Simply Charlottesville?
by EJ Davis
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On a cold January morning at the University of Virginia, whilst sitting in my English writing class located in Fayerweather Hall, I was asked to write just a few sentences about myself. I began to sit there and wonder what, from my eighteen years of life, I could use to fill in the sentences; what could give them everything but not just anything. The pencil began moving, and words started to form on the paper:
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‘I am from a small town of 25,000.’
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‘I am from a basketball family.’
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‘I am one of three children, and the only son, of a basketball family that lives in a small town of 25,000.’
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‘My sisters and I will be the first people of my extended family to graduate from college.’
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With all of these things circulating through my head, and with the time running out in class, I knew that I needed something. With one last strike of the pencil I circled what I felt was most important: My sisters and I will be the first people of my extended family to graduate from college.
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Growing up I personally felt as though I was just your average kid. Standing at a meager five feet nine inches, with a rather mediocre frame and large glasses, I was your normal kid from down the street. The type of youth who worked hard in school to achieve and receive good grades. In all of this you could say that I was your average kid. However, there seemed to be two things that separated me from all of the other kids: basketball and my ethnicity. My father had made our family well known in the small town of twenty-five thousand that I called home. His fame in King George County is due to his twenty plus years of basketball coaching. Eric Davis Sr. had every intention of letting the world know that I was his son, hints my name, but he just lucked out in that I look just like a copy of him. Being that my father is some sort of legendary coach in the region,I seemed to be propelled into some sort of spotlight when it came to basketball. However, be it pubescent resistance or determination, I seemed to avoid making the sport my sole focus in life. For, to me, education, after religion of course, is what I sought excellence in.
Ever since the first A that I received on a report card in elementary school, I have striven for excellence in academics. No matter how late I had to stay up or how early I had to rise,I worked day in and day out to achieve the best grade on every assignment. I felt as though this would help distinguish me from just being your average student in school. It seemed as though that would be the case as I was going to graduate at the top of my class of three-hundred300plus students and give the Salutatorian’s address at graduation. However, this distinction seemed to be too early anticipated.
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It was the day of graduation and I was set to go through the thrill of the day, with the ceremony, the speech, the continual flooding of memories from life, and the much anticipated cookout. Like anyone on the night before graduation I made sure that everything set out so that I wouldn’t leave a single medallion, cord, sash, pin, or the tassel. Iso that in the morning I could just get ready and leave.
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I had just put the whole get up on and searched for the keys, while butterflies bounced through my stomach. Once I found the keys I gave my parents a hug and kiss and then went out the door. The May heat smacked my face as I walked to my car. As I got into the door I began to contemplate the significance of the day to myself. With a cumulative grade point average of 4.52 I was set to graduate at the top of the 2017 class of King George High School. I was the first African-American to complete such a feat in at least my parent’s’ lifetimes, if not the history of the school. Now, with a smile on my face, I started the car and began to head to the school. On the way, I heard many car horns as people waved at me while we passed one another on the road, this being further evidence of how well known I was due to my personal acts and my dad’s local fame. Once I parked my car at the middle school lot (as the high school lot was for parents and guests), I met with some friends and began to walk toward the school as a student for one last time.
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Trudging forward from the middle school parking lot, we walked along the downward-sloped path toward our high school. There were eight of us; one valedictorian, one salutatorian, six graduates, four of them white girls, three of them white boys, and one black boy--me. Being that I was salutatorian, I had a rather decorated figure. I wore five medallions, five cords, two pins, one sash, and one bowtie. You could easily mistake me for some decorated military general from an authoritarian government, but you could not mistake the blackness that was ever present in me.
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While walking up to the school entrance we ran into an elderly white couple. They appeared to have taken note of Gareth and I’s abundance of medals and décor. Surveying my medals the elderly gentleman took notice of the salutatorian medallion. What he said next still echoes in my mind to this day.
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“Oh, are you Salutatorian?” he implored.
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“Yes, sir,” I said in response while clutching the medal with a smile and reflecting on the work that I had put in to get that distinction.
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“That’s pretty good for someone like you,” he said to me. ‘Someone like you.’ My jaw dropped so low that it was practically on the ground. What I wanted the reasoning behind this question to be was that he was referencing my male nature, my southern roots, or maybe even my standing as a student athlete. However, I knew it could be none of these. His ‘someone’ was in reference to my African American identity, and I began to stammer a response.
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“Th-thanks?” I said sort of questioningly. I began to walk away and my friends quickly followed suit. At the time it felt as though all of the hard work, the sleepless nights, and the determination to be distinct went down the drain. I was reduced to merely a color of skin. It hurt, it angered me, but it also woke me up from a sort of daydream. This showed me that racism is still very present, and it is taking a strong presence in education.
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As the winds of change continued to blow, I toiled through the summer while working at my aunt’s daycare. Then came the weekend that was circled on my calendar; August 12, 2017. This was the weekend that I was going to pack, prepare, and part ways with King George. I was ready to go the University of Virginia. This was a school that I really had not considered going to at first, but through scholarship offers and further research, I found it a place I could call home. I remember waking up that Saturday morning excited for the coming week in which I would head off to school. However, Theresa Sullivan had more important news to wake me up to. Looking at my phone I noticed I had a couple of emails from Ms. Theresa Sullivan, the President of the University of Virginia. As I was reading them, my face went blank and my heart sank. What she emailed me about has become simply known as Charlottesville. One word to describe unjustifiable hatred, division, violence, and tragedy. One word to describe what I hoped was some illusion I was having. One word which described the very thing I hoped to escape in college; racial tension.
I suppose that it was fitting that my father heard about these events on the news at the very moment I was reading about them.
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“E.J. come here,” he shouted, with concern and a hint of worried anger in his voice. I began to wonder if I had done something wrong.
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Stepping into the room I asked, “what’s wrong, dad?”
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Showing me what I had read on my phone, I placed my head down as he said, “have you seen this?”
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What could I say? What could anyone say? In a sense I began to believe that I had actually done something wrong; I had chosen the wrong school. Back when I had to choose colleges, it was between Columbia and the University of Virginia . I chose UVA because of a scholarship and its high standing in the field of academics. I chose UVA without much of any perception of the university, just knowing it was a good school. Now, on the morning of August 12th, I began to regret that decision. I began to worry if I would be subjected to the very racial comments I received in high school for being a smart black boy. All because of Charlottesville.
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The following week I departed for this university, wondering what I would find, how they would address the situation, and what it meant for me. I also half expected to find a city in ruins, tiki torches everywhere, and racists at the city limits acting as border patrol. However, what I came to find was far different. I found a welcoming community that was striving to repair the hurt that they just encountered. What I found was that regardless of the racial divide society can become subjected to, the future generation of leaders is set on unity through diversity. This doesn’t mean that I haven’t encountered racism here and there. It is still something that society has to deal with.
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Perhaps the most profound impact that these events have had on the university I now call home is that of perception. This perceptive change occurred first on August 21, 2017, as I sat on the historic Lawn at the University of Virginia. As we experienced the passion of university leaders and got a taste of the culture, opening convocation ended. President Sullivan stood up and invited us to join her on the other side of the Rotunda for a mixer. Making my way there, with my newfound friends from the hall I lived on, we decided to walk through the Rotunda. Some way or another we eventually decided that we actually wanted to see the Rotunda in its entirety. So, we made our way up to the top of the historic edifice. Upon reaching the top we spotted a window and decided that we would look out of it. That is when the perception, emotion, and impact swarmed my mind like a freshly hit bee hive. Looking out of the window I saw the Jefferson statue surrounded by students. The same statue that, nine days ago, was surrounded by three hundred torch bearing white supremacists. The image of them was then replacing what was actually going on around the statue, their audio replaced the eerie quietness that enveloped the dome of the Rotunda. “You will not replace us,” “blood and soil.” These words circulating through my head, forever confronting my actual perception of the scene before me. My friend, Zach, asked if we were ready to go. I was not, I could never be ready to confront that situation again. Why should I? Is it even reasonable? Rather than giving him a yes, I said that I was pretty tired and wanted to head back to the dorm.
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This is the true impact of the events of that fateful weekend in August; they; that it would forever clash with the true image of the University of Virginia, and forever linger as a stain on the future promise of the university. It requires the recognition that the individuals who participated in the events of August 11th and 12th were not of the university community. It requires us to allow it to only serve as a reminder of the issues we face now, and pave the way to a unified future. The more I look at the impact that those events, the more I realize that it shows the hate of society, and the promise of UVA.
Author’s Note
In writing this essay I find that the ideal reader is someone who is, like I recently was, a graduate of high school. Moreover, there are a plethora of different subgroups to that which could enjoy some commonality they have to this reading. Among these groups would be students of color, students going to the University of Virginia, young people from the state of Virginia, or maybe any American who realizes our country does have a race problem. Regardless of the background the reader has they should find that I wrote this essay to display my personal experience with education and my ethnicity. I want them to see how my ethnicity has impacted others’ perception of my success, and in turn my determination to overcome. I recognize that there is not vast dialogue that is found in this essay, but there is a purpose to that. Rather than just mindlessly providing quotes, I feel my personal interpretation is more imperative to the goals of this essay. Moreover, providing my interpretation better shows the impact of these events on my perception, as well as how they work in conjunction with other life events that I have had.
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The purpose of this piece is to first come to terms with the writing of Ta-Nahisi Coates, in “Letter to My Son,” and address one of his main ideas: Mecca. However, being that Coates is Muslim and black, his sense of the true meaningfulness of Mecca may be different from my sense; that of a southern, light-skin Christian. This is where the second major task of this paper comes in. I aim to forward Coates’ discussion of Mecca, and put it in context of the black student who may not go to a Historically Black College/University (HBCU), but rather a Predominately White Institute (PWI). From here one could see my appeal toward those with a similar opportunity to craft their Mecca—a place of self-flourishing in academics, culture, character, and identity—in a place where one may not be present for them already.
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In his work, “Letter to My Son,” Ta-Nahisi Coates discusses his time spent at Howard University in Washington, DC Within this work he talks about his academic, social, and cultural experiences at Howard and how they led to the formation of a “Mecca,” his “Mecca.” Coates says this about what exactly Howard meant as a Mecca: “This Mecca, My Mecca—The Mecca—is a machine, crafted to capture and concentrate the dark energy of all African peoples and inject it directly into the student body. The Mecca derives its power from the heritage of Howard University, which in Jim Crow days enjoyed a near-monopoly on black talent” (Coates 12). This is how Coates describes the Black Mecca; a place composed of predominantly black students that allows them to thrive and cultivate the best for their lives. However, to the idea that it is in these situations that the student of color may thrive best I take issue. Using “machine” promotes the idea that this university, and Historically Black Colleges/Universities like it, is the place where the peak performance and production of the black scholar occurs. This leaves room for question of the black scholar who does not attend one of these universities, but rather affords the opportunity to go elsewhere. Is their productivity and black identity in vein? Are they somehow less productive than their peers at an HBCU? My entire academic life I have attended school after school in which I stick out like a fly in milk. While this is not how I particularly feel within myself, this is how it was. Often I was one of, or the only student of color in the classroom. However, in each school, not only have I been able to thrive academically but culturally as well. In my opinion, in the conversation of finding true Mecca at university, the student having to defend their culture and identity strengthens them and causes them to thrive more. Overcoming adversity and controversy constitute some of the most beneficial teaching moments in an individual’s life. This isn’t countering Coates’ description of the thriving black scholar, rather it forwards discussion, considering the perspective of the black scholar who must formulate their Mecca at a predominately white institution.
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To Ta-Nehisi Coates Howard University was like sacred ground. In terms of the thriving black scholar he writes, “At the Mecca I saw how we had taken their one-drop rule and flipped it. They made us into a race. We made ourselves into a people” (16). At Howard Coates sees a place for young black students to build rapport amongst themselves, rallying off of the successes of one another and displaying the talent of their people. Coates explains that “[he] saw everything [he] knew of [his] black self multiplied out into seemingly endless variations” (12). This shows that, to Coates, the ability for the academic of color to see others like them—yet so different in interest, talent, and ability— in some way results in the students mutually encouraging one another, crafting a promise land for the scholar to flourish. Coates emphatically believes that at this Historically Black College/University (HBCU) and others like it, the black scholar thrives as they are able to view others from their people in search of the greatest and best life for them. The problem, however, is that Coates does not account for the black scholar who does not attend an HBCU and must formulate their own Mecca at a school where you could count the number of black students in one class on your fingers.
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This is where my continuance of the discussion begins. I feel that Coates has developed the principle and composition of what Mecca is however, he has not fully applied it to the proper boundaries. In my opinion Coates has not fully accounted for the formation of a Mecca in the black scholar’s life, as not all black scholars have the opportunity to thrive at a Historically Black College/University. Through this neglect, it makes it appear as though the only true flourishing of the black scholar can only occur at an HBCU. I would like to say that this is not the case. Rather, the black scholar that goes to a PWI must encounter “struggle” and must forge new paths to Mecca and their black identity. I say that, as I myself am a black scholar going to a prestigious school, the University of Virginia, which is a PWI (22).
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Although this may not come during his discussion off education, Coates talks of struggle to his son. Though it is not in the context his discussion of Mecca, I feel it is important in the formation of Mecca to the PWI black scholar who must struggle to uphold, defend, and strengthen their culture daily and yet still thrive academically. Coates tells his son that struggle “is in [his] name” (22). For the black scholar at PWI, their struggle comes in defending and upholding their culture and who they are. It would be easy for them to succumb to the culture around them. However, I have come to find this is not the case, not at the University of Virginia at least. In my time here I have found that the situation is the same, just on a smaller scale. At Howard the black scholar was surrounded by others just like them. This was the encouragement that their black identity needed to be solidified. This was the encouragement that they needed to craft Mecca; the encouragement of others who were like them, or others who upheld similar values likened unto theirs. This is the major difference between Coates’s Mecca and mine; that at his the black scholar is able to see their “black self multiplied out into seemingly endless variations,” while mine only has infrequent and minimal encounters with others who share their culture and identity (12).
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This infrequent contact does not diminish the value of the Mecca, or make it nonexistent, but rather it makes it that much more valuable and important to the scholar. For example, Chi Alpha, the Christian Fellowship for which I am part of, held a Good Friday worship and baptismal service this year. As this is a club that is part of this PWI, there are not that many other black scholars that are part of it. However, through the course of the night we had worship, and suddenly some of the other black students started singing a chant that my church sang as well; Ain’t No Party Like a Holy Ghost Party. As I knew how the chant went, I too joined in and so too did the other ten black students that were there. We were thriving off of one another’s energy we had shown that even in our praise we still could find our black identity. Looking out into the crowd, we found the entire congregation room of about one hundred UVA students had joined in with us. This was a moment in which my culture, my identity, my Mecca had been confirmed and made known.
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This Good Friday scene shows how Mecca isn’t determined by the abundance of, but rather by the passion that the community has. While at an HBCU, Mecca is much more easily defined, it can exist at a PWI as well. It exists at my PWI. The black Mecca at the University of Virginia is found in the souls and the passions of its members. Whether they are in clubs dominated by other racial groups or in the Black Student Alliance, black scholars at a PWI are still able to find their Mecca. We always have. As Coates said, sometimes it might require struggle, but that runs in our heritage. Overcoming obstacles, shackles, and setbacks in order to thrive. It is why we venture away from ‘promise land’ HBCUs and go to PWIs; because we know that no matter how far we may travel, Mecca is always within us—maybe just one shout away.
Author’s Note:
In writing this essay I had to figure out how to say what I knew I wanted to say. I knew that personal narrative would be the avenue I would take to help prove the point, as I have always been a part of the racial minority at any school that I have gone to, or any community I go. However, I have thrived in some fashion or another, and have found ways to reassure my black identity. Writing this essay required that I became really familiar with the work of Ta-Nehisi Coates, and understand his argument for Mecca. While I completely agreed that this flourishing exists, I felt that he didn’t really incorporate it in its entirety. In expressing this, I found difficulty, as this is something that I am currently doing at the University of Virginia, crafting my Mecca. So, in discussing my essay with Professor K, I found that Mecca isn’t just the academic side, but social as well. This is where I found the Good Friday example, which I believed to be the most prominent example.
I found working with the Coates to be fun, as he is very intelligent and his argument and stance is very well laid out. From working with all of this I found my purpose to be forwarding his discussion on Mecca. I wanted to show that it was not just limited to where there is a black majority, but rather that the black scholar embodies Mecca, and congregating is just an outward expression of this. I realize now, how this could reflect our religious differences, as Christianity preaches personal relationship and that church and congregating is a chance to display that and encourage one another. In terms of my audience, I feel as though it would be those who have not only read the Coates piece, but also to any black scholar who finds themselves in a similar situation; going to a school where they are part of the minority. Lastly, I am not completely sure whether or not this is to be crafted to a specific context, but I find mine to be in response to a course text that stuck out to me. Furthermore, I found it as a chance for me to reflect further on a piece that spoke to me the most and to join the conversation.