by Kimberly Foster @KimberlyNFoster

At just 17 years-old, Augusta Uwamanzu-Nna has a resume that far outpaces many of those twice her age. The senior at Elmont Memorial High School in Long Island, New York,  was a finalist in the prestigious Intel Science Talent Search. She'll present her research on cement that will keep oil rigs in tact at the White House next week.

On March 30, she learned that she was accepted to all eight Ivy League schools and four others. including the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Johns Hopkins University.

I talked to Augusta about who inspires her to work so hard and how she aspires to help others do the same.
How did you choose which schools you were going to apply to?

I definitely wanted to apply to schools where I know their academics. My parents have really taught me the importance of education, [and] the importance of taking advantage of any opportunity that you're given, especially academic opportunity, so decided that Ivy league could potentially offer me what I was looking for in terms of achieving a very high level education.

by Lauren Dillard

When I was in college I believed that individuals could change the world. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the thought that small bits of positivity could outshine the wealth of ignorance, violence, and poverty that exists in the City of Baltimore. I envisioned my future as being full of peaceful protests and community service.

I’d stay in the city. I’d change the city. Coincidentally, this was around the time of the Baltimore Believe campaign, a well-publicized city-wide effort to clean up the streets both literally and figuratively. Yes, we were all on the right track. All around the city, billboards and signage screamed that change was coming. Believe!



In the dark of night, along with a friend, I’d carry with me a tub of sidewalk chalk and a mission. I’d walk around campus and write things like “Black is Beautiful” and “Love Your Race, Love Yourself.” My hope was that in the morning, our messages would help other students start their day with purpose and pride. Juvenile, yet inspirational. Some good vibes to begin the day.

Over my time in college, I spent more time thinking about how to be a positive revolutionary than I did going to class. I started my own community service organization, I posted rhyming, inspiring slogans on bulletin boards, I made flyers to rally volunteers. I wrote articles on GMOs in Boca Burgers and the wrongful acceptance of the N-word, I made my own newspaper. I was independent media.

I served the homeless at a shelter and tutored underprivileged third-graders. A resident at the shelter more than twice my age tried incessantly to date me. Tutoring and mentoring for an hour a week made little change in the lives of those kids.

I chanted with hundreds of others for more money to go to our school’s crumbling library and less to building a new football stadium. Those of us who demanded proper resources for effective learning at our university were long gone when the new library was built seven years after the stadium.

I painted "Love, Peace, and Vote for Change" on my clothes. Who knows if anyone cared?

It’s possible I cried the night Bush was elected. It’s definite that from my perch on bench outside of the dorms I heard someone scream, “Aww shit! We’re headed back into slavery!”

It was a bit dramatic and certainly an overstatement. But on the campus of a historically Black university in a city in desperate need of rescuing, the air of hope was fading.

Yet still, I believed! I was passionate and fiery, but young and without direction. My right fist was held high, but there was no revolution. Along with my group of friends and associates, I was a combination of impressively naive and unproductively focused.

But despite her many misguided failings, I was at one with my Inner Activist.

I lost her somewhere between leaving the warm cocoon of campus life and entering the rigid and cold adult world of a full-time employee. With stealth, my priorities shifted from empowering the masses and encouraging city-wide peace to remembering to set my alarm for work and making my car payment. I never knew what hit me as she made a slow descent away from being the definition of me.

Over the years, I have found myself searching for her, my Inner Activist, only to realize she is nothing more than a long, lost friend. Leaving a trail of guilt stretching straight from my past toward an awkward gaping hole in my present.

I wondered if she’d think I was lost and insignificant. If she would have ridiculed me for being black nanny to many white families. I’m sure she’d shudder at the sight of my feet planted firmly in the stereotype. Maybe she’d call me mammy.

If I could friend her on Facebook, I would. She was last seen many years ago. My Inner Activist might be stuck stagnant in the bowels of MySpace. I’d post on her Timeline “Hello! :-) It’s been a while! Hoping we can go out for coffee soon!”

Maybe she’d forgive me. Maybe she’d take me back. I’d wrestle with butt-hurt thoughts of her ignoring me in the 326 minutes it takes her to reply to my post.

Yes, I’d time it. I’ve really missed her.

Over cappuccino and vegan muffins, I would apologetically tell my Inner Activist that I’d simply and regretfully forgotten about our plans for the future. I would say I’d been distracted by paying the bills. Thrown off course by relationships masquerading as love and then actual real deal love. I’d plead with her to believe I’d never let a man, or anything else, get between us again. I was just trying to find myself, ya’ know?

My Inner Activist, she’d look at me with kind but disappointed eyes and I would catch the slightest hint of burgeoning revolution in her glare. Across the table, I might be close to crying but just before the impending tears escape she would say to me:

“I forgive you.”

I’d try to play it cool and not smile wide at this statement.

“I know in your heart you believed that you lost me but I have been with you all along.

Every time that you stood up to your employers who thought they could take advantage of you because you were young and black and they controlled your paycheck. And when you have used what little spare money you had to donate to teachers at underserved schools.

When you refuse to use the term “good hair.” When you teach your kids that black is beautiful, encouraging them to be a part of eliminating self-hate in their generation. When you set your sights on a successful life on your own terms, not to be bound by the path society has chosen.

Each time you make a conscious effort to raise your children to acknowledge their own inner activists. In a million little moments over the years when you chose what was right over what paid more, what was good over what was trendy, to believe the truth over widespread lies.


I was there. I work beside you. We stand together.”

When her monologue was through, I’d let those tears pour with the rapid pace of a cry held in for far too long.

Dammit, if my Inner Activist isn’t right, she’s still as clever and convincing as I remember.

That woman is still here. She’s not a girl anymore---losing her way and grasping for stable holds on a mountain for miscellaneous causes.

She hides in the depths of this quiet life of a mother obsessed with organic food and the social equality of toddlers. But, she is still here. She has learned that revolution doesn’t always come in the form of protests. It’s not always attention grabbing, colorful sidewalk chalk on a gloomy day. It may not be televised.

As time has moved on, I’d felt certain that I’d lost my Inner Activist.

Graciously, she accepted my friend request.

Photo: Shutterstock

Lauren Dillard is a crafty, overthinking wife and mother of two boys living in Virginia. She enjoys writing emotional essays about uncomfortable subjects and baking vegan cookies. Lauren is currently working on a book about the intensity of motherhood. You can find her work on The Establishment, Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, elephant journal, and her personal site.

by A.K. Staggers

Brown University students have issued a collective apology to Malia Obama for their lack of “chill” and immaturity when posting pictures of the First Daughter’s visit at a campus party where she stood near a table that was allegedly set up for a game of beer pong.  It seems these students didn’t think that sharing these photos publicly on Facebook, Twitter and Snapchat would go viral, nor did the student who sent the photo to a media outlet think that this would somehow damage the University’s chances of courting Malia into its class of ‘20.

by Eva Parker

Today I commit to telling my story. I can no longer suffer in silence like so many of my brothers and sisters do every day. Like so many other Black children I was told to keep personal business private. Telling my truth meant harming family members or chipping the facade of a strong Black woman. Sadly, it is the burden of privacy, the burden of discretion, the burden of pain that forces so many people to suffer in silence.

By Kristina Patrice

This is my first time taking college courses in a quarter format. Sixteen weeks’ worth of material, in a 7.5-week time span, seemed like it would be easy to handle and only a slight adjustment from the standard semester schedule. It can be handled, but coupled with a full-time job, it can be overwhelming unless you have a strategic plan.

A bit of nostalgia always crosses my mind when I think back on my college career. There were late nights spent dance battling in the living room with my roommates and even longer nights spent in the library preparing for finals. Experience is an exceptional teacher and looking back, I wish I knew a few things before I took those first few steps on campus.

by Torie Weiston-Serdan

I've been running a college access centered mentoring program since 2007. Since that time I have actively cultivated mentoring relationships with high school youth and acted as an institutional agent with the intention of helping low-income, first generation, and young people of color to gain access to higher education institutions. To this end, myself and the mentors within my organization have sent 98% of over 300 young people to college. Of those we have sent, 100% of those have stayed in school until graduation or are still in college working towards their degree. In our own way, we have been working to slowly plug away at the higher education access gap, especially the gap that exists in the Inland Empire of Southern California.

by Nina Daoud


As a 16 year old, first-generation college applicant who also happened to be first-generation American and the eldest of four siblings, the last thing I wanted to do was apply to colleges in faraway places in the middle of nowhere. In my eyes, institutions like Dartmouth, Middlebury, and Swarthmore reeked of privilege and unfamiliarity—and I wanted no part of it. I told my counselor I wanted to apply early decision to SUNY Buffalo, and that I had made my decision.

by Brittany Dawson


Oklahoma’s flagship university is suffering from a self-inflicted media hailstorm after a racist video went viral  showing a fraternity chant conducted by members of the University of Oklahoma’ Sigma Alpha Epsilon chapter.

by Brittany Dawson

by Zahida Sherman Ewoodzie

Let’s be honest. Black people have asserted that they aren’t “Black” long before Raven Symone’s sit-down with Oprah. Issues of racial identity often come to the fore in environments where Black folks from all over the world meet. Places like college.

Courtesy of the Office of Multicultural Student Affairs, every Wednesday is considered Hip Hop Wednesday at the University of South Carolina. A pleasing mixture of current radio hits to 90s throwback jams blare across Greene Street, a popular hub for Carolina students to unwind before and after class. Athletes, members of Black Greek Letter Organizations, and other Carolina students dance, catch up with friends, and chatter during this time. What makes Hip Hop Wednesday so empowering and unique to the university is its ability to encourage mingling of students of diverse ethnicities, genders, and religions: we all gather and enjoy the music together. Hip Hop Wednesday is a staple of the Carolina community.

Lincoln University's President Robert R. Jennings apologized Tuesday after receiving criticism for his remarks on rape and sexual assault.

Video of the statements has drawn outrage.

By Domenica Ghanem and Fatir Qureshi, The Daily Campus

by Zahida Sherman


You can’t make it a day without hearing about the rising cost of college attendance. And let’s be honest, our economy isn’t turning around as fast as we’d like. So what can Black students do to afford an education that will help them get ahead? Get into a liberal arts college.

by Rebecca Akrasi-Sarpong

“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery none but ourselves can free our minds” ~Bob Marley

Wonderful! I have graduated from university with an undergrad in English Literature. I am a brilliant competent free thinking individual—now to find a job. Many people would say an arts degree was a step in the wrong direction. I wholeheartedly disagree. Here’s why.

Wooster hurt and when graduation finally arrived I found myself profoundly relieved, fascinated that I had survived, newly engaged (my fiancé proposed right after graduation), and ready to go.

Would I miss my girls? Yes. They were by far the greatest women that have walked this earth—full of grace, intelligence, vulnerability, and pride and I would miss our dinner dates, late night conversations, and moments with professors. However, I could not deny that most of our deepest moments stemmed from great discomfort and pain and I would not miss that almost as much as I would miss them.

I imagined myself strolling in the big city of New York while the curls in my afro sway in the wind. My vibrant Sunkist orange lipstick drawing attention as I saunter to class. On days when I am in a rush after gobbling up every Scandal tweet and re-tweet on Scandal Thursdays, I’ll sport my head wrap and a long flowing dress with boots to combat the winter weather. I saw myself sporting my Spelman hoodie and singing the praises of my glorious institution no matter the occasion. So I did it. Without hesitation, I signed up for a fall 2014 Domestic Exchange at Barnard College.

I remember the feeling of unease. I spent the evening feeling dejected, anxious, and apathetic. It wasn’t the best temperament to have at a finalist weekend for a competitive scholarship.

by Vida Biggins

By the age of 14, I’d already checked every box on the list of criteria for the stereotypical lost cause. I was a black girl with a father who was drug-addicted, abusive, and absent. Check. I was molested by my favorite cousin. Check. I dropped out of high school after one semester in the 9th grade. Check. That was right before I aborted the baby I discovered I was carrying a few months later. Check.