ambition, and possibility is VERY real.
HBCUs really are a different world.
Walk onto one.
Take your child.
Take somebody else’s child.
Let them see it.
Let them experience what it feels like when Black excellence isn’t the special program, the heritage-month celebration, or the photograph in the brochure.
It’s simply Tuesday.
And then let’s make sure these institutions have the resources to provide everything our children deserve.
Because “under-resourced” should NEVER become synonymous with “Black.”
Fund the schools. Support the scholarships. Prepare and retain exceptional educators. Invest in rigorous curriculum. Support HBCUs. Build endowments. Send our talented students. Bring our talented scholars and athletes. Give. Advocate. Show up.
And demand excellence.
Our children should never be the sacrifice required while adults figure out how to create equitable systems.
Black children deserve to be brilliant AND Black.
Challenged AND cherished.
Prepared AND protected.
Culturally affirmed AND academically exceptional.
They deserve rigorous mathematics and Black history. Advanced science and teachers who pronounce their names correctly. College preparation and classrooms where they see themselves reflected. They deserve professors who demand excellence from them while understanding the world they must navigate.
They deserve BOTH.
And perhaps our collective responsibility is building, funding, protecting, and choosing institutions where Black children never have to make that choice in the first place.
And since I’m talking about collective responsibility, I’ll end with this:
If you’re reading this and thinking, “Okay, but what can I actually do?”—hit me up.
I belong to and regularly support organizations doing this work through scholarships, mentoring, education, faith, service, and programs created specifically to help Black children thrive. I’ll gladly help connect you with an opportunity to give.
Because somebody invested in me.
And I believe deeply in returning that investment to the generations coming behind me.
Our babies deserve BOTH. Let’s make sure they have it.
