I sat in my English class this past week attempting to hold back every emotion I felt (anger, disgust, sadness, hopelessness) as we discussed in detail the "Autobiography of Fredrick Douglass." The autobiography is, of course, the most stellar piece of work (and history) that I’ve ever read, and one of the first pieces of literature written by an African-American (or any non-white person) that I was required to read. I was overjoyed to read about Fredrick Douglass, but the lack knowledge about him, slavery in America, and African-American culture, and, hell, even the third stanza of the national anthem, of my fellow classmates nearly destroyed my excitement.

I’m the only black person in my class, and it’s never really an issue until the things that separate me and my white classmates come up. It’s something I’m sure I’m not the first person, nor the last, to deal with, but sometimes this makes me wonder what it would have been like at an HBCU:

To walk around and see mostly people who share the same genetic background as you. Whose ancestors, too, were brought here against their will from the magnificent shores of Africa. To be taught by brilliant, black professors who all look like Angela Davis, Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and that one young professor who looks like Jesse Williams or Michael B. Jordan.

I know, I know. I’m romanticizing HBCUs and they’re probably nothing like what I imagine, but, still, sometimes I wonder. When it becomes too apparent that the place you are wasn’t always meant for you and it’s only a reflection of the world you will soon enter, sometimes I like to think of the safe haven that an HBCU has been to young black people across this nation.

What would have happened if I had taken the chance and applied to Howard? Would I finally see or even (gasp) be taught by a black instructor/professor (or anyone of the non-white persuasion)?

Maybe nothing would be different, perhaps everything. But all I can do is wonder.