He clutched his note, folded in his sweat slick palm, firmly. They moved through the oaken paneled halls, past leering busts and antique oil paintings... The halls hummed with activity. The line of freshmen weaved between maids, workmen, professors and students, trying to keep up with Deacon as he marched onwards, turning around occasionally and walking backwards. When he did he would shout some piece of information about where they were, or what they were passing. Michael strained to hear him. In my generation, everyone’s going interracial and the Black Love seems to be a thing of the past. The media loves to talk about how most Black women will die alone, how most Black men are in trouble with the law and how the Black family unit is destroyed. Well, we shouldn’t listen to the media. They don’t care about us. We should stick together. Sometimes, I question myself, though. Of the eight thousand students at Bay State University’s Boston campus, twenty one hundred and eighty six of us. More

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