Black Boy, White World: Blackness at Texas A&M University
“IF THE SOUTH WOULD’VE WON, WE WOULD’VE HAD IT MADE”
I was stopping by the room after class, and slowed to a halt because the phrase jutted out; broad black letters plastered around a scraggly, thick-bearded man in a cowboy hat — his drunken smile oozing with nostalgia, was backed by a massive confederate flag. It was a huge poster, and it took up half the wall of the dorm-room across the hall. Following my gaze, the White guy who was sprawled out on his bed just below the poster, quickly got up and closed the door.
Welcome to Texas A&M University.
When I arrived, less than 2% of Texas A&M’s campus was Black. I would go days, and sometimes weeks without seeing anyone that looked like me. When we did see each other from afar, we would raise a fist or give a head-nod in solidarity. Whether we knew each other or not, there was a shared otherness that was palpable in those moments — an understanding.
On weekends I would stroll past the confederate flags flapping in the wind on the Northside of campus, as I fled the stress of exams, all-nighters, cramped dorms and shared showers, to head across the street toward the pounding of music, flashing lights and drunken cheers. The strip of bars along Northgate was always packed; a snapshot of young White America in ripped-bill baseball caps, Wrangler jeans, too-short skirts, and every sort of maroon Aggie paraphernalia. You could smell the beer from across the street. Speaking of which…
I hated this part — crossing University Drive. If you looked like me, you were likely going to be drive-by’d.
“Drive-bys” usually started with you trying to beat the red-light and dart between huge trucks — the kind with the extended cab, mud caked on the tires and side panels undoubtedly from a weekend of off-roading, and an exhaust that groaned and shook gravel — when all of a sudden a white guy in a cowboy hat would force his head out the window screaming mockingly:
“Move Nigggggger!!!!”
Before you could respond, a hand would be thrust from each window, middle fingers sprung in the air pridefully as the tires screeched just past you…and they “drive by”. No matter how fast you chase those trucks, legs burning with anger, you never catch them. I tried a few times. You get used to it. Sometimes, if you were out late enough on a Friday night, you’d hear someone yell “F***ing Niggers!” from the 4th floor of their dorm. The word would sound so charged and smug with inheritance, as it bounced off the pavement and echoed on fresh cut grass.
You start to recall all of the unwritten rules whispered to you after Black Orientation:
- “Don’t bother raising your hand in Dr. ______’s class — she won’t call on us.”
- “Do not go to The Chicken — they’re racist and they’ll f*** you up in there.”
- “Avoid Professor ________; he’s failed all the black people in his class the last 3 semesters.”
- “You can do Dry Bean…they’ll look at you funny, but you’ll survive”
- “Salty Dog won’t let you in”
To club at A&M meant figuring out the perfect outfit. Jeans that fit snug around your thighs, with cuffs that stopped just short of your ankles. Preferably a polo shirt, with sleeves that stopped mid-bicep. My friends and I would check each other anxiously as we approached the entrances, tidying up any loose-ends, not wanting to disrupt our fun. We wanted to believe not getting in was our fault; something we had done wrong…something we could control and fix with a slight wardrobe adjustment, more attention to detail.
But blackness can’t be fixed.
We would watch white guys in cargo shorts and beer-stained t-shirts, wander in, already half-drunk. Some entered in gym shorts and flip flops, with ball caps. All White. We knew our experience would be different. “No hats” the guy would say some days. Other days, he would say that our polo shirts were athletic gear. Sometimes our tailored jeans were too baggy. Other days, they were just “full”. Some days we fought to try to get in, asking for supervisors or managers to come to the door to explain this dress code. Other times, we submitted — already exhausted from the energy required to fit in on campus.
Today, I read the university’s statements. Dr. Michael Young stitched together age-old phrases of “community”, “condolences”, and the things “plaguing our nation” to address the death of George Floyd, a Black man taken by the enforcement arm of systemic racism. There was never any mention of “Blacks” or “African Americans”, or the communities that have bore the weight of A&M’s discriminatory past. There was no mention of the stain of Sul Ross’ statue in that statement, no mention of the Affirmative Action Bake sales held during my time, the nooses found on campus, the Blackface parties, the proliferation of confederate flags, the uncomfortably low number of Black staff, and the consistent inability to retain Black students at the university.
And that is the system.
It’s the combination of both overt racism, microaggressions, othering, ill-fitted resources, and slow action toward the needs and wants of marginalized groups while simultaneously trying to show the world you are fighting back against systemic racism with fluffy words like “diversity”, “community”, and “Aggie spirit”. Real change is systemic as well: increased Black representation in faculty and staff, programs to increase recruitment of Black students, increased funding for programs to facilitate retention of students, firm stances of programs against racism, partnerships with the Bryan-College Station community to provide a pathway for Black high school students to attend college locally, and harsh stances against racist rhetoric and behavior.
Without these changes, the system fulfills the fantasy of the poster across my dorm hall: It lets you get a glimpse of how it would’ve been if the South would’ve won — and from what I’ve seen it seems only White people have it made.
