Black History Month at Pace was hosted by Black Student Union on the 3rd floor of 1 Pace Plaza. Its goal, I thought, was to be an educational event for students to learn more about Black history in the United States. I soon came to understand it had a different, more profound goal.
Upon entering the room the event was hosted in, I was greeted by dozens of chicken caesar, ham, and vegetarian sandwiches. There were also some cookies, diet cokes, and water. Everything looked delicious. In the middle of my ogling, a student asked me to quickly write my name down on the sign-up sheet, after which I could eat as much food as I wanted to. I complied.
I was under the impression that there was going to be an educational component to the event, but I was surprised to find there wasn’t. Instead, the emphasis was on games and conversation.
Fast forward 15 minutes, and I end up playing an intense game of Jenga with a master’s student. During the game, my opponent told me his degree was in computer science, to which I replied that I was a computer science major myself. He asked me how I was enjoying the program, and I told him I loved it. He wasn’t shocked when I said this, but he was shocked when I mentioned my love for the dorms so far.
“You love Pace dorms?”
“Yeah, I love Beekman.”
“Ohh you’re a freshman?”
“Yes I am.”
“Yeah, there’s a reason they put freshmen in those dorms.”
Ominous. I guess I’ll find out what exactly he meant by that next year. Anyway, this guy meant business in Jenga but so did I. We each made what-we-thought-was killing blow after killing blow, but somehow, the other continued to persevere. After an unprecedented amount of time for a Jenga game, I finally bested my opponent. We shook hands, and I left. It was a great time.
On my walk back to my dorm (appreciating it a little more now), I reflected on the event and on my own heritage.
My grandfather was a Black man from Jamaica, who came here with my grandmother, my mom, and the rest of his daughters in 1977. His journey to America was hard-fought.
His father died when he was 12 years old, making him the sole breadwinner of his eight-person family. Later in life, he worked his way up to a prestigious, high-paying job at an accounting firm. One day, he got into a small argument with a higher-up; the following day, he was fired based on an unsubstantiated account of stealing. Without money, as he knew from his childhood, Jamaica became a very dangerous place. He and his family moved to a smaller house in a much worse area, sleeping with a gun under his pillow for safety. After this, he resolved to make the journey to the United States. He traveled to America to get a degree in accounting; after completing his degree, he went back to Jamaica, and then traveled back to New York City again, this time with his family.
He has four white grandsons. I’ve thought a lot about how to honor my grandpa and my Black-Caribbean heritage over the years. Usually, every February, I start to feel some guilt over having not done enough to learn more about my Jamaican history. I want to stay in touch with it all, but the busyness of life usually keeps me from making a commitment to it.
Black History Month at Pace had a different message to send to me about honoring my history, however. With a striking lack of historical or cultural education, the emphasis of Black History Month was not put on learning as much about Black History out of some obligation. No, the goal was to simply celebrate. Food, games, and people seemed to be enough.
I left Black History Month at Pace understanding something new about Black history. No matter where I was, if I was happy, I was honoring that man who fought so hard to give his descendants a better future; my life, my joy, my education, my connection to other people of Black descent—that in and of itself was Black history.