The February snow swirled as I pulled into the driveway of Notre
Dame's Warren Golf Course clubhouse, trying to find a spot amid
haphazardly parked cars. It was early evening. I had composition
papers to grade and a class lesson to prepare. Only something
special would have convinced me to come out with my schedule as
full as it was. But this was something special. The African-American
community had been invited to welcome new head football coach
Tyrone Willingham and his staff.
As intrigued as I was to meet Willingham -- the first African-American
head coach in Notre Dame history -- once inside I realized something
else new was taking shape at the University. Around me were dozens
of African-American administrators, faculty and staff. As we introduced
ourselves, it dawned on me that almost no one in the room had
been working here when Notre Dame first hired me as an admissions
counselor in 1990. Willingham was not the change; he was part
of a sea change.
Since 1982 I have experienced Notre Dame from the vantage points
of undergraduate and graduate student, alumnus, administrator
and faculty member. My experiences are similar but not identical
to the experiences of other African Americans. From my perspective,
things have come a long, long way.
***
As their bus wound its way through the Notre Dame campus on a
muggy August afternoon, JoAnne Green and Mel Tardy may have compared
the beautiful setting to their own attractive but more modest
campus of Xavier University in New Orleans, the nation's only
historically black, Catholic university. They may have even wished
that relatives from their impoverished Algiers and Ninth Ward
homes in New Orleans could share the trip.
This was 1958, four years after Brown vs Board of Education
of Topeka, Kansas, which found that separate educational facilities
for blacks and whites are inherently unequal, and 11 years after
Notre Dame had conferred a degree on its first African-American
graduate, Frazier Thompson. They, of course, knew nothing of Thompson
or the handful of blacks then attending Notre Dame. For JoAnne
and Mel, both first-generation college students, this was their
first trip out of the South. They were with the Xavier University
Concert Choir, which had accepted an invitation from Notre Dame
to perform for its Catholic Students Mission Crusade.
In 1958 Martin Luther King was a relative unknown, the country
still segregated, the Civil Rights Movement merely pubescent.
The choir members assumed that ND -- like most universities and
colleges back then -- did not accept blacks. They also worried
about Klan activity yet felt some security knowing that Catholics,
also targets of the KKK, didn't like having Klan around either.
As they walked around South Bend in their choir uniforms, they
were impressed with the friendliness of the Midwestern folks.
The choir stayed overnight in Keenan Hall. To their delight,
the concert was well-received. In the afternoon, JoAnne and Mel
decided to relax by one of the campus lakes. They took pictures,
they smiled, they laughed . . . and they held hands. They even
dared to dream of what it would be like if they could
attend a prestigious place like Notre Dame. In August 1958, two
former strangers found a unique peace by a lake at Notre Dame.
A thousand miles from home, they fell in love.
As their bus began the long journey home, and the Golden Dome
grew smaller and smaller in their vision, they never would have
dreamed that 24 years later, in 1982, they would return to the
University of Notre Dame -- this time, as husband and wife and
proud parents of a 17-year-old freshman. Me.
* * *
Twenty-five percent of Notre Dame students are "legacies" --
descendants of a parent, usually white, who graduated from Notre
Dame. Many others have a grandfather, uncle or friend of the family
who attended. Most African Americans, however, come in knowing
little about Notre Dame culture, prestige or tradition other than
football.
Prior to affirmative action, financial aid and the initiation
of Notre Dame recruitment programs in the early 1970s, few African
Americans even seriously considered schools like Notre Dame. Even
in recent years, they've often arrived as first-generation college
students. The "legacy" of the African-American Domer has been
the role of pioneer, academically, socially and culturally, with
few guides to help them survive, let alone thrive and succeed.
Sophomore Demetrius Hall, a first-generation college student,
came to Notre Dame from a predominantly black, all-girls Catholic
high school in Los Angeles. Although her parents always supported
her college plans, she says, "They never said 'This is what you're
going to come up against; this is how it's going to be.' They
didn't know how!"
As a high school senior, in Brown Deer, Wisconsin, a predominantly
white suburb of Milwaukee, I knew nothing about Notre Dame except
for football. I didn't play football; I played the trumpet. My
parents encouraged me to apply anyway.
My cousin, Jim Stone '81, had done well playing football at
Notre Dame, and my mom was excited that Father Hesburgh, CSC,
had served on the U.S. Civil Rights Commission with Martin Luther
King Jr. In my mind, however, "great football" couldn't possibly
go hand in hand with "strong academics." I told my parents I wanted
to go to a "good" school, not Notre Dame.
Then God intervened. Notre Dame invited me to visit, all expenses
paid. It was late February. What an ugly, old campus, I thought.
Too much ivy -- maybe, I thought, that makes this Ivy League --
and cracked sidewalks. God, however, gave me a roomful of Notre
Dame hosts from Saint Augustine, an all-boys black Catholic high
school in New Orleans. The familiarity of New Orleans, where my
family had lived until we moved to Wisconsin when I started high
school, and the warm welcome of intelligent black folks was uplifting,
despite their comments that when they graduated they would "never
come back." This was recruitment? At least they told me Notre
Dame was a great opportunity and to make my own decision.
I had stumbled across a peculiar dimension of the "old" Notre
Dame: Many black alumni considered it a great place to be from
but not at. Nevertheless, I wrote off their comments as I
soon learned that the University was highly ranked in just about
everything. I also was swayed by the camaraderie I had found during
my visit, the sizable financial-aid package and what I came to
think of as the ND "echo." Whenever I included Notre Dame among
my college options, my listeners' eyes would bug out and they'd
repeat it back like I'd made a mistake -- "Notre Dame?"
I rather enjoyed my game of "waking up the echoes" and began to
play it often. In the end, my mother asked me to try Notre Dame
for a year, and if I didn't like it I could transfer. How could
I say no to my mother?
In 1982 I matriculated at Notre Dame along with 72 other African-American
students, then the largest class of African Americans in Notre
Dame history. Two of us shared a suite in Grace Hall.
On the day we met, John could barely contain his excitement
when he spied me walking through the door of the adjoining quad.
"What?! Man, I can't believe they put a bro-tha in the room with
me! Whassup!" he exclaimed, hustling over and extending his hand,
slightly cocked for a soul shake. His excitement melted to incredulity
when I reluctantly extended my own hand in the fashion of a white
person and politely responded, "Hi. My name is Melvin."
I had hoped I wouldn't get a black roommate -- and I didn't
want anything to do with sitting at the "black tables" in the
dining hall. In Brown Deer I'd attended a predominantly white
public school. Our southern black Catholic culture was clearly
different from that of my northern black and non-Catholic acquaintances,
who also seemed to have a better handle on what it meant to be
black -- and had no problem telling me: "How come you don't sit
with us? What, you ain't black or something?" In my mind I was
sitting with friends from band, honors class or my neighborhood.
Consequently I learned to shun many of the bused-in, so-called
"inner-city" blacks. Yet, in my soul, I yearned for them.
John had attended a Catholic, predominately black, all-boys
high school on the South Side of Chicago. We arrived at Notre
Dame from two different worlds. He was streetwise and great at
basketball; I was suburbanized and played in the band. In Rocky
III he cheered for Clubber Lang (Mr. T.); I cheered for Rocky
Balboa. I regularly attended dorm Masses -- a curiosity he indulged
only once. A Baptist, he occasionally went off campus for Bible
study. We were the classic odd couple; a black Felix and Oscar.
Over time, however, we found things in common. I sometimes overheard
folks in my section saying racist things about him. It bothered
me that they didn't mind saying such things in front of me. Such
experiences always brought us closer. Socially, like most blacks
we preferred the hip music and dancing at liquor-less black parties
to standing around drinking at white parties. Our typical weekend
involved playing ball at the Rock until closing time, arriving
late to a dance, then heading back to the room to deal with our
usually drunk section mates. From John, I learned his South Side
version of blackness: doo rags, basketball (I was terrible), chasing
women (all talk, no action) and Chicago's black radio stations
(South Bend had none). To him, I was someone familiar to hang
out with, a good sounding board -- plus no one could mimic Eddie
Murphy's comedy routines as well as I. Sure, John razzed my "clean
and edited" versions, but we laughed for hours. We even stayed
at each other's homes during one of the breaks.
As I got to know folks, my perception of a black table in the
dining hall slowly evaporated. Oh, it was still there, I just
stopped perceiving it as black. It was more like sitting with
family. There was a certain kinship, a sense of security, that
resonated with me We laughed, talked about girls,
who could cut hair and other everyday things. This wasn't the
time for anything serious like racism, politics or academics.
We joked, we unwound. The same thing all the other students were
doing, really, at the "white tables." Strange, isn't it: At those
tables, they didn't see their color-coding either.
John and I both had white friends, too, and there were always
a few whites at the "black table" -- usually people we knew. I
was probably more receptive to it, given that I had a lot of prior
experience living around whites. In fact, I made friends from
many different races and ethnicities, friends to this day. For
those who weren't used to it, it was a lot harder. But how could
I blame them? Even with my background, there were times around
whites when I felt awkward or unwanted. On a warm, sunny day,
for instance, we might all decide to go outside and throw a frisbee.
Next thing I knew, the white students were tanning in the grass
on North Quad, and I'm standing there holding the Frisbee, feeling
dumb for actually trying to coax any one of them into getting
up. In many ways, I often felt like I was living in two worlds
at once. No matter how I tried, I couldn't fit in, I couldn't
escape them, and I couldn't bring them both together.
Now that I know a lot more about identity formation and African-American
culture, I can turn to W.E.B. Dubois's 1903 classic The Souls
of Black Folk to help explain my feelings. Dubois speaks
of the "double-consciousness" of the so-called American Negro;
that odd feeling we get from living in two worlds at once, even
as we constantly view and define our existence through the eyes
of the contemptuous majority. It's an inherent tension of "warring
souls" within us as we try to sift and merge our "American" and
"Negro" selves into one peaceful whole. The Notre Dame experience
for some of African descent, then, consists of an attempt to maintain
or expand our black or African-American heritages even as we strive
to fit in as typical "Domers" -- when the only Domer mold before
us, at least until recently, was Irish or white.
Academically, many of us had unique challenges at Notre Dame.
For first-generation college blacks or for those whose parents
didn't attend highly competitive, historically white institutions
like Notre Dame, sometimes knowing where to find help and feeling
comfortable doing it are difficult. I resented that Freshman Year
of Studies and engineering faculty questioned my ability for engineering
seemingly before I even started. In retrospect, I had the ability
but no one to teach me study strategies, time-management skills
or even what engineers did for a living.
Early on I dropped out of the study groups that were formed
by whites in my dorm because of the constant barrage of questions
about my Scholastic Aptitude Test scores. The questioning of my
intellect so tainted my first-year experience that I didn't join
another study group until MBA school. On the other hand, I don't
recall blacks forming study groups. Maybe some did, but we had
a tendency to try and do it all on our own, to not admit any problem.
The focus in our black community was primarily social support.
We rarely studied together, nor did we publicly mention our academic
accomplishments. It was often just about "gettin' that paper,"
more about "enduring" than succeeding.
Some of us endured better than others. For two years John and
I brought out the best and the worst in each other. Unfortunately,
he left Notre Dame after sophomore year. Perhaps it was just too
different a world for him.
On a rainy day in June 1986, after four years of "enduring,"
after a day spent in detached envy watching the ecstasy of my
fellow graduates, after the cap and gown had been returned and
significant goodbyes exchanged . . . a part of me didn't care
if I ever again set foot on campus. I was not happy. I was not
sad. I was just distant. This was not the dream of my parents
at the lake but the prophesy of the party that welcomed me when
I visited -- those who said they would "never come back." But
why?
I begged one last walk, alone, around campus, perhaps searching
for answers. I wound up standing in the courtyard behind the Huddle,
next to the trickling fountain. Ironically, four years earlier
in that courtyard a security guard had approached me and asked
for my student I.D. Something about me looking "suspicious." As
I stood watching the water flow, I thought about wasted time;
poor decisions; the fluctuating grades; the loneliness and depression;
the sense of disconnect with Notre Dame; the lack of post-graduation
plans. Then, amid the rainy mist, seething over having had my
pride kicked in over and over, I made a solemn vow. I would one
day return to Notre Dame. I would get whatever it was about the
Notre Dame experience that all those other students had received.
I would show that I also had within me what it took to succeed
here.
With that, I rejoined my family. We piled into the car and began
the long journey back to Wisconsin. Little did I know, but the
seeds of change had already been sown, and one day I would help
tend the soil in which they would grow.
***
A sea change takes place not at once, but in waves. As an African
American, I relish the changes we now witness, but I trace their
origin to an action taken by then-president Hesburgh in 1985,
when he and others realized two areas of concern. First, Notre
Dame had a serious problem with the retention of African-American
students. Second, although administrators believed Notre Dame's
black alumni would be in the best position to help the students
improve, few were remaining involved with the University.
It is a distant memory from 1985, but I vaguely recall a reception
during my junior year, perhaps in LaFortune, with a group of black
alumni who were trying to meet black students. At the time I was
just trying to survive. It never occurred to me I had already
met my destiny. Father Ted and Chuck Lennon '61, '62M.A., head
of the alumni association, had invited 25 black alumni back to
campus to discuss the two concerns about black student and alumni
retention. An emotional dialogue took place that weekend; the
pain of years of frustration unleashed upon the unsuspecting hosts.
That sparked the genesis of what in 1989 would become the Black
Alumni of Notre Dame, an official advisory committee of the Alumni
Association and the first installment of today's Minority Alumni
Network.
* * *
For a year or so after graduation, I taught math in Milwaukee
to primarily African-American students who were seeking General
Equivalency Diplomas. I decided a degree in business would put
me in a better position to help empower them. Only Notre Dame
had the things that appealed to me most: spirituality, prestige,
a community small enough that I wouldn't get lost in the shuffle
and a sense of ethics. Unlike other campuses, a warm ND reception
and a scholarship gave me a feeling that they really wanted me
here.
So in 1988 I returned for MBA school to a very different campus.
Father Malloy, then the new president, had announced a year-long
Celebration of Cultural Diversity. There was new pride in the
black community because Tony Rice, a black quarterback -- a novelty
back then -- had led Notre Dame to its first national championship
in 10 years. Meanwhile, Admissions was successfully recruiting
nearly 100 African-American students to campus. This new critical
mass brought new cultural and social opportunities -- including
a rejuvenated Voices of Faith gospel choir and a talent show called
Black Images.
That summer came the first Black Alumni of Notre Dame all-classes
reunion. If ever there was a bittersweet moment, it was that reunion.
The return of nearly 100 black alumni -- many of whom, upon graduation,
had vowed never to return -- provided an opportunity to vent years
of bottled up pain. On the other hand, friends who had gone through
the fire together were reunited for the first time since their
respective graduations. It was a virtual lovefest. Finally, there
was this new feeling: pride. When the alumni looked around the
room, they realized that being from Notre Dame had paid
off big. There were doctors, lawyers, judges, entrepreneurs, engineers,
architects, professional athletes, priests and preachers. To a
man and a woman they had become very successful.
As I, the graduate student, stood soaking it all in, how foolish
the "pioneer" label felt on me. These folks had all done it before
me. If they had succeeded, maybe I could. Still, I wondered: Where
have they BEEN all of these years? How different my experience
would have been with their insights. Obviously, they came to the
same conclusion, for they made they voted to make BA of ND a permanent
thing.
In later years the BA of ND provided the language I needed to
begin defining and understanding my own experiences. Alumni like
Ben Finley '60 and Richard Ryans '79 often used the analogy of
a love/hate relationship to describe the experiences of many blacks
at the University -- we loved the opportunities and the friends
we made but hated all the extra crap we had to take along the
way in order to get the same degree. This was the bittersweet
of the reunion, the double-consciousness of which DuBois spoke.
The alumni had finally had their say, but the students, too, were
suffering. This love/hate tension would soon take on a life of
its own. A storm was brewing.
