After a proverbial obstacle course on jumping barricades, my father and I walked out of the H.P. Jacobs Administration Tower, the campus Mecca, where Lynch and Dalton streets hold hands. My mission accomplished, I was finally officially registered for the fall 1988 semester at Jackson State University. Registration was a military survival test, and that day, Dad removed booby-traps from my path.
I am a soldier by DNA design, but my three-day attempt to get registered, with no success, was indication that I was on futile ground. A trooper, though, I drove from Brookhaven to Jackson every day, a two-hour commute in total, by myself—not bad for an 18-year-old coming into her own.
Each day, when I arrived on campus, I stood in lines, yes plural, for hours at the Lee E. Williams Athletics and Assembly Center, where droves of students filled every crevice of the building. The closer I would get to “my turn,” something would always happen. A lunch break for staff. A priority pass for football players that automatically positioned them in front of all other students. A missing document that l never knew I needed until I made it to the front of the line. Still, I persevered!
I had made up my mind that JSU was the place for me, so I kept going back. But on that third day, when I made it home to Brookhaven without confirmation of registration, Dad, a JSU graduate with bachelor’s and master’s degrees in physical education and science, declared an end to the “bullshit”—his words.
“Tomorrow, I’m goin’ up there wit’chu, and we ain’t goin’ to no AAC. We goin’ straight to the damn Tower. And you gon’ get registered.”
Word was born.
On day four, Dad left Brookhaven before I did. He worked in Jackson and had to make a stop at his job with the Mississippi State Department of Health. I drove my white, Chevrolet Monza up I-55 to the Capital City. By the time I arrived on campus, Dad was already there, as I knew he would be. I did what he had ordered me to do in advance: entered JSU on Lynch Street from the Dalton Street side of the Gibbs-Green Memorial Plaza.
Parked on Lynch, he had gotten out of his Chevy Silverado and was standing near it in a parking space that he was holding for me. He waved me in his direction and pointed toward my reserved spot, which he coached me into. To this day, I don’t think he realizes that I can parallel park without his instructions, but in every opportunity to do so, I play along, as I did that day.
Our stroll to the Tower took three minutes. Once we entered, Dad stood on business, and sure enough, I left the campus Mecca as a registered student within an hour. Initially, we faced some run-around and hassle, but Dad shut it down right away.
The final straw was when a staff member made a failed attempt to dismiss us.
“Sir, she needs to go back over to the AA …”.
“Ma’am, hell naw. She ain’t going back to the AAC. She gon’ get registered right here, tadaaay!”
I kind of figured he would eventually start stressing syllables.
And with that, some folks got moving, did their jobs, and my obstacle course ended.
Dad, who holds an honorary Ph.D. in cussin’, paused when he and I made it to the Tower’s outer front steps and gazed downward at me, smiling, as though he didn’t just paint a generous portion of the Tower with colorful words.
“You wanna go get some lunch?”
Before I could answer, he was in full laughter, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the sudden onset of sweat from his face, courtesy of August in Mississippi.
“Them jokas ‘a make you work up a appetite, won’t they?”
This silly man had me in front of the Tower doing the Negro-run-and-clap laugh!
We decided on Captain D’s.
As we sat in a booth, eating fish, coleslaw, fries, and hushpuppies while drinking sweet iced tea, Dad memory-strolled back to his days as a JSU student. He talked about how much he looked forward to the football games and watching the Boom perform.
“I used to like to see them do the Tiger Run,” he said, standing and demonstrating while narrating. “Out’a nowhere, them jokas would just take off runnin’ in different directions like this. Then all of a sudden, they would come on back togetha.”
Dad attracted an audience that clearly enjoyed his performance and knew exactly what he was doing. That’s the beauty of Black folks in Jackson and many other parts of Mississippi, connected by their love for the Sonic Boom of the South. I had so much fun with my daddy that day. It marked the beginning of a new tier in our relationship.
One-on-One Freshman Orientation
There was only one other time that I needed him to come on campus to help me, and that was fall 1988 move-in day. He and I packed up my car and his truck and headed to campus, where we dollied my belongings into Alexander West, my second home for the next nine months. After settling in, we went to Ellis Seafood for lunch. That’s where my freshman orientation began. Generously drizzling hot sauce over his catfish, Dad conducted a whole lecture for which I am grateful to this day.
“You know, when I was at Jackson State, the plaza wun’t there.”
“Really?”
“Naw. You’ll hear talk of race riots that happened and two boys gettin’ killed. After that, Jackson State built the plaza and named it after them,” he said. “They had to come up with a way to keep students safe. So they blocked the flow of traffic from Lynch because them old crazy white boys used to drive through campus just to pick on the students. Just stupid.”
He stopped talking long enough to drink more of his tea.
“During the riots, the police shot up Alexander dorm. We can walk around over there when we get back on campus, and I can show you.”
My first time hearing about the riots on JSU’s campus was that day. It was the most gripping history lesson I’d ever learned. Chills came over me while Dad told the story. I imagined him as a young Black man having to process the horror. Although he had graduated by the time the two students were murdered, he experienced the culture that emboldened those responsible. There was no place in the white-washed curriculum at my high school for this side of Mississippi history.
“One of them boys was a Jackson State student. He might have been there when I was. I think the other one was still in high school.”
Dad shifted his focus, as his generation of Black folks are conditioned to do. Let it go. Move on.
“It’s a lot of things you gotta manage. You gotta make sure you’re eatin’ right and sleepin’ good. I was thinkin’ you might need to get off of that meal plan. I saw they charged you for it. If you can get in the cafeteria for all three meals everyday, it’s worth it. But if not, it would make more sense to opt out.”
Just as we were almost finished eating, Dad asked me if I wanted to order another fish plate to have for dinner later.
“You already know I do!”
I barely gave him a chance to complete the question.
“Here, this ought’a be enough. Go on up there and get what ‘chu want. And I need my change back.”
He gave me a $20 bill, which was more than enough for the $1.99 special that I ordered. Fish, onion rings, hushpuppies, cole slaw, and a Sprite with no ice. Of course, every cent of Dad’s change went directly into my purse. And neither one of us ever spoke a word about it!
We went back to campus, where he parked the Silverado near the same space he held for me the day he helped me register.
“Let’s take your plate to your room, so you can put it in your refrigerator. Then, we gon’ take us a walk.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t drop me off and go on to the house. I thought you would be ready to stretch out on the couch and watch TV.”
“Well, I got a lil’ extra time.”
The grin on his face was priceless.
At that point, I didn’t realize that he had one final session of my personalized, one-on-one orientation to facilitate.
We went into Alexander West from the south entrance to get to my first-floor room, the third one on the right. I barely had space in the GE fridge he bought because of the lunch meats, cheeses, yogurt, milk and fruit Momma packed for me. I pulled out the Sack-and-Save version of Ziploc bags she sent and separated my Ellis Seafood cuisine so that it would all fit.
“Now get your schedule and campus map, and let’s go. I’ma show you how to find your classes so you’a be ready Monday morning.”
“I’m following you.”
There it was! I learned that the final orientation event would be a tour of every building where my classes would meet. Conquering heat and wiping sweat, we stopped at water fountains for cool sips frequently. Throughout our tour, Dad taught me what the building codes on my schedule meant.
“You can tell what them initials stand for by lookin’ at that map. You gotta look at the names on the buildings, too,” he said sarcastically, laughing.
With a side-eye and elbow nudge, I replied, “I’m so glad you broke that down for me. I would have never figured it out.”
“I know.”
One thing that’s definite about him is that he always has something slick to say.
Our first stop was TBEA (T.B. Ellis Annex) room 120, where Badminton and Tennis would meet. Then, we treaded north and crossed Dalton to get to CFM (Charles F. Moore) 106, so I could see my History of Civilization classroom.
By then, my “It’s a Black Thing, You Wouldn’t Understand” T-shirt was practically soaked. The August sun stalked us! Thank God two of my classes met at our next stop, SEB (School of Education Building) room 203 for Composition and Literature and room 107 for Concepts for Success in College.
Finally, the end was near. We made our way to the EEJHS (Ernest E. Just Hall of Science) room 122 for Basic Concepts of Math. By that point, we were both tired and in dire need of relief that could only be satisfied by an air conditioner.
I couldn’t wait to get back to Alexander West. And I knew Dad was ready to go back to Brookhaven where he could relax, enjoy the meal that Momma would have on the stove, stretch out on the sofa, and watch reruns of Good Times and Sanford and Son.
That day, my dad covered every single base, spelling out the routes I should take while navigating the campus. Throughout the semester in my Concepts for Success in College class, I wasn’t introduced to much that Dad hadn’t already taught me.
Over the next four years, I was immersed in a campus culture that was the perfect fit for me. As an English major, I was blessed with facilitative professors and mentors, one of whom, Dr. Brenda Anderson, encouraged me to submit my writings to the Blue and White Flash, which led me to minor in journalism.
Ultimately, I became editorial editor of the Flash and found my place in a creative motif of campus leadership opportunities. Serving as an officer for the Pierian Literary Society and the College of Liberal Arts Student Advisory Council were among the most rewarding.
In 1992, I crossed the graduation stage in the AAC, the same building where my every attempt to register in August of 1988 was repeatedly barricaded.
The man who dismantled those barriers for 18-year-old me was waiting for 22-year-old me with a bouquet of roses after the recessional. His smile was and forever will be more important to me than any degree. The feeling was poetic.
As a faculty member in the JSU Department of English and a 31-year-veteran in the field of higher education, I often find myself reflecting on the magnitude of Dad’s role in my first-year college experience.
He created a pathway of lifelong advantages for me, informing my philosophy as an educator, which is to never lose sight of students’ realities as human beings and to be supportive rather than demoralizing.
I am particularly sensitive to first-generation college students who might not have access to familial advocates or other resources that foster success. Had it not been for my father, himself a second-generation HBCU graduate, I can surmise that my undergraduate experience might not have been an optimal one.
On most days between classes and office hours, I take campus walks, purposefully routing myself past the Tower, a reminder that what my Dad did for me decades ago transcends his position as my father and inspires me to pay his investments forward in the campus community that we both call our dear ole college home.
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