I was relieved and terrified. If I quit my job at RCA but failed to reach Harvard’s fundraising goal in three months, I would have no source of income during the school year. I was risking my livelihood. But I was also risking a promise to my scholars. There was only one choice, and I had to make it.
I knew saying goodbye to Keanen, Isaac, and my other students would be heartbreaking. I had no idea that it would be one of the hardest days of my life.
It was the last day before spring break began. Keanen and Isaac were now seventh graders. I was packing boxes when they bounded into my classroom, eager to be the first to greet me. Their classmates were filing in behind them.
“Hey, Mr. Fleming!” the boys called out before they noticed my solemn expression and the empty shelves where my philosophy books had been. I was surrounded by partly filled cardboard boxes. “Mr. Fleming, what’s going on?”
I had not expected my words to catch in my throat. I didn’t move and neither did they, as though a giant pause button had been pushed. The kids stood at their seats, books in hand, staring at me and waiting for an explanation.
“Everyone take a seat,” I said. The commotion of chairs scraping the floor broke the awkward silence and gave me time to think. I told them that it would be my last day; I would not be returning after spring break.
When the bell rang, I tried to carry out my boxes with no fanfare. But my departure drew an emotional crowd. Some students grabbed hold of my boxes and we played tug-of-war. Others latched on to my arms and my legs crying, “Please don’t go.” Others blocked the exit but I plowed ahead, averting my face so they would not see my tears. “Please don’t do this,” I begged. “It’s hard enough already.”
The commotion summoned the other teachers to the scene. They held students back as I pushed through the doors toward the parking lot. Keanen and Isaac wrapped their arms around my torso one last time.
“Look at me,” I said, lifting their chins. “We will meet again soon, I promise.” At that point, when so much was uncertain, it was impossible to explain that I’d created the Harvard pipeline with them in mind. But I knew that in a few years, if everything worked out, we would again make history together.
The capital campaign became my full-time job. Every day I woke up at 5 a.m., put on my business suit and bow tie, stuffed my briefcase with brochures, and headed out. I had made a printout of local companies and organizations with charitable giving programs. I relied on it like a GPS programmed for potential donors. My treasure hunt took me from bank to bank, from business to business, and even from one office to another within the same organization. Cold calls were rarely answered, and only now and then did I make it past the front desk without an appointment. Once, I managed to score a meeting with a foundation that could cover our entire budget with the stroke of a pen. But I never heard back from them.
Although a few of my prospects remembered news stories about Black kids going to Harvard, most had never heard of our program. When I did get inside an executive office or conference room, I did everything except beg on my hands and knees. “I just need someone to believe in this,” I’d say, searching the faces of executives whose expressions said they had better things to do.
It was now late April. Another month had gone by with no success. I had written more than one hundred grant proposals and applied to more than one hundred foundations of all sizes, from small family charities to giant national organizations. Crickets or “no thank yous.” That’s all I had to show.
Then May arrived, the month of my payroll reassessment. The Harvard residency was only about sixty days away and I dutifully chipped away at bureaucratic details related to our participation. On Saturdays, I taught everything I knew to teach. But watching those kids evolve into elite debaters, and watching their faces light up as they counted the days until the big event, tore me up inside. Many times, I walked into class resolved to tell them that we wouldn’t be going after all. The longer I waited, the more devastating the blow would be. So I had finally decided that I would break the news to them at our next class. I thought of a million different ways to say, “I know I promised you would go to Harvard, but I couldn’t raise the money. I’m so sorry.” But the same week that I decided to drop the bomb, a miracle happened.
Every Wednesday, I had dinner with legendary Atlantan Ann Cramer at FolkArt restaurant. She’s a tiny white woman who bursts with energy and charisma like a human exclamation mark. She’d retired after years as IBM’s director of corporate citizenship and corporate affairs for the Americas. Since stepping aside, she consulted for nonprofit organizations like mine. I had recently been accepted into LEAD Atlanta, a leadership program targeting young professionals on the rise. The program paired us with prominent figures in the community; I was assigned to Mrs. Cramer as a mentee. And she was a godsend. During our weekly meetings, she taught me the basics of starting a new nonprofit, helped me recruit an executive board, and served as its senior advisor. But more importantly, she is like my second mother. She does not take kindly to self-pity.
“I did everything you told me to,” I said to her. “But the foundations are all saying the same thing.” Now I needed to exit as gracefully as possible and control the damage. But she would not allow me to accept defeat.
“No, no, no, my dear,” she said, reaching her hands across the table to grab mine. “There is still one person that I want you to meet, Rodney Bullard from the Chick-fil-A Foundation.”
I met with Mr. Bullard shortly after Mrs. Cramer arranged it. I figured it was a waste of time because I had already been turned away by Chick-fil-A corporate. But it turned out that Mr. Bullard was the company’s vice president for corporate social responsibility and executive director of the Chick-fil-A Foundation. I was tired of taking punches, but I went out of respect for Mrs. Cramer, whom I felt obliged to obey.
Mr. Bullard is a Black man. He looks like he could have easily played linebacker for the Atlanta Falcons. He’s intimidating at first glance, but we shook hands and he invited me to take a seat. “So, tell me what you have here,” he said, focusing his attention entirely on me. I got ready to unleash the most passionate sales pitch for the Harvard Diversity Project that anyone had ever heard. But this time, I couldn’t. I was tired of impersonating a nonprofit executive. I was tired of marketing and commercialism. So I decided to be myself. I decided to tell my story.
“To be honest, Mr. Bullard,” I said softly as I set the brochures aside. “I’m not even supposed to be here. I should be in a factory, in a prison, or dead.”
I told him how my life was spared, and how I’d finally discovered why I had been given a second chance. “That is why I’m here,” I said. “It’s to make sure that those kids have access to everything that I needed when I was their age.”
I told him that debate had transformed my life, but that the Diversity Project was about more than debate. It was about using educational equity to build new and enduring pathways for Black youth. I was confident that what I was teaching my scholars would not only make them successful, it would make them academically superior and position them to compete against elite scholars from around the world. And I promised him that they would come out on top. I just needed someone to believe in us.
By the time my cathartic monologue wound down, he was regarding me with a lopsided grin. He uncrossed his legs and leaned closer to the table.
“I believe in you,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”
Then and there, he committed to a sizable investment in the Diversity Project when it seemed that no one else would. And Chick-fil-A’s stamp of approval had an immediate ripple effect. Next came the Coca-Cola Foundation, then the UPS Foundation, then WarnerMedia, then Kaiser Permanente, then Publix Super Markets Charities, and many more. Thirty days before our departure for Cambridge, we had raised enough to cover tuition, travel, and room and board for all twenty-five of our students. It was no longer a question of whether they would go. It was now a question of whether they could rise to the occas
ion.
July 1, 2018, we crossed the bridge connecting Boston to Cambridge over the Charles River, the Harvard Houses rising above the trees. When we reached the campus, I smiled proudly and said, “Welcome to Harvard University” as though I were handing them a cherished gift. The kids pressed their faces against the bus windows as I named some of the landmarks we passed. I asked the bus driver to turn onto Massachusetts Avenue so they could see Harvard Law School, where Barack Obama once studied. Then we turned into Radcliffe Quadrangle on Linnaean Street to find our dormitory: Currier House.
We had a few hours to kill before opening assembly. After the scholars picked up their Harvard IDs and loaded their luggage into their dorm rooms, we walked across campus to Harvard Yard. The scholars followed behind me in a large cluster. Jordan was carrying a portable speaker that blared Migos and Future and Lil Baby as we danced and strolled through the Ivy League campus. When we reached the Widener Library, Jordan climbed the vast staircase like he was Rocky Balboa. The other scholars followed up the stone steps toward the enormous pillars that march across its front. Halfway up, as if on cue, twenty-five identically dressed Black kids began Milly rockin’ and dabbin’ and hittin’ dem folks. They were impervious to passersby who looked appalled by the spectacle of their Black joy. But I was overwhelmed with pride, because those steps were designed in the early 1900s by Julian F. Abele, a then prominent African American architect. And this moment was their inheritance.
“Come on, Mr. Fleming!” they yelled down at me. I dropped my briefcase and ran to join them on the steps. They huddled around me and cheered as I did my best Milly rock. It was a moment I will never forget. The kids cheering and jumping and bouncing off of each other like we were a college football team preparing to rush the gridiron. Energy surging through my body and making the hairs on my arms stand up. It felt like crowding together with my teammates in the center of the basketball court, chanting, “We readaay! We readaay!” And it was true—without question—my scholars were ready.
The assembly hall held groups of students from China, Russia, a host of European countries, and every corner of the United States. These were not average students and debaters. Members of the Chinese team, for example, were selected by their organization based on a performance assessment. Many of the students came from places where they had little if any interaction with Black people. Their knowledge of Black people came from television, which probably accounted for the crude comments and strange questions that my students heard during the residency:
“Why are Blacks so aggressive?”
“Can I touch your hair?”
“Is your father in your life?”
“You have a better chance getting into a good college than me.”
And the times they were referred to as the “affirmative action kids.”
This was a culture shock for my students who attended Black schools in Black communities with nothing but Black people. I’d worked hard to teach our kids how to love themselves and how to love each other, because I knew that existing in elite spaces is a challenge. Some assumed that our kids had been given a handout, that they were not equally deserving and qualified. But once classes began, that stigma was blown away by the performance of the Atlanta scholars.
The Harvard debate camp is not for the faint of heart. It reminds me of the elite college camps that I once competed in as a basketball recruit. The days at Harvard are long and arduous. During our stay, twelve hours of intensive learning about international policy would end at 9 p.m., then participants would head for their dorm rooms and buckle down to research and case writing until after midnight, only to rise at 6 a.m. to do it again. Everyone was working on the same topic for the whole two weeks: “Resolved: The United States should accede to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea without reservations.” All students attended the same classes, heard the same lectures, read the same materials, and underwent the same skills training. The goal was to craft their own cases—for and against the resolution—for the tournament held during the residency’s final two days.
Day one of the culminating tournament was filled with preliminary rounds, and in order to advance a student had to win at least five of their eight rounds. Those who fell short would be out of the competition; those who won five had an even tougher day ahead in the single elimination rounds. The results wouldn’t be announced until the morning of the second day.
“Listen to me,” I said as we huddled at the beginning of day one. “When I walked into your very first class in Atlanta, what did I say?” Our arms were latched and our heads were nearly touching.
“You said this is bigger than debate,” Osazi said.
“That’s right,” I responded. “And what else?”
Maya lifted her head and added, “You told us to leave if we were not ready to start a movement.”
“That’s right,” I said again. “Look around this circle. It’s you. You are the movement. And it’s bigger than debate, because it’s about your community and showing the world who we are and what we’re capable of.” I tightened my grip on Jordan and Osazi, who was always by my side.
“You know what we came here to do,” I said as I looked them in their eyes. “Let’s show the world what it looks like when scholarship meets culture.”
I arose early on the final day of the tournament and got to the Hilles assembly hall before anyone else. The suspense had kept me awake all night and I needed time to center myself in the space where it would all happen. I thought about what I’d said back in Atlanta whenever Jordan would get so hyped that he’d jump on a chair, beat his chest, and yell, “We kickin’ everybody ass this summer, Mr. Fleming!” I’d always said, “Relax, Jordan. It’s not all about winning.” Nor is education all about passing the final exam. But here we were, facing a final of sorts, and it was time to see if we would pass what felt like the biggest test of our lives.
The auditorium filled quickly. Everyone was dressed in business attire for the big event. Most of the residential students had taken seats, pulled out their laptops, and started prepping for the first round. Suddenly, I heard music blaring from the back of the auditorium. The doors flung wide as Jordan burst in with his handheld speaker blasting Migos, the rest of our team dancing behind him. Every eye in the room was riveted on them. My heart danced as they paraded in like an HBCU marching band, wearing their navy blazers, polka-dot bow ties, and flamboyant socks. They were Black, proud, and utterly unselfconscious.
We stood together while the judges prepared to name the sixteen students who broke prelims and were advancing to octofinals, the debate version of the NCAA Sweet Sixteen. We crossed our fingers, hoping that at least four of us would make it, giving us four chances to make the championship round. But when the octofinalists were announced, we learned that we did not get four places. We got ten. Ten of the top sixteen students in the Harvard tournament were ours.
After each round, all students reported to the auditorium as results were tabulated. I was a nervous wreck. My scholars huddled as we waited for the results to post. I could not sit. I paced around until I heard someone in the auditorium yell, “Results are up!” We all rushed to the nearest laptop and hovered over it as a student scrolled to reveal the next pairings.
It felt like a devastating blow. Six of our students were eliminated. But four of us advanced. We were four out of eight students in the quarterfinals.
My scholars and the other students who had been eliminated flocked to the rooms where their friends—or rivals—were competing. This time I really could not watch. I went outside to walk off a combination of nerves and caffeine that had my adrenaline racing.
In the next round, two of our students were eliminated. But two of us advanced. We were now two of the four heading to the semifinals.
I stayed to watch this round, because the results would be tabulated and announced immediately after the debate. Jordan was one of the semifinalists, and in this round he took an alarming risk. His opponent presented an argumen
t that he perceived as a counterplan, which is an illegal move. It means that a debater is advocating a solvency that falls outside the boundaries of the resolution. This particular topic required debaters to argue that the United States either should or should not accede. No other choices were on the table. A counterplan would propose that the United States do something completely different. Here’s the risk: if you flag a counterplan and spend the entire debate defending that charge, only to have your opponent prove that it is not in fact a counterplan, then you will inevitably lose. Jordan decided to scrap the argument that he’d used to win his previous rounds and instead attack what he saw as a counterplan. I was horrified. All I could think was Jordan, what the hell are you doing?
The debate went off the rails. It went so deep into definition of counterplans that neither debater was talking about the United States or the United Nations or the Law of the Sea. Jordan invoked the National Speech & Debate Association handbook as evidence that his opponent should be disqualified for presenting an illegal counterplan. The whole audience was thrown for a loop. At the end of the round, bedlam ensued as audience members debated with the people around them. The results were agonizingly slow to come because the judges had a debate of their own.
After nearly thirty minutes, the judges announced, “We have a decision.” The entire room went mute. “We decided that the case presented by the negative is in fact a counterplan. The win goes to the affirmative.” I nearly fell from my seat. I gulped in air like someone who had almost suffocated. Jordan was advancing to the championship to represent our team.
At the Harvard debate residency, it’s traditional for the two finalists to make remarks before their opening speech for the round. When it was Jordan’s turn, he mounted his laptop on the podium, adjusted the microphone stand to his height, and leaned into the mic with a big sigh as he looked into the audience and said, “Wow, what a journey it has been.” He gave heartfelt thanks to the faculty and all his classmates at the residency. “And of course,” he said, “I gotta give a huge shoutout to my Diversity Project teammates from Atlanta!” They immediately leaped to their feet in the front row and cheered and chanted, “Ayyyeee!” while holding up the A-Town sign with their fingers. Then he said, “There’s one more person that I want to thank before I start this round.” He paused for a moment as he looked toward the back of the auditorium. When he made eye contact with me, he continued, “Because we would not be here if it were not for him.” Tears filled my eyes, but I gazed up to keep them from falling down my face.
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