When somebody loves you back, Part 2.

High heels or flip flops?

Silence or conversation?

Is both an option?

Good. 'Cause I want both.

~ Me

__________________________________

By the time I reached my senior year of medical school I'd already been asked to stand up as a bridesmaid in four weddings. Though my collection of confection-colored formal dresses had become quite enviable, my own romantic life was anything but. The more love swirled around me, the worse I felt about my own unfortunate romantic reality.

Yup.

Sure. I'd had a couple of romantic friendships over those four years at Meharry. One was even someone that I referred to as my "boyfriend" (although I'm not so sure the serious girlfriend he had but somehow neglected to mention would've been so keen on me calling him that.) For the most part, though I had a great time and did some really epic things as a med student, I simply wasn't lucky in love.

Nope.

And so. Friends often took my woefully bad dating life as a personal challenge. They'd set out to introduce me to the friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend with the good job and the no kids. Or with the great job and the one kid that he dutifully cares for. Some elaborate set up would be put together. Painstaking detail would go into arranging a meeting at a place that didn't feel too forced or too loose goosey. A library run in, perhaps? A handshake at the Pre-Alumni lawn party cookout? Or how about an accidental meeting at the bagel shop where we just so happened to be studying? You name it, they tried it. And you know what? None of it ever seemed to work.

Ever.

What was it, you ask? Well. I can honestly say that it wasn't secondary to lack of interest on the part of the gentlemen. Right away, I could almost always see that tiny spark of, at minimum, intrigue from the moment our hands touched while meeting. Questions would be asked of me and then numbers inevitably exchanged. Once the dude du jour was out of sight, whichever friend had set up the meeting would berate me with question after question.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What'd you think?"

"Think about what?"

"Kim!"

"I mean. . . he was. . . okay, I guess."

Without fail, I'd get an eye roll and a groan. Hands thrown skyward in the girlfriend sign language equivalent of "I give up."

"I at least gave him my number."

"I hope you didn't have the look on your face that you have right now."

"What? I look happy, don't I?"

"Okay woman. So what was it this time?"

And that question would come because, with me, there was always something. Something that didn't quite do it for me or to which I had some kind of a micro-aversion that would grow into a hard stop. That thing was seemingly minor which, to my friends, probably made me seem petty and unrealistic.

"Clear nail polish."

"What?"

"He was wearing clear nail polish. On his hands. And his feet. He had sandals on so it was like. . .he wanted me to notice his toes. Which were painted. In glossy clear polish. That was. . . I don't know. . . kind of weird to me." Another micro-aversion.

After a long, hard, incredulous stare, I'd hear something like this: "You're fucking killing me, you know that right?"

And I'd whisper back in a tiny voice, "I know."

Because I did know. I knew that my über-selectiveness was making these possible love connections no-gos from the start. And sure. Things like clear nail polish on the hands and feet of a potential suitor surely shouldn't negate things like law degrees and major life achievements. But for whatever reason, I just couldn't get past the wave of whatever came over me from the start.

Sigh.

After a while, they all stopped trying to set me up. In fact, most of my friends would chuckle and pseudo-discourage the gents who'd inquire about my dating situation. Finally, I made up my mind to try to do things differently. My plan was to fight against my gut and push myself to give more perspective mates a real, true chance.

Yep.

And that? That was the start of perhaps the most unfortunate era of my entire pre-Harry dating career:  That point where I'd pretend to be attracted to and romantically interested in someone with hopes that something inside of me would eventually change. Problem is, it never did.

Ever.

It was actually pretty disastrous. I'd talk on the phone and go on dates. Thank goodness these gentlemen were fond enough of me to not add pressure on me to kiss or hug them (since that wasn't happening.) I'd become really connected to the person as a friend but ignore all of the sirens screaming in my ears telling me that this was a friend-friend and not a boy-friend.

I'll never forget the day that I had a friend-friend (who believed he was a boy-friend) come all the way to my city from his city to visit me. He was kind enough to arrange a couch surf with a friend for his sleeping arrangements--but had gone through a ton of trouble to see me. We'd been talking on the phone every day for over three or four months after a chance meeting through friends. And this guy was a good guy. Like me, he was in professional school. He was funny and kind and attentive and didn't even wear clear nail polish. But the problem was . . . I just didn't have romantic feelings for him. Like, at all.

Nope.

And yeah. I'd heard these stories from women who met some guy and didn't like him AT ALL but then with time and hanging out, their feelings grew-grew-grew. Ultimately, those feelings exploded into something super-lifelong-wonderful. So me, I was holding out for that. Sure was.

So yeah. The friend-friend and I were in a really nice restaurant and the food was good. He reached across the table and touched my hand. And immediately, I wished he hadn't. But since I didn't want to be rude, I just sort of sat through it. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore so excused myself to the ladies room where I used the pay phone in the bathroom corridor to call my best friend, Lisa.

"What's wrong with me?" I wept.

"Oh no. You don't like him?" She sounded empathic, yes. But surprised? No.

"Not at all. I don't feel anything romantic. Anything."

"Damn."

"I feel like such an asshole. I have to tell him."

"Yeah. You probably do."

"Shoot."

And just like that, I'd find some awkward point in whatever that trip or date or whatever-it-was was to drop the already obvious bomb that this was a Novocaine relationship--that is, one I wasn't feeling.

Nope.

And you know? I used to beat myself up about those sorts of things. Like, I'd hate myself for liking the guys that didn't seem to be checking for me but never being able to find romantic energy with the ones that were good people (at least on paper.) I looked at it all as me being broken and standing in my own way. Too trivial to appreciate fine qualities in human beings and to not throw up speed breakers when someone tried to treat me the way I deserved to be treated.

Yeah.

But as time passed, I learned something. I learned that being kind to myself on both of those fronts was one of the best ways to set myself up to attract the kind of mate that I was looking for. Even if I wasn't so sure what I was looking for in the first place.

Let me explain:

A few years back, I had a Jedi master moment with my younger sister about love. I was talking to her in the context of a guy she was dating who seemed to be a little too lukewarm when it came to her heart. By this point, I'd met and married Harry. I was over 30 and had been on both sides of the dating fence. We had two kids and had somewhat figured the marriage thing out between us. . . but I'd been in her shoes long enough to still know that yearning and still vowed to never be the "smug married" type. And so. My advice was simple: "It just shouldn't be that hard."

Like, I'd finally figured out that all this ambiguity in love just wasn't how it was supposed to be. Good people who really, really like you show you through their actions. And when their actions speak something else? Well. It's probably something else.

So all of this went from that point into this other point about the importance of believing you're worth someone making you the apple of their eye. And when I've mentioned all of this to others, it has resonated with them. But now I'm realizing that I'd neglected to regard the other piece of that swinging pendulum:

Settling.

Whew. I'm going to crack my knuckles and do my best to unpack what I'm thinking about right now. Just bear with me, okay?

Okay, so check it:  All of that advice to my baby sister was about someone she liked not demonstrating through their actions her importance to them. And I still stand by that idea, you know? But sometimes, the person IS being nice. They want to hold your hand and make all sorts of plans with you. They laugh at your jokes and buy you nice things. And, really, they do the things that you always hoped someone would for you.

But.

Something is awry. The romantic feelings that need to be present aren't. Like, at all. And let me be clear that sometimes you feel intrigued and that's it. I do believe that intrigue can lead to deep romantic connections, I do. But I'm talking about something else. I'm talking about the person you feel 100% platonic about. And the one that you know deep down in your soul that you'll always feel that way about.

Yup.

My epiphany was that you deserve to feel the feelings AND have the good mate. You deserve both. And that nice guy or nice girl that you are calling your best friend from the Houston's bathroom about because you don't have feelings for them? Well that person deserves both, too.

Does this even make sense? I don't know.

I'm just imagining as your lot in life being committed to someone who doesn't do it for you. Like, at all. And how time and egg-age starts convincing you that having someone nice that you don't feel romantic towards could work. Or rather should work. Because that's all you have.

Well. I'm saying that's no good either.

See, Teddy Pendergrass crooned it beautifully: "It's so good loving somebody when somebody loves you back--and that's a fact." What he should have also added was that it feels extra good when you aren't pretending.

Yeah.

So I guess someone is reading this thinking, "Yeah, yeah, that's easy for you to say. You're married and you dig your husband a lot. You're lucky." And I get that. But some part of me thinks it's more than that. I do.

A few weeks before I met Harry, I made up my mind to not spend a single day with anyone who wasn't demonstrating to me that they were "into me." But the other thing I decided was that I also wouldn't drag someone along that didn't evoke a remote flicker of romantic energy. I guess in my head, I believed that God put the laws of attraction out there for reason, you know?

Now. I did do a few other things. I did coach myself to relax on the things that I once made into deal breakers like that one crooked tooth or the teeny-tiny keloid scar from when an ear was once pierced. I watched body language more and paid attention to how they interacted with people like valet guys or janitors. If they remembered the things I said or always looked like they weren't listening to me. And after noting these things--over a rather brief period of time--I'd make up my mind.

And honor that decision. Yup. Because like the B.H.E. once said, "When you walk outside in the morning, it's either sunshine or it's not." It's either sunshine or it's not.

Truth.

Lastly, I inventoried why I think I'm awesome. Ha. I know that sounds silly but I did that. I mean it. In the weeks right before meeting Harry. And no, I didn't get the idea from a self help book or any such thing. Instead, I'd just decided to be kinder to myself.  I also told myself that if I was going to be a single woman indefinitely, I'd do so wisely.  I worked at being my own best friend not branding myself a failure for not being married. This way I could be in a place where I was relaxed. I could operate not out of desperation or fear, you know? Especially since everyone knows that actions made when we feel that way almost never end well, do they?

Nope.

Did I think Harry was about to come along? Oh hell no. In fact, I thought I'd likely marry well after my childbearing years. I mean, given my track record, I think my friends thought the same.

Oh Lord. I am so rambly, aren't I? I guess my point is this:

We all deserve someone who treats us well. But we also deserve to have our feelings align with that person, too. And it's okay to let that nice person that we don't have any romantic-type feelings toward get refiled back into the "friend" category. Because just like wasting time on the arm of the person treating you lukewarm can cause you to miss "the one" when they walk by, shadow boxing in a metaphorical corner of your heart for months or even years with hopes that suddenly something will unlock and break up your platonic inertia is just as bad.

Maybe even worse since that person deserves someone to love them back, too.

Yeah.

So, to me? Settling is a worse fate than being alone. On either end. Settling for the person that says they want one thing but shows you something else? No bueno. And settling for the person who is nice on paper and in real life but doesn't do it for you at all? Equally wack. Permit yourself to have both.

Both.

That's what I think, at least. And look. I'll wrap this up by saying what I've said on this blog seven hundred million times when speaking on such topics: I was NOT lucky in love before meeting Harry. And if this happened for me. . . and my sister. . . and some other person who felt like this before. . .I know for certain that it can happen for anyone. I mean that. Like, this isn't just meant to make you feel good or to chuck you under your chin. It's just one woman's testimony that I know is shared by other people.

I guess it all comes down to doing the work to like yourself, right? Or better yet, know yourself. Because when you know who you are, you stand up for yourself. Which is the very first step in drawing the kind of people toward you who will do the same.

Yeah.

So me? I want both. Both. And you know what? I want that for you, too.

That's all I've got.

***
Happy Hump Day.

You won't rain on our parade.

4th generation Tuskegee alumni, Homecoming weekend '15

"I H-B-see-you." 

~ Me

We watched the forecast all week. Stared at it with squinted eyes and heads cocked sideways hoping that such gestures might change what it said: 100% chance of rain.

Thundershowers even.

And that, that is, a sho nuff prediction of rain-rain-and-more-rain was the exact opposite of what you wanted to hear about the week before one of your favorite outdoor events of the year. Yep. No matter which device, website, or app you looked at it on, the results came up the same. It was pretty much a guarantee that homecoming weekend at Tuskegee University, my Alabama-based alma mater, was about to have a very wet blanket thrown over it.

Literally.

Rain isn't unusual in these parts this or any time of year. I mean, Tuskegee is only 2 hours south of Atlanta, and everyone knows that Atlanta can get its share of precipitation. But for whatever reason, to my recollection in the over twenty five years that I've been attending the game (my first being in 1987 as a high school student) it has never once really, truly rained on our game.

Not even kidding.

Had the weather channel promised monsoons before? Sure. Had there been years where we felt a dribble-drop or two in the hours leading up to our time in the Alumni Bowl and in the hours after? No doubt. Had we even been blasted with a cold front or melted down by a nonatumnal heat wave on other years? Without question. But rain? Like the kind of straight up downpour that forces you inside and keeps you from reconnecting with all of the familiar faces that you've been longing to see? Never. As in not ever.

At least, that I can remember.

And so. We all kept our plans in spite of what those meteorologists admonished. In our minds, we knew that Mother Nature had some unspoken deal with our school that she wouldn't rain on our parade--or our homecoming game. Because for so many years she hadn't. So folks didn't cancel or back out. They rolled with it, fingers crossed and umbrellas tucked down in purses.

Sure did.

And you know what? It didn't rain. That is, it didn't rain on the parade or the game. Sure, we had a light drizzle come in for a moment or two but nothing even close to what had been predicted all week long.

Nope.

So, yeah. Everything about the weekend was amazing. People were super relaxed since they'd been bracing themselves for inclement weather. Clothes were casual and attitudes easy. The hugs were enormous, the energy was festive, and all of it was like the big, beautiful, multigenerational family reunion that it always is. But better for some reason. I even broke two separate pairs of earrings from over-exuberant embraces with old friends.

Not even kidding.

At the end of it all, many of us said it was among the very best homecoming weekends we'd ever had at Tuskegee.

Like, ever.

Social media was flooded with photos. Pictures of arms slung over shoulders and laughter. Some of us with a few more grey hairs and a few more pounds than we'd had as collegiates but happy nonetheless. The sounds and images are imprinted in my brain and heart. Sorority and fraternity songs ringing out all across the campus and fists held proudly to the overcast sky, singing our fight song to the loud brass of our band. All of it familiar and light. Beautiful and celebratory. And perfect.

Yes. That.

We basked in all of it in the days that followed. Funny messages to one another and "remember when" stories. Sad-dish commentary from those who couldn't make the pilgrimage this year followed by vows to never let it happen again. Virtual hugs from those who did make it, promising those comrades that they'd get together soon. Sure, the clouds hung low on game day but no, we did not get that rain. Mother Nature had smiled once again.

Just like always.

But then something happened. In the midst of all of this beauty, someone--a man who was not a former Tuskegee or HBCU (historically black college and university) student--came down and left with a story for a newspaper and blog. He took pictures of students and alumni imbibing and doing things that, okay, probably wouldn't be done in front of grandmothers but the kinds of things that do happen at such games. This man, who wasn't of color or too familiar with HBCU culture, misinterpreted words to songs and analyzed some of the zealous chants that happen in the stands. And with it, he put on the newspaper headline, a big picture of a former student drinking from a glass bottle of rum and splashed above it this title:

"STRAIT OUTTA 'SKEGEE."

Yeah.

Never once did he reference what I saw and see each year. He didn't speak of the legions of professionals and teachers and community servants who were out there. Not once did he discuss his interface with the third, fourth and even fifth generation Tuskegee alumni families to see what kept them coming back to the institution for more. He somehow managed to miss me laughing with my Meharry and Tuskegee classmate, a prominent surgeon now. His camera never captured the coordinated outfits of the alumni sorority and fraternity initiates celebrating big anniversary years even though that's a huge part of black college culture.

Nope. He did none of that. And what's worse is that this is what the world got to see. Because The Montgomery Advertiser printed it.

Sure did.

Should students and alumni have open alcohol containers in public areas or should you smell the pungent evidence of doobies being passed somewhere nearby when you walk near a laughing group of people? Well. While I'm not condoning it, I'm convinced that such crimes are no more egregiously being committed at my alma mater than elsewhere. And sure--we can be accountable for our actions and seize more opportunities for improvement with such things. But how offensive and irresponsible was it that a major newspaper would make this--THIS--the take home message of what is, quite frankly, one of the most beautiful things I see each year?

Tuskegee-made Delta girls from 1962 through 2012. 

Answer: Very.

I need to unpack on this for a minute. Bear with me, okay?

Thanks.

Okay, so check it. This--this homecoming game--this is our biggest game of the year. It is our Auburn-Alabama, our Michigan-Ohio State, and our Georgia-Florida matchups rolled all into one. Like the loyal fans and alums of those aforementioned schools, we come from near and far dressed in our school swag. We canvas parking lots, hillsides and stadium bleachers in crimson and old gold. For us, fish gets fried next to RVs, then inhaled by anybody passing by in a Tuskegee shirt (because that's the community part of our homecoming.) And exactly like those big majority school rivalry games, it is perhaps our most festive time of the year. And sometimes--just sometimes--folks get a little more excited about it than usual.

Yep.

What bothered me the most about this isn't that someone wrote it or even thought it. It mostly hurt my feelings that a major newspaper would actually print it. Like, I can't even imagine an editor allowing such an unbalanced account of, say, Auburn or University of Alabama, to be written just days after their biggest game of the year. I mean, certainly such a write up might exist, but not freestanding. Not high atop a mountain as the lone flag waving to those who don't know or love our school to let them know that this is what it's all about. And you know what? They even threw salt in the wound by using broken English to boot--spelling the word "STRAIT" wrong coupled with "OUTTA" in a headline.

And no, we don't have a problem with slang. We have a problem with you intimating that it's all that we speak and know.

Seriously? Seriously.

Of course, The Montgomery Advertiser was hit with a barrage of emails, calls, tweets, and more from angry Tuskegee alumni. A few days later, a milquetoast pseudo-recant came out that was better than nothing but "meh" at best. And you know? I'm still offended.

Even a few weeks later, I'm offended. As hell.

Yep.

So that brings me to what I want to unpack about. This overall view of historically black institutions of higher education. See, in my opinion, this article (as ignorant as it was) and the fact that this newspaper published it, speaks to this overarching view of these schools. Like they are places filled with not-great people doing not-great things. Like, sure, they used to be the stomping grounds that groomed up the likes of folks such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Oprah Winfrey, Booker T. Washington, Maynard Jackson and even my daddy--but that was back when there was no other option.

You know, for a "regular" school.

Sigh.

I struggle with the fact that these ideas aren't held by only some small percentage of non-black people but others, too. My biggest worry is that this thinking has permeated my generation of young, black professionals, a generation of youngish parents whose children are now applying to and considering colleges. It surprises me how many high schoolers I encounter who aren't even remotely considering an HBCU. I mean, not legitimately so. And then there's a few others that consider them all as a default--the place you go if there is simply no other alternative.

Um, yeah.

And let me be clear on a few things before someone rises up and misunderstands me. I am not in the whole HBCU versus majority school debate. I am down with kids getting the most meaningful education they can get. For some, that will be at a large state school. For some others, that might be a tiny liberal arts college. Perhaps it could be trade school or going abroad for another individual which shouldn't be trivialized. And for some like me, it could mean a historically black college.

That is, if they consider it.

And there is where I'll stick my kickstand. The consideration. And with big periodicals showing our kids images of HBCUs as places filled with nothing more than hooligans and unruly behavior--and not places that build up excellent, dedicated, mature servant leaders, what on earth would make our kids even bat a lash at a Tuskegee, a Hampton, a Xavier or a Florida A&M? Why in the hell would they bother wasting the time or energy on an application to Morehouse, Howard, North Carolina A&T or Clark Atlanta?

I'll tell you what--or rather who: Us.

It's up to people like me and my friends who attended historically black schools to speak of the positive aspects and how they shaped us. No, not as a part of an argument against majority institutions but instead just true statements that stand alone for their own truth and merit. We are tasked with letting the world--not just African American high schoolers, but the world--know what we are doing, how our education was meaningful and how it exceeded our expectations. How we loved it while we were there, but how much we grew to appreciate it more once we left. We have to demonstrate through our actions and our reports that we did get what we needed to lead and succeed. And that our example alone is enough to keep our schools in the running when it's time for someone to consider where they'll go to school.

And man. I wish I had time to talk to somebody about how that reputation is not only important for our potential alumni to hear but also the employers they'll someday seek. I mean, I wish I had time to talk to y'all about that, but this is already getting long.

Mmmm hmmm.

You know? I graduated near the top of my high school class. As did my three siblings. And I assure you that we all could have gone to any large or even Ivy League school. And had we chosen that (and most of us did at least consider them) that would have been fine. And admirable. But instead, all four of us chose to go to Tuskegee. Where we got exactly what we needed and more.

Take that in for a moment. Take in the fact that four high academic achievers CHOSE to first consider then actually attend a historically black college. Yeah, so this is my other great concern. That our most excellent learners are the main ones who look through our schools and over toward sexier ones that they think the whole world will respect. So here's my question: What will happen to schools like Tuskegee if the valedictory Darlene Drapers of the world refuse to go there? Or worse, are so indifferent to them that they aren't even a teeny tiny consideration because they're invisible?

Fellow Tuskegee and Meharry alum, Dr. B. Gary, general surgeon

I'll let you answer that for yourselves.

Oh, and before I forget--let me also add that the beauty in the HBCU is the mixture of people. That might seem like an oxymoron for a school that's filled with a majority of African-Americans, but it's true. See, when I was there? There were all kinds of kids there with me. High-high achievers, pretty-decent achievers, and wing-and-a-prayer achievers. Those from long lineages of college graduates rooming with the ones with parents who couldn't read beyond a fourth grade level. The highly affluent white collar family children yucking it up in the cafeteria with the offspring of the working poor or even the products of the state. And see that? That hodge podge is part of the beauty of our schools. Those high-high achievers became a mirror for the wing-and-a-prayer ones. Those pretty-decent achieving, first-to-ever-go-college, blue collar family kids? They grounded the students on both ends of the economic and achievement spectrum. So yeah, while I do want the valedictorians to consider my alma mater, it isn't only for the reasons you think. I want them to gain the empathy, the perspective, and the knowledge that my sister JoLai did. (She was the valedictorian, not me. Ha.)

Anyways. I'm rambling, I know.

So here's what I am realizing. . . . even if it had rained at that game, nothing could dampen the spirit and pride I have for the education I received at both Tuskegee and Meharry. Historically black colleges that I chose after looking at them along with majority institutions and other predominantly black institutions. After comparing and contrasting them and looking at what was best for ME--a competitive applicant with choices. I'm so, so proud that I did, too.

I'm glad I was given the image of those schools that my parents and people in my Jack and Jill chapter gave to me growing up. Because, thanks to that, I saw them. Saw those schools as viable options and good enough for someone like me and worthy to shape a piece of my future. And just like my patients at Grady Hospital and people everywhere, I know for sure that no one likes being invisible or overlooked. But sometimes it takes someone tapping your shoulder and pointing something out, you know? Saying, "Hey, isn't that amazing?" At which point you cock your head and see something you'd never seen before. A person, sometimes. But other times, a place or thing.

Yeah.

And yes, I know. Big-big schools have big-big money. And they give to those high achievers whose parents are exhausted from either paying for independent schools or just bills period. But. There's also monies for HBCUs and other smaller schools that could be waiting for someone if they just considered looking. This I know for sure.

Just ask my sister Darlene JoLai Draper, the 1989 valedictorian who was torn between Stanford and Tuskegee--both of whom had money to reward her for her academic excellence. The girl who had choices-upon-choices but who chose a historically black school because it was a fit for her.

Yeah, man.

So yeah, Mr. Author-of-that-offensive-article-that-I-refuse-to-link-here. And yeah, Mr. Editor-in-chief of The Montgomery Advertiser. You will never rain on our parade. No matter how hard you try, you won't. Because I've made up my mind to go tell it on the mountain that my alma mater--and many of the ones like it--helped to make me excellent. And a leader. And well-rounded. And proud that I get to come back to that every single year at homecoming. Just like a lot of my fellow HBCU alums do.

My husband and frat brothers at his alma mater Virginia State's homecoming, 2015

With Attorney Shaton M., one of my favorite Howard girls

At church with my sister, soror, and fellow Jack and Jill mom, Dr. Akima H., FAMU alum

With my talented Tuskegee class mate and line sister, Ebony A.--syndicated radio host

With my back and linesister, Glencia W.--Tuskegee proud.

Celebrating the Delta Sigma Theta centennial with these beautiful NC A&T Aggie sorors

Brains and beauty--four Tuskegee made Deltas and alums.

My parents met at Tuskegee and hers met at Fisk. Jocelyn would later become a Fiskite, too.

About to hit the road after homecoming '14

So yeah. I'm telling it on the mountain. That, no, we aren't places of beer, blunts and nothing else. We are a part of a beautiful, timeless tapestry of multigenerational leaders. And thinkers. And servants. And winners. From places that were good enough for our grandparents and parents. From places that were good enough for our spouses and our siblings, and us. . . and places that, if at least considered, could surely be good enough for our children and their children, too. As the only option? No. But as a real, true option worth considering? Hell yes.

So yeah, man. That's what I'm yelling from my cupped hands at the top of my lungs this morning. And I hope I'm loud as hell.

Will they go to an HBCU like we did? I don't know. Will they consider them and apply? Hell yes.

Now. Advertise that.



***
Happy Friday. And that's Doctor Manning to you, Montgomery Advertiser. Got that? Good.

Oh, and this: The impulsive pre-homecoming HBCU lovefest video I made in the parking lot at Grady and then posted on Facebook that actually went somewhat viral. Like 70-something thousand views. Crazy, right? And here I was thinking that the only way I'd ever go viral was through a failed patient encounter. Ha. 



And this. . . . from our energetic stadium--a clip that shows a slice of life for us as college students at Tuskegee and a glimpse into one historically black college's culture. Of note here is what the song says, despite what The Montgomery Advertiser thought. (Next time ask, bruh.)

"Whether sunny or grey
We gonna ball and parlay 
Keep it CRUNK every day 
That's the Tuskegee way
So take your seat 'cause we're live
Marching hard 8 to 5
That's what we do every day
As we ball and parlay. . ."

And, before you ask:
To "ball and parlay" just means to go hard. Hmmm. I guess I defined slang with slang. Okay, so it means to pop your collar, do your thing and just. . . I don't know. . go hard. And "crunk" just means to live life to the fullest. I almost think of it as being so high on life that you seem drunk. Yeah. That's it. It can also describe music so upbeat and live that you have no choice but to get up offa dat thang and dance until you sweat your press and curl out.

Mmm hmmm.

Oh, and for the record? At HBCU schools, we take pride in and ownership of our band. So this song--Ball and Parlay---is a band song lauding our amazing band, The Marching Crimson Pipers. Any person who attended an HBCU probably has deep affection for their band, some schools more than others. At Tuskegee? We're all with the band. ;) #jampipersjam