35TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION Today's Black Collegians By Shawn Chollette

Today's African-American college students want job security and a decent standard of living, but many report also having a pressing need to make a difference as tomorrow's leaders.

They have their work cut out for them: Growing disparities between middle- and lower-class African Americans magnify the erosion of advancements associated with the progress of the last 35 years.

Following the zenith of the civil rights movement in the 1960s, decades of marked achievement netted modest gains for African Americans. Black poverty rates have tumbled from 42 percent to 24 percent. The number of Black elected officials has increased exponentially, as have the percentages of Blacks with college degrees.

Nevertheless, recent reports from Columbia, Princeton and Harvard universities show a huge pool of poorly educated Black men becoming ever more disconnected from mainstream society. Meanwhile, the unemployment rate for African Americans remains twice that of the overall national rate.

Add into this mix the HIV/AIDs epidemic, and poor healthcare and public education, and it's enough to make an optimist cringe. These trends have some Generation Next students wondering about their future and preparing for leadership roles. The BLACK COLLEGIAN asked a dozen students about life and concerns on campus today. Several also shared their take on tomorrow and how they intend to make a difference.

From complacency to understanding

A full scholarship and first-rate nursing program lured Brandii Daniels from St. Louis to Creighton University in Omaha, Neb. However, the need to better understand the social ills that confront many African Americans steered her to major in psychology. The self-described natural caregiver says an epiphany helped her develop the mantra that "you really can't heal people until you understand them and where they're coming from."

"America is good at diagnosing problems, but as a society we fail to address the underlying issues," says Brandii, 21, a senior. "I grew up in the inner-city where people smoked crack and abused drugs, and now that I'm starting to understand why, I've stopped judging them."

If inner-city patients were given comprehensive care, many suffering from depression or mental illness would receive a proper diagnosis and course of treatment, instead of being dismissed because of the environments that they come from, Daniels says. Too often, there's no real emphasis on healing people, she contends. But in order for that to happen, she says, African Americans and their medical providers must stop being passive and start challenging the subtle racism that lingers in the health care system, as in other social spheres.

Even at Creighton, with its 17 percent minority student population, Daniels encounters day-to-day biases.

"On any day I can walk down the [student union] and hear rock music, country music – basically every type of music other than what I like to hear." Daniels says she has come to understand the phenomenon as "white privilege. It's like a polar bear in a blizzard – you don't see it until it bites you in the ass. This may not be racism when compared to the '60s and '70s, but the subtlety doesn't make it more right," says Daniels, who wants to become a traveling nurse.

"People are afraid to be seen as the angry Black man or woman, but for change to happen – in hospitals or society – it's going to take courage and leadership."

More than marches

Kouri C. Marshall doesn't have to make the five-hour trip from Southern Illinois University's posh Carbondale campus back to his hometown of Peoria to remind him that he's come a long way. The occasional trip back home also reminds the first-year law student how much farther he has to go.

Raised by his mother in Peoria's housing projects, he is motivated to reach back and help others.

"Growing up in my community – seeing people who have no voice, single mothers with little help, and teenagers with few opportunities – I think I was blessed with the spirit of leadership so that I might serve as a voice for the voiceless," says Marshall.

That spirit has led Marshall, 22, to pursue law and use the avenues of activism and justice to help others.

"We can't just march anymore," Marshall says. "But given the incremental progress that our courts can bring, what we can do is organize ourselves into grassroots organizations and continue to push for civil rights."

Before the next generation of young African Americans starts petitioning Congress or picketing outside the White House, however, its focus first must be on rebuilding our communities.

"Judging from the tone and nature of history, we need to look back and reclaim our communities, and that's when the healing will start. Until then, we ain't going nowhere," says Marshall, who recounts how large a role church and community played in his upbringing in the absence of his father.

He is not content to wait for the reins of leadership to be passed to his generation.

"Leaders of the old vanguard are not letting us get any piece of the pie," says Marshall, who hopes to one day serve as a presidential chief of staff or as a governor of Illinois.

So last summer, Marshall and his schoolmate Landon Jordan founded Generation Change, a non-profit organization dedicated to bringing together young leaders regardless of political affiliation, race or gender. It began with members' plans to attend the Millions More March in Oct. 2005, commemorating the 10th anniversary of the Million Man March. Its website promotes voter registration and local political involvement.

"Whether you're Lil' Jon or John the farmer, the lack of healthcare and adequate education that plague our inner-city sisters and brothers are the same ones faced by people in rural America," Marshall says. "The problem is that we're so separatist in this country that we fail to see that and do something about it. Hopefully Generation Change can change that." 

Acquire what no one can take away 

"Everybody has a story to tell, and I've been privileged to provide some of those people with a voice," says Amber Miles, 22. Yet, with a journalism degree from Louisiana Tech University already in hand, Miles has returned to the school to pursue a master's degree in counseling. 

"As an African-American female, I recognize the need to push harder academically so I can have one more leg up on the competition," says the Dallas native. "I've seen how not having a degree can hurt you in life. Not saying that it's easy when you have one, but an education is one thing no one can take away from you."

Miles, a former all-conference softball player, plans to use her training in counseling to help address the need for improved academic guidance for student- athletes.

"Being a former athlete myself and having had people help me to really develop the student aspect of the student- athlete title, I realize how important it is," says Miles.

She notes that in some African-American communities, more emphasis is placed on athletics than academics.

This is a problem, considering that the latest NCAA statistics show a little more than 50 percent of African-American student-athletes actually earn degrees.

She understands that students from disadvantaged backgrounds may face long odds. With the right support systems, those odds can be beaten, she says.

"Up until the time I was 10, my mom was a single parent, so that was a motivating factor for me to get a degree," Miles says. The passing of Miles' stepfather in the summer before sophomore year added to her determination.

As an academic counselor, Miles says, she'll make it her business to ensure that students not only make the team, but make the grades.

Better health, better living

Growing up in New Orleans, a city where culinary traditions rise to the level of art form, Juba Mwendo has had "a passion for food and cooking" for as long as he can remember.

He is finding satisfaction now as a nutrition and food science major at Johnson & Wales University in Rhode Island. But academic fulfillment did not come easy.

The 24-year-old senior started out studying biology at Gustavus Adolphus College in Minnesota, and wanted to eventually study genetics. When he concluded that biology was not for him, he had a hard time switching majors to culinary arts.

"Swimming against the currents isn't easy, but it does give you lots of emotion to work with," Mwendo says. He has converted the emotion into creative energy, in an effort to please palates and help African Americans learn to eat healthier.

"We need to start realizing what food does to our body," he says, citing studies showing that the fatty, high-sodium diets common among many African Americans make them 40 percent more likely to develop high blood pressure and related illnesses.

After graduation, Mwendo says, he'd like to work closely with industrial food manufacturers and public schools in inner-city and low-income neighborhoods to develop health-conscious lunch menus and dietary guides. He hopes that enhanced nutritional health can not only help improve students' academic performance, but their total quality of life.

The power of language

Kenita August wanted to share her penchant for reading and writing. After plenty of soul searching and changing of majors, she found herself in Dillard University's secondary education department.

The graduating senior's goal now will be to educate students about the English language, and why incorrect usage can lead to unwarranted character judgments.

"It's not enough to just teach conventional English," says August, 21, of Franklinton, La. "What I really want my students to understand is that it's OK to talk to your friends a certain way, but when you're out in public, or applying for a job, you need to be able to talk the talk."

She sees the need for such training because she's come to understand that "many of our students are looked over because they apply the vernacular that they've learned at home to every other social setting. And that's one of the reasons that there are such great disparities in the classroom."

Because some students don't know how to use the language properly, August says, they have "a horrendous time" taking standardized tests geared toward mainstream use of English.

"And the first questions asked about those students are, 'Are these people poor? Are they educated? Are they viable members of the community?'" Learning to speak correctly doesn't mean that someone is "talking like another race or suppressing his culture," she adds.

"That's a lesson I've learned as a young, Black female trying to teach students the English language, and having to deal with perceptions of other young, Black females out in the streets," says August, who plans to start teaching in the New Orleans public school system.

"I want to teach students that if they don't learn how to adapt, they will be lost. They will be disenfranchised," she said. "But more importantly, I want to emphasize to students that there are better ways to make it in life besides selling drugs or selling their bodies, and just encourage them, as my predecessors encouraged me, to change the world."