Today I tied the perfect half Windsor. The knot was just slightly asymmetrical, there was a nice dimple, and the tip of the tie just barely broke the top of my belt buckle. I did it on my first try. It’s my maroon club tie. It bears the logo of a proud institution that I can finally sport with legitimacy. It isn’t aspiring, it is earned.

I don’t think shoes have to be earned but it took me forever to find the right ones. They are brown slip on loafers. Not Weejuns, or the normal penny loafers. The seams around the top of the shoe turn inside making them just a little sleeker. They ride that thin line between formal and casual. Forever all I could find were either frat boy moccasins or Euro genie shoes. Thank you eBay. Of course my brown leather belt matches.

I have on flat front cotton khakis. They reach right to the top of my shoe, covering my socks but not touching the ground, no break in the pant leg at all. This was luck. Even when I have had pants hemmed they never get it perfect. They still pool on the shoes or sag in the seat. This pair came right off the rack. Serendipity.

I rarely if ever use a comb, just fingers. The key isn’t the comb, it is the product. I’ve gone through gels, mousses, pomades. Some just didn’t have the hold, others held but turned flaky by mid-day. I don’t want wet and glossy, nor bed head, just a nice mid ground that looks tidy but with a little style. I’m too old, to responsible to do anything wild, but I’m not quite ready to give up and have hair that is just blah. So the idea is to do the blah doo but with fingers instead of a comb. With the right product it works. At least it works for what I want and today I got it right.

I shaved and did not cut myself. Not on my neck next to my Adam’s apple, not at the corners of my mouth. Not only did I not cut myself but I shaved in record time and managed to still erase that pesky little patch right under my nose. That spot where nose and upper lip meet. The one that no razor built by man can quite fit. Today I got it.

I buttoned down the collar on my powder blue shirt, and took a step back to take it all in. Perfect. After all these years of wandering in sartorial ignorance, being swayed by cargo pants or t shirts, being wooed by four button suit jackets or chunky soled Doc Marten’s, I finally figured it out. I nailed it. Today I was top to bottom happy with what I put on.

Then, when I reached for my jacket, I turned just a little sideways. It ruined everything.

That dreaded ballooning a shirt makes when tucked in, the one you should buy slim or fitted shirts to avoid, was full of me. Balloons are full of air, this was full of me. My stomach hung out over my belt buckle like some cornice; an avalanche just on the brink of happening.

Seriously!?

It wasn’t always like that. That thing, that baggage, that waistline that isn’t really me, it is a some-thing, not a part of a some-one. It isn’t me, it is just some passenger that stowed away while I was busy with other things. It used to be I could not only not find the right shoes, but I couldn’t afford them. I could never afford them so much so that even if I had money I had no idea what I should be buying. I was in the wrong shoe wearing the wrong shirt, in the wrong fit, but on the perfect body.

This body had its own reputation.

Every bit of it was solid. Large in the chest and shoulders, slim in the waist and wrists. I was maybe a little thick in the ankles but massive enough in the calves to balance it out. While I may not have been clothed very well, I had a great form to fit. My form wasn’t the best part of that body of old, the best part was what it could do.

It was never all that fast but it was quick. Nimble. That body could run forever and lift anything. It could bend any which way, needed very little rest, and no matter what I did, it bounced right back. It just was. Because of it I rode bikes, swam in rivers, climbed mountains. I ran, tackled, punched, and got hit right back. That body was fantastic.

That body was 18 years old.

Looking in the mirror today I saw God.

God is not in the tie I earned, those perfect shoes, or even in that once fantastic body. I saw God right at the moment when I realized I had tied the perfect half Windsor. I began to swell with pride. I began to become full of myself. Then I stepped back and saw how my midsection had swelled and the results of filling my plate 100 times too many. I came crashing right back down like Icarus.

To me that was God.

It was the same God that kept that perfect body wearing the wrong clothes and wracked with insecurity. That perfect body could never find the perfect hair product, or even the right haircut. It wore knock off brands and could never quite figure out what was going wrong.

I have finally found the right haircut, but it has come complete with nose and ear hair.

Such is the justice of God.

It is God because it keeps me grounded in reality.

Real.

Like God.

Real like spare tires and zits. Real like sports cars and divorces, bankruptcy and the birth of your first child.

Real, like important things.

Now do not get me wrong, my health is important, and how I dress can greatly affect how I am treated by the world and therefore influence how effectively I function in that world. But O how easily am I distracted by myself. My tastes my ideas, my hopes and my soul crushing insecurities. How easy is it for me to forget that I am not more important than you, and how one looks should not influence how I feel about them. Looks can be either an expression of self or a distraction from truth, and I cannot tell which is which from just looking.

Neither can you.

Not that beauty is bad. I love line shapes and color, in nature, in art, in people. I love it in me, and in you, and in them. But getting in too deep is like eating nothing but the frosting off a cake. It is wonderful but your teeth will eventually hurt and your sugar high will come down. Frosting has no substance without the cake.

Dessert can be damaging without the meal.

My big round belly beneath a perfect half Windsor knot reminded me of that meal.

God didn’t curse me with fat. I did that. What God has done is bless me with a reminder that paint needs to be spread on canvas to mean anything.

My perfect shoes are stupid unless my feet are standing in the right place. The break in my pant leg is invisible unless I stand up. The perfect hair product is pointless if my head is empty.

On the other hand, making the mistake of matching your pocket square perfectly with your tie and not your shirt, is less important than whether or not that handkerchief is over a heart filled with hope.

That being said, your pocket square should match your shirt if it is going to match anything at all. I didn’t know that till after I got fat.

Turns out he had never been there.

Hats off to the adaptability and flexibility of modern education, my friend, and GSU’s school of education.

I’ve now been there twice. Given the schools location, not quite right next to Savannah, I think maybe I should be given a degree from there as well. Maybe just a certificate. I will settle for a gold star.

I am often asked why school is so expensive. I am sometimes told the cost of useless administrators is to blame. I have given, and heard, many answers to these questions and accusations, but I won’t do that here.

I contemplated these issues as I sat in a mall-esque food court watching students walk past the indoor climbing gym and into one of three weight rooms at 10am.

This student, Ella Baker, brought together 126 other students from other schools, people like Stokely Carmichael, Marion Berry, Julian Bond, and together they formed a group called the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC).

This little group of students from mostly small HBCUs organized and helped engineer one of the greatest societal shake-ups America has ever experienced.

And they got started at Shaw.

Shaw itself got started when the civil war ended and a Northern Baptist loaded up his carpet bag and went to Raleigh. This minister, Dr. Henry Martin Tupper, founded the school in 1865 with a handful of emancipated students. Fast forward a few years and graduates from Shaw were sitting in the president’s chair of five other colleges.

Perhaps that number will rise. There are currently 2,800 students at Shaw. The campus is small, right downtown.  I found parking in record time, walked around campus in record time, and then broke a record for the chattiest counter clerk in the school bookstore. He was a White dude.It was graduation weekend.

Moms, Dads, and lots of rowdy aunties were wandering around campus hugging everybody.

I didn’t stick around for commencement. Instead I wandered off contemplating Greyhound buses and Woolworth’s counters.

Who needs a quad when you have Washington Square?

As you wander around trying to get a feel for the student body, culture, climate and whatnot, all you get is New York.

That isn’t a bad thing.

I had lunch with a colleague who works in admissions at Stern. “How is New York?” I asked.

She smiled, looking far off into the distance, and gave a sing-songy recounting of a chick flick worthy summer. I’m not sure she has ever walked the sidewalks of the city, she has been ten feet off the ground the entire time.

She deserves to be there.

The school is private. There are almost 39,000 students but that is a drop in the bucket for New York. $1,200 per credit is not. But hey, this is New York!

They give out Nobel prizes like candy around here. Go to Hollywood to make some shoot ‘em up action movie. Go to NYU to make a smart movie… while wearing black and sleeping on a cot stuffed in a closet.

If none of this sounds good to you, you don’t deserve to live here.

She stood at the podium and gave the most heartfelt and irreverent talk I had ever heard. Well…I’m not sure if it was the most heartfelt, but I am sure she was smokin’ hot.Thirteen years and two kids later she is still smokin’ hot.

She has a kind of star power that other people (me) hang around like groupies, hoping to catch a little of her leftover glow. If you meet her once you will know what I mean. You don’t forget.

Have you ever bumped into someone on the street and re-introduced yourself? They smile, shake your hand, and nod their head while the brow furrows as they rack their memory trying to drum up the connection?

Not with her.

People see her again after who knows how long, and as she recounts how they are acquainted, they just smile, nod. They don’t have to think because they remember exactly where they met.

She’s that kind of person.

She is a Mom.

People who have had that job watch her in amazement. She is good at it. Good like the unfair kind of good. And she does it her way.

That’s how she does everything.

While pregnant she read every book imaginable. When the kid showed up she brought certified experts into our home to consult us. She has a degree from an accredited university on childhood development  She watches, studies, learns, and then goes ahead and does it her own way.

If I, or any of our kids, ever reach any real success it will be because we stood near enough to her for some of “it” to rub off. Reflected glow. Second hand awesomeness.

We are all very lucky. I’m surprised she tolerates us.

She doesn’t have time, or rather doesn’t waste time, on foolishness. Now make no mistake, she knows how to “act a fool”, in fact acting a fool allowed her to meet Oprah (twice), but rather she has no patience for gossip, pettiness, or social jockeying.

Unless you are Oprah. Then she is a triple crown quality jockey.

God is the only one who can tell her what to do. She will listen to him, and even if it is like a pouting child forced to clean her room. She cleans it.

Most of us just put on our headphones and ignore God. We sit in our messy rooms and play childish video games pretending we don’t know God asked us to clean up this mess.

But not her. She does it.

She doesn’t do it for you. She doesn’t do it for me. she just does.

And she looks good doing it.

I am thirteen years in love.

I think every one of these students got the memo.

There was actually a memo.

When its first class graduated, the ceremony was attended by James Monroe (of the doctrine fame), John C. Calhoun, and Marquis de Lafayette (of once stayed in this hotel fame). That was then.

Now the school boasts a student body of roughly 24 thousand students, studying all sorts of things, for various types of degrees. What it has in students, it lacks in parking spaces. I suggest taking the metro.

Walking around campus I noticed a few things: construction, a statue of a hippo and accompanying real life homeless guy, and more construction.

I am no stranger to homeless guys, am somewhat less familiar with bronze hippos, and was till that day completely inexperienced at student tours complete with guide talking about hippos while completely ignoring homeless guy right next to hippo.

I believe the man’s sign indicated he wanted donations, my observation saw none given. This could mean that the prospective students could not read, had no money to give, or had no desire to give. All key indicators regarding the GW student body discount the first two options, and the last option would be pure speculation.

I speculate that the guy holding the sign should be allowed to take a GW business class to learn about location location location. I am no expert so I won’t volunteer to teach that class… though I did once live in a van so I may actually know something.

All in all, GW is, in all aspects, D.C.

The cherry blossoms are beautiful, the construction is not. It is urban but it isn’t New York. It is politically aspirational and recent reports indicate it has been cheating for the past ten years.

The school recently self reported that for roughly a decade it has been mis-reporting the high school class rankings of its incoming classes by 20 points. As a result of that inaccurate information the school was top ranked… now because of the correction they are un-ranked.

I’m sure Jackie O’s degree is still valuable and I will not argue with the brain power of Colin Powell.

A few blocks further down I felt like I was looking at a lackluster meal. The kind with all the right ingredients, a lot of labor, that just doesn’t turn out right. Not a bad meal at all yet still a huge disappointment. Remembering Cambridge, I inhaled and stepped inside.I was dressed much like last time, flat front khakis, blue button down, tan v neck, solid blue tie.

A man behind the counter said something along the lines of “hello.”

I explained I was just looking a little but mostly wasting time he replied that he thought that was great and to enjoy myself.

Panama hats are obviously a thing right now. I saw one that might suit me, picked it up to maybe try it on, when a gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out the window. Outside was a little old woman sporting that Panama hat. The man chuckled and in a heavy accent said, “I guess it is summer time.”

While staring at cuff links a man asked, “which ones were you looking at?” I told him which ones I liked but that I was on strict orders to buy nothing. He smiled and said he understood.

He had grey longish hair. Not long enough to tuck behind an ear but enough to pass the collar in the back. I’m sure he must have had some wrinkles but his face, his eyes perhaps, seemed young. He was not bothered by me and I consequentially relaxed.

What he did next was remarkable.

A young black man walked into the store wearing shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. The salesman looked up, smiled a hello, and went right back to our conversation.

I wandered off on my own and the salesman directed a cheerful, “how are you doing today?” to the guy wearing Air Jordans. He did not tailgate the guy, hover over his shoulder, not did he ignore him in hopes he would go away. It was almost the same greeting I got, perhaps a little friendlier as the guy in the hood was a little nicer than I was.

By the time I walked away those two were chatting away. The black man had just gotten a job at a local shoe store, the sales rep knew everyone there, including the one who had just left. The black man knew every make of shoe imaginable but wanted a new suit. “well, you obviously aren’t working today. I’m sure {insert female name of shoe store boss here} wouldn’t have you walking in dressed like this?”

“Naw. I have today off,” he chuckled.

Maybe it was just Spring or perhaps not having your location listed on the corporate logo strips away the pretension. Whatever it was, this location was not like the last. Maybe it was just the grey haired guy with the young eyes but when I left there that day I wished I had money to spend.

I liked the clothes better, the sun was a little brighter, and I felt better about me.

Those two were still chatting when I left. I have no idea if a suit was purchased but I’m sure the newly minted shoe salesman will be back.

Me too.

It has been there since 1847. In those days, the days when college was mostly for the moneyed sons of the gentry, City college was not only new but radical.

It was opened under the name the ‘Free Academy”… because it was free. As in no tuition. It was set up in contrast, even opposition to, its nearly next door neighbor Columbia. Free college? huh.

While it was for some time free it was not always “open”. In 1969 the few black students on campus raised a ruckus over the institutions lack of opportunity and support for black students/applicants. Consequentially the school decided to not only open up a little more, but open up all the way, allowing any graduate of NY public schools automatic admission.

Sadly such things could not last. By the 80′s not only was admission being charged but remedial classes were no longer offered. What was once a radical open door school has now, at least on the surface, become just a college like any other.

Except it is in New York. New York is not like any other.

A few years later Georgetown found itself sitting on the border of north and south with half its student body joining one army, and half the other. Once the guns stopped firing the school adopted both blue and grey as their official colors.

How bipartisan of them.

This post civil war period became known as Georgetown’s second founding as the new president, Patrick Healy, expanded the school and more or less made it the elite institution it is today.

Interesting guy this Healy.

Healy’s dad was an Irish guy who owned a plantation in Macon Georgia, including a biracial slave named Mary Eliza. These two lived as common law husband and wife and had three kids. Legally, those kids were slaves, including Patrick.

Mr. Healy Sr. not considering his kids slaves, or even black for that matter, sent the kids up north for good catholic schooling free from the legal issues in the South. Patrick eventually became a Jesuit and earned a PhD in Belgium.  He was in Belgium because being mixed race right before the civil war was not exactly fun or conducive to continued education in America.

Upon his return to the States Healy led Georgetown into the 20th century and was hailed as a fine Catholic son of Ireland. Sort of.

History is never a straight line.

Never a straight line as demonstrated by Georgetown alumni Bill Clinton’s wandering path to influence and power, and Alan Iverson’s drive to the basket and later a drive to multiple court rooms.

But we shouldn’t only look at Clinton and Iverson, we could also look at Justice Scalia, Bradley Cooper, or any of the other 17,000 who attend the school yearly.

Speaking of those 17,ooo students, they are called “Hoyas”. What exactly that is, is debatable. These (below) are Hoyas:

Patrick Ewing, Alonzo Mourning, and Dikembe Mutombo were also Hoyas.