An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
An unbelievable 30 years ago today, the path of my life changed forever. That afternoon, I was seated at a computer at The New York Times with my editor, Carl Lavin, as the 1994 Pulitzer Prizes were being announced. I watched the winners and categories scroll down the screen in what felt like slow motion, and then I saw my name. I called my mother, who insisted she knew I would win all along, and my father, who was too choked up to speak, and then walked into the out-of-body applause of the old newsroom on 43rd Street and to hugs all around, starting with the executive editor and publisher. The previous year had been a huge one as Chicago Bureau Chief — immersion in the life of a 10-year-old boy on the South Side of Chicago and then bearing witness to people trying to survive a 500-year flood that engulfed the Midwest. A finalist in two categories, I felt as much relief as indescribable joy the moment I won in Feature Writing for “high literary quality and originality.” It would stunningly make me the first Black woman to take home a Pulitzer in journalism and the first Black journalist to win for individual reporting. An honor to be in the company of the great William Raspberry, David Remnick, Annie Proulx, Edward Albee and others whose names were called that day. I heard from Senators, the President, former editors and teachers. The most beautiful, heartfelt letters. My parent’s insurance agent saw the name in the paper, checked his files and called to congratulate them both. I treasured hearing from people I’d written about — the bouquet of roses from a Chicago principal whose high school I’d done a beloved piece on. The narrative writing that won the Pulitzer would be the foundation of the books I would come to write. The seeds and early cadences of The Warmth of Other Suns and Caste can be seen in all of these stories. After the news, The Times ran a full page ad about my win. For years, my father had run out to get every paper I had a story in and would make note in his engineer’s hand: “Isabel’s story on Page A17.” That day, he went home with a bunch of papers to add to his collection of fatherly pride. Forever grateful he lived to see that day.
This is one of the starkest images of segregation and caste in 20th Century America. George W. McLaurin, a retired professor, was denied entry to the University of Oklahoma under Jim Crow and had to go all the way to the Supreme Court to gain admittance as a grad student in 1948. Once he enrolled, he was forced to sit conspicuously alone in an anteroom on the other side of a wall, apart from the white students. He was forced to sit by himself in the cafeteria. When he needed to study in the library, he was forced to sit at a designated desk behind a stack of newspapers so that the white students would not have to see him. This was a humiliating example of a central pillar of caste — the fundamental belief in the purity of the dominant caste and the fear of pollution from the castes deemed beneath it. Until the civil rights era, the subordinated caste was quarantined in every sphere of life in much of the U.S., made untouchable on American terms, well into the 20th Century. This treatment fell under the doctrine of “Separate but Equal” asserted in the 1896 Supreme Court case of Plessy v. Ferguson — “equality” belied by the stark visibility of the humiliation he endured. McLaurin sued again, and the Supreme Court unanimously ruled in his favor in June 1950. Chief Justice Fred Vinson wrote that the treatment of McLaurin was a violation of the 14th Amendment: “Such restrictions impair and inhibit his ability to study,” Vinson wrote, “to engage in discussions and exchange views with other students, and, in general, to learn his profession.” His case, argued by Thurgood Marshall of the NAACP, laid the groundwork for the landmark ruling of Brown v. Board of Education in 1954. McLaurin spoke of the dehumanization he endured, a hallmark of caste, and how he had to fight to overcome: “Some colleagues would look at me like I was an animal,” he said. “No one would give me a word, the teachers seemed like they were not even there for me, nor did they always take my questions when I asked. But I devoted myself so much that afterwards, they began to look for me to give them explanations and to clear their questions.” Let us honor his courage. #blackhistory
This is one of the starkest images of segregation and caste in 20th Century America. George W. McLaurin, a retired professor, was denied entry to the University of Oklahoma under Jim Crow and had to go all the way to the Supreme Court to gain admittance as a grad student in 1948. Once he enrolled, he was forced to sit conspicuously alone in an anteroom on the other side of a wall, apart from the white students. He was forced to sit by himself in the cafeteria. When he needed to study in the library, he was forced to sit at a designated desk behind a stack of newspapers so that the white students would not have to see him. This was a humiliating example of a central pillar of caste — the fundamental belief in the purity of the dominant caste and the fear of pollution from the castes deemed beneath it. Until the civil rights era, the subordinated caste was quarantined in every sphere of life in much of the U.S., made untouchable on American terms, well into the 20th Century. This treatment fell under the doctrine of “Separate but Equal” asserted in the 1896 Supreme Court case of Plessy v. Ferguson — “equality” belied by the stark visibility of the humiliation he endured. McLaurin sued again, and the Supreme Court unanimously ruled in his favor in June 1950. Chief Justice Fred Vinson wrote that the treatment of McLaurin was a violation of the 14th Amendment: “Such restrictions impair and inhibit his ability to study,” Vinson wrote, “to engage in discussions and exchange views with other students, and, in general, to learn his profession.” His case, argued by Thurgood Marshall of the NAACP, laid the groundwork for the landmark ruling of Brown v. Board of Education in 1954. McLaurin spoke of the dehumanization he endured, a hallmark of caste, and how he had to fight to overcome: “Some colleagues would look at me like I was an animal,” he said. “No one would give me a word, the teachers seemed like they were not even there for me, nor did they always take my questions when I asked. But I devoted myself so much that afterwards, they began to look for me to give them explanations and to clear their questions.” Let us honor his courage. #blackhistory
This is one of the starkest images of segregation and caste in 20th Century America. George W. McLaurin, a retired professor, was denied entry to the University of Oklahoma under Jim Crow and had to go all the way to the Supreme Court to gain admittance as a grad student in 1948. Once he enrolled, he was forced to sit conspicuously alone in an anteroom on the other side of a wall, apart from the white students. He was forced to sit by himself in the cafeteria. When he needed to study in the library, he was forced to sit at a designated desk behind a stack of newspapers so that the white students would not have to see him. This was a humiliating example of a central pillar of caste — the fundamental belief in the purity of the dominant caste and the fear of pollution from the castes deemed beneath it. Until the civil rights era, the subordinated caste was quarantined in every sphere of life in much of the U.S., made untouchable on American terms, well into the 20th Century. This treatment fell under the doctrine of “Separate but Equal” asserted in the 1896 Supreme Court case of Plessy v. Ferguson — “equality” belied by the stark visibility of the humiliation he endured. McLaurin sued again, and the Supreme Court unanimously ruled in his favor in June 1950. Chief Justice Fred Vinson wrote that the treatment of McLaurin was a violation of the 14th Amendment: “Such restrictions impair and inhibit his ability to study,” Vinson wrote, “to engage in discussions and exchange views with other students, and, in general, to learn his profession.” His case, argued by Thurgood Marshall of the NAACP, laid the groundwork for the landmark ruling of Brown v. Board of Education in 1954. McLaurin spoke of the dehumanization he endured, a hallmark of caste, and how he had to fight to overcome: “Some colleagues would look at me like I was an animal,” he said. “No one would give me a word, the teachers seemed like they were not even there for me, nor did they always take my questions when I asked. But I devoted myself so much that afterwards, they began to look for me to give them explanations and to clear their questions.” Let us honor his courage. #blackhistory
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
On this last day of #BlackHistoryMonth, may we honor the centennial of the nation’s oldest Black student newspaper, The Hilltop, which debuted in January 1924, and was co-founded at Howard University by then-student Zora Neale Hurston herself. Overjoyed to be named with her as an inaugural inductee to its Hall of Fame. It was a bold and radical act for Black students to break caste 100 years ago and step outside the roles forced upon the ancestors. For most of American history, Black people were not permitted even to learn to read and write. Yet, here they were, students in the era of Jim Crow, in the segregated city of Washington, with the audacity to start a newspaper of their own. What did they write about? The first issue reported on registration obstacles and student fees. (Some things really don’t change!) By 1946, the paper was an established fixture on campus and was featured in Life Magazine. I loved The Hilltop before I ever set foot in its old row-house on 4th Street. It was the main reason I went to Howard. I showed up at the Hilltop office my freshman year before classes started. The editors were busy with the first issue. Someone waved me to the 2nd floor where the features editor was. She was busy, too, trying to fill her section, so she welcomed me with a story assignment. My first piece ran before I started my journalism classes. I later became editor-in-chief. I lived and breathed it. It was a puzzle to be assembled every week, a work of art conceived like a family member that we brought to life every Thursday night. We took a day’s break and started from scratch all over again. True to form, I designed and laid out every single page of the paper the year I was editor. Our grades suffered, assignments got delayed. We forewent sleep. We did not care. It was a part of our being. When people ask me if I pledged a sorority, I proudly say I pledged Hilltop Phi Hilltop. It is the legendary beating heart of life at Howard and has connected every person on campus for generations. Now, HU’s Moorland Spingarn Library has digitized The Hilltop, to preserve and uphold its mission, so that this historic paper can thrive for the next 100 years.
A sublime honor to be counted in this number. ☀️☀️☀️ #BlackHistoryMonth #BlackLiterature From @vintageanchorbooks: “We’re revisiting some profound literary works that delve into the Black experience across various genres and from a few greats we are honored to publish. Join us in exploring these powerful narratives that continue to contribute to the ongoing dialogue on race and representation in literature.” #BHM #tonimorrison #ralphellison #jamesbaldwin #lorrainehansberry #isabelwilkerson
We have to go all the way back to when this man, Ulysses S. Grant, was leading the Union Army in the Civil War, to comprehend how long ago Arizona’s abortion ban was enacted. Slavery was in force in 1864, and most Americans — women of all backgrounds and Black people — were not permitted to vote. The resurrection of that law by the Arizona Supreme Court hurls us back to the century before last. Some 22 states now have near total bans or severe restrictions on abortion — a development that, along with alarm over immigration, sped up in the years since the Census projected a potential inversion of the country’s demographics in less than 20 years. What happens at merely the thought of a reconfiguration, the looming prospect of 2042, or 2045 — the years the census has predicted as the point of demographic sea change? These were questions that propelled Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents, as it trained a light on the stress cracks in this old house, our country. And then, in 2021, the Census Bureau made a startling announcement in alignment with that underlying premise: For the first time in American history, the white population showed a numerical decline, the only racial or ethnic group to do so. While still in the majority, the share of those who identify as white alone in the population of the United States had fallen from 63.7 percent in 2010 to 57.8 percent in 2020, “the lowest on record,” the Associated Press reported. How we as a nation handle this demographic inversion is one of the major existential questions of our time, which is why I chose to explore this and other aspects of our era in the Afterword to Caste. The question remains: What and who do we want to be as a nation, and, now, we might ask, what century do we want to be in?
We have to go all the way back to when this man, Ulysses S. Grant, was leading the Union Army in the Civil War, to comprehend how long ago Arizona’s abortion ban was enacted. Slavery was in force in 1864, and most Americans — women of all backgrounds and Black people — were not permitted to vote. The resurrection of that law by the Arizona Supreme Court hurls us back to the century before last. Some 22 states now have near total bans or severe restrictions on abortion — a development that, along with alarm over immigration, sped up in the years since the Census projected a potential inversion of the country’s demographics in less than 20 years. What happens at merely the thought of a reconfiguration, the looming prospect of 2042, or 2045 — the years the census has predicted as the point of demographic sea change? These were questions that propelled Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents, as it trained a light on the stress cracks in this old house, our country. And then, in 2021, the Census Bureau made a startling announcement in alignment with that underlying premise: For the first time in American history, the white population showed a numerical decline, the only racial or ethnic group to do so. While still in the majority, the share of those who identify as white alone in the population of the United States had fallen from 63.7 percent in 2010 to 57.8 percent in 2020, “the lowest on record,” the Associated Press reported. How we as a nation handle this demographic inversion is one of the major existential questions of our time, which is why I chose to explore this and other aspects of our era in the Afterword to Caste. The question remains: What and who do we want to be as a nation, and, now, we might ask, what century do we want to be in?
We have to go all the way back to when this man, Ulysses S. Grant, was leading the Union Army in the Civil War, to comprehend how long ago Arizona’s abortion ban was enacted. Slavery was in force in 1864, and most Americans — women of all backgrounds and Black people — were not permitted to vote. The resurrection of that law by the Arizona Supreme Court hurls us back to the century before last. Some 22 states now have near total bans or severe restrictions on abortion — a development that, along with alarm over immigration, sped up in the years since the Census projected a potential inversion of the country’s demographics in less than 20 years. What happens at merely the thought of a reconfiguration, the looming prospect of 2042, or 2045 — the years the census has predicted as the point of demographic sea change? These were questions that propelled Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents, as it trained a light on the stress cracks in this old house, our country. And then, in 2021, the Census Bureau made a startling announcement in alignment with that underlying premise: For the first time in American history, the white population showed a numerical decline, the only racial or ethnic group to do so. While still in the majority, the share of those who identify as white alone in the population of the United States had fallen from 63.7 percent in 2010 to 57.8 percent in 2020, “the lowest on record,” the Associated Press reported. How we as a nation handle this demographic inversion is one of the major existential questions of our time, which is why I chose to explore this and other aspects of our era in the Afterword to Caste. The question remains: What and who do we want to be as a nation, and, now, we might ask, what century do we want to be in?
