The Anthony Reeves Experience

840. That number may seem arbitrary, but for me, it carries a deep significance. It was my SAT score in high school—a number I once allowed to define my abilities and my future. I still remember the discussions in ninth grade about the importance of standardized testing. We were told these tests, alongside extracurricular activities and coursework, would form the foundation for college admissions. The SAT and ACT loomed over us as monumental challenges. I can’t recall the specifics of the SAT questions, but I remember the experience vividly. When classmates were scoring in the 1200s and 1300s, my 840 felt like a glaring neon sign screaming, You’re not smart enough. At my school, students were divided into three tracks: advanced, regular, and directed. I was placed in regular classes through junior high. Nobody recommended me for advanced courses during my earlier years, despite excelling in regular ones. By the time I entered my first advanced class as a sophomore, many of ...

Recently, I caught up with a college friend who reminded me just how much of a hustler I was back in the day. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but looking back now—especially at the years between 1987 and 1991—I can see how determined I was to carve my own path. One significant part of my journey to independence was tied to an unexpected source: the Greyhound bus station. The Challenge of Financing College During my first semester of college, my mom and I realized that if I was going to graduate, I’d need to find a way to fund my education myself. I was attending a private university with costs far beyond what I anticipated. I considered transferring but decided to stay and meet the challenge head-on. To make it work, I juggled work-study, student loans, a position as a resident assistant, and eventually, an ROTC scholarship. I worked relentlessly to keep everything together, but the journey wasn’t just about academics. My growth in independence was tied to something else enti...

In African-American culture, it has long been customary to show respect for elders by addressing them as “Mr.” or “Mrs.” This tradition persists regardless of circumstances—whether in the workplace, during casual interactions, or even when roles of authority might suggest informality. Respect transcends occupation, service dynamics, or professional hierarchy. For many African Americans, this practice reflects a deeply rooted cultural value: reverence for age and experience. This respect contrasts sharply with the norms of the Jim Crow era. During that time, it was common for Black men and women working as domestic servants to be addressed by their first names, even by their younger, white employers. This dynamic extended beyond the workplace, reinforcing a subtle but powerful message of inequality. My mother often shared memories of my grandparents, who worked as domestics during part of their lives. Even outside the work environment, some younger white people they encountered would...

My mother, Glenda, didn’t have any sisters, but she shared an unbreakable bond with her first cousin, Joy. They were more like sisters than cousins. Growing up together, they attended the same high school, graduated together, and even stood by each other’s side at their weddings. Their closeness was so profound that I called Joy “Aunt Joy,” even though she was technically my second cousin. As a child, I loved looking through old photos and yearbooks, marveling at how youthful and carefree they were. Like many of us do with our parents or grandparents, I was fascinated by their lives before I was born. Seeing my mother and Aunt Joy in their teens reminded me that they too had moments of being “footloose and fancy-free,” just as I had in my own youth. But as I’ve grown older, my perspective has shifted. I’ve started to think less about how much they looked like me when they were young and more about the vastly different worlds they lived in compared to mine. In my twenties during t...