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Frankly Speaking with Adrienne P. Whitaker, Richmond, VA (2026)

09/09/2026

My cousin Veronica wanted to celebrate her milestone 75th birthday on Martha’s Vineyard. But she didn’t want a girls trip. She wanted a Sisters Trip. And there is a difference.

She wanted women connected through the many ways we define sisterhood. She is an AKA. I am a Delta, and I invited one of my Sorors. We had other AKAs and a Zeta among us. Some of us are also Links, Girl Friends and Jack & Jill Moms. And all of us are Sisters in Christ.

Ten women. Sisters.

So when Veronica (Ronnie) called me several months ago about the trip, I said yes before there was really even a question.

First, because Ronnie plans the BEST trips. And second, because she is pure joy to be around.

Ronnie handled everything. She found us a fabulous two-story, five-bedroom house with a separate basement apartment, arranged our transportation on the ferry and set up taxi service. And we got lucky with Franceska, our wonderful driver, who before long simply became another member of the group.

This was my first trip to Martha’s Vineyard. Our summer vacations were to Sanibel Island for many, many years. While I knew something about the Vineyard’s history, I didn’t fully understand what Oak Bluffs has meant to generations of Black Americans.

Black people had been coming to Martha’s Vineyard since the 1800s. But in 1912, during an era when Black Americans faced segregation and exclusion from hotels, beaches and vacation destinations across the country, Charles and Henrietta Shearer opened Shearer Cottage, the first Black-owned guest house on Martha’s Vineyard.

Along with Inkwell Beach, it helped anchor what became a thriving Black community in Oak Bluffs—a place where generations of Black families could vacation, own homes, gather, rest and simply be.

And over time, Oak Bluffs became something more.

It became a place where Black political, artistic, religious and intellectual life could flourish.

I knew the history. And I knew the names of those who vacationed there: Spike Lee, Oprah Winfrey, Jasmine Guy, Henry Louis Gates Jr., Lionel Richie and the Obamas. And long before them, Madam C.J. Walker, Paul Robeson, Dorothy West, Adam Clayton Powell Jr., Martin Luther King Jr. and others.

I knew all of that.

What I didn’t understand was the culture.

Now I do.

I was surprised by how many people from home spend part of their summers on the Vineyard. We ran into people almost as easily as we would walking around Short Pump here at home.

And I definitely did not understand that Oak Bluffs buzzes with members of the Divine Nine.

I arrived with absolutely NO Greek paraphernalia.

Rookie mistake.

I did, however, have one red-and-white outfit, so apparently my instincts were working.

I quickly corrected the rest with a trip to C’est La Vie for a Delta T-shirt and borrowed a Delta sweatshirt from my Soror. Because every time we encountered another Delta, there were greetings, hugs, conversations and connections.

Sisterhood.

That was the recurring theme of the entire trip.

We purposely scheduled our visit AFTER the African American Film Festival, Greek Week and Links on the Vineyard. We wanted to experience the island without the huge crowds and actually get to know the place.

And we did.

We ate our way around Oak Bluffs—dinner at Black Joy, Inkwell Beach Club and Lookout Tavern; lunch at MV Chowder Co. and Nancy’s; and, of course, dessert from the Back Door.

We walked the Inkwell. The two Michelles rode the famous Flying Horses Carousel. We met some of the Polar Bears at Inkwell Beach, although not one of us took the plunge.

We took the African American Heritage Trail tour through Edgartown and Oak Bluffs and learned the stories behind the places we were seeing. Our tour guide was a brotha who grew up on the island. He explained the differing opinions about the name Inkwell Beach. Much of the old guard rejects the name as derogatory, while younger generations have largely embraced it.

We looked across the pond toward the Obama property.

We were told that Spike Lee was on the island because his flag was flying—and that we might see him riding around on his bicycle wearing his orange helmet.

And then we walked out of Biscuits.

And there he was.

Bike.

Orange helmet.

Spike Lee.

He graciously invited us over for a couple of pictures after he finished his conversation.

Because apparently that’s just another day on Martha’s Vineyard.

By the end of our trip, the two Michelles and I decided to skip the ferry and fly off the island while our other seven Sisters continued on to Boston.

And now that I am home, I am glad we went when we did.

There has been a lot of conversation about whether the Vineyard—particularly Oak Bluffs—is changing.

Have the festivals become too big?

Are too many people coming simply to see and be seen?

Has a place that generations knew as a quiet summer refuge become a networking mecca?

Maybe.

I even heard stories about people arriving during the busiest weeks dressed more for South Beach than an affluent New England hideaway.

But that genie is probably out of the bottle.

The secret is no longer a secret.

What I learned, though, is that the other Martha’s Vineyard is still there.

You can still sit on a porch.

Walk through Oak Bluffs.

Meet people on the beach.

Learn the history.

Run into friends from home.

Make new ones.

And understand why Black families have returned to this little island generation after generation.

For more than a century, this was a place where Black people could exhale.

Where they could gather.

Where they could build community.

Where they could experience leisure and joy in a country that often made even those simple things difficult.

And perhaps that is what I appreciated most.

Tomorrow marks the end of the summer season. Most people will return home. Our organizations will come off their summer hiatuses. Meetings, responsibilities, calendars and regular life will begin again.

Just as they have for generations.

And somewhere along the way, people will start thinking about next summer.

Now I understand why.

It was my first trip to Martha’s Vineyard. It will not be my last, Lord willing.

But strangely, Oak Bluffs didn’t feel like someplace I had just discovered.

It felt like someplace I already belonged.

Maybe that is the real magic of the Vineyard.

We went there for Veronica’s 75th birthday.

We went as Sisters.

And we came home understanding a little more about why generations of Black people have found sisterhood, brotherhood, community, history, joy—and home—there.

Frankly Speaking,
Adrienne P. Whitaker

09/09/2026

Last night, I spent 45 minutes getting ready for bed. There were creams. There were serums. There were little bottles with droppers.

There was something for under the eyes, something for the neck, something for the face, and probably something somewhere claiming to restore the collagen I apparently misplaced.

And after all that?

I woke up this morning looking exactly like myself. And I have a pimple.

No miracle happened overnight.

But somewhere around step five of whatever beauty Olympics I had entered, I started thinking:

When, exactly, do women get to stop being a renovation project?

Because somewhere along the way, aging stopped being something that naturally happens and became a full-time maintenance program.

Now, women over 50 are expected to be fabulous.

Not just alive.

Fabulous.

Fit.

Sexy.

Successful.

Emotionally healed.

Financially secure.

Well traveled.

Well moisturized.

Professionally relevant.

Radiant.

Rested.

Strong.

And apparently having the s*x drive of a college sophomore.

Halle Berry, I love you, but ma’am, I did not need all that information about you and your man. Good for you. And well…good for Van too. I guess.

Jennifer Lopez looks incredible.

Salma Hayek looks incredible.

Halle looks incredible.

Wonderful. Great for them.

But can we please remember that these women are celebrities?

Looking extraordinary is part of the job description.

They have trainers, stylists, dermatologists, aestheticians, nutritionists, makeup artists, lighting, teams, and access to treatments I probably cannot pronounce.

Meanwhile, Brenda from Accounting is standing in CVS at 8:45 p.m. holding a $37 serum because Instagram told her peptides are the reason she looks tired.

And who benefits from that?

Oh, I think we know. Damn skippy we know.

There is an entire industry making billions off convincing women that aging is a problem to solve.

And the sales pitch has gotten slick.

They don’t say:

You look old.

They say:

Invest in yourself.

Prioritize wellness.

Age intentionally.

Be your best self.

Glow from within.

Translation:

Buy this cream.

Book this treatment.

Try this injection.

Order this supplement.

And for an additional $89.99, apparently you can become the woman you were always meant to be.

Please.

This is why I have become fascinated by Pamela Anderson. Yep, that Pam…the one from Baywatch.

A few months ago, I saw a photo of her at an event with barely any makeup on.

People were carrying on like she had shown up barefoot at the Met Gala.

I looked at the picture and thought:

She looks fabulous.

Healthy skin.

Bright eyes.

Beautiful smile.

And the outfit?

The bomb.

Classic.

Timeless.

Elegant.

Then I read that she had basically decided she was not interested in competing with 30-year-old women on the red carpet.

And I thought:

Now THAT is grown-woman energy.

Because why are women of every age competing in the same beauty contest anyway?

Why does a 55-year-old woman need to look 35?

Why does a 65-year-old woman need to prove she can still “turn heads”?

Why does every stage of a woman’s life come with another damn performance review?

At what point do we get to say:

I am living my life.

I like my face.

I like my body.

Some days I look fabulous.

Some days I look tired.

Some days I am glowing.

Some days I need concealer and prayer.

And all of it is fine.

Maybe that is the real goal.

Not “aging well.”

Not “looking younger.”

Not keeping up with Halle, J.Lo, Salma, or anybody else.

Maybe the goal is reaching the age where you finally stop giving a damn who is grading you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go do my morning routine. Today, it is going to be: splash my face with cold water, brush my teeth…and enjoy my vacation!

Frankly Speaking,
Adrienne P. Whitaker

09/09/2026

Sometimes We Are Wrong for All the Right Reasons. I recently found out something about Richmond history that made me rethink an opinion I had held for years.

If you lived in Richmond during the Richmond Braves era, you probably remember Connecticut — the enormous Native American figure who looked down from the roof of The Diamond for decades.

When he eventually disappeared, I assumed I knew why.

I thought Connecticut had been removed because people had finally recognized that using a Native American as a baseball mascot was inappropriate.

And frankly, I agreed.

Take him down.

Except there was one problem.

I had the story wrong.

Connecticut was not created as the Richmond Braves mascot.

Richmond sculptor Paul DiPasquale created the sculpture in the early 1980s, and it was first displayed at a Best Products store in the Washington area. After leadership at Best changed, much of the company’s art collection went to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, and Connecticut was returned to DiPasquale.

He was later encouraged to place the sculpture at Richmond’s new baseball stadium.

That is how Connecticut came to The Diamond.

Richmond then did what Richmond does.

We adopted him.

Over time, he became so closely associated with the Richmond Braves that many of us — including me — simply assumed that was what he had always been intended to be.

It wasn’t.

And when Connecticut was later installed atop the Lucky Strike building in 2010, after the Braves had already left Richmond, Chief Chapman gave the sculpture a meaning I had never heard before:

“Connecticut declares Indian Territory. We are still here!”

That stopped me.

Because I had interpreted the same sculpture as an outdated Native American baseball mascot.

Someone else understood it as a declaration of Native presence and survival.

Same sculpture.

Very different meaning.

And that got me thinking.

How many of our opinions are actually formed this way?

Sometimes we form them based on facts.

Sometimes we form them based on history.

Sometimes we form them based on misinformation.

But very often, we form them based on what something looks like to us.

Our experiences.

Our assumptions.

Our politics.

Our culture.

Our biases.

The information available to us at the time.

And sometimes we can have perfectly understandable reasons for believing something…

and still be wrong.

What interests me most about Connecticut now is not whether my original opinion was politically correct or politically incorrect.

It is how confidently I reached it without knowing the history.

I saw a giant Native American figure associated with a baseball team and filled in the rest of the story myself.

And I never stopped to ask whether the meaning I assigned to it was actually the meaning it had.

There is another fascinating piece of timing.

Connecticut was removed from the Lucky Strike building in January 2019 because years of exposure had deteriorated the sculpture and it needed restoration.

Just over a year later, America entered the summer of 2020.

George Floyd.

A national racial reckoning.

Confederate monuments coming down across Richmond.

Enormous debates over history, symbols, public spaces and who gets represented in them.

Imagine if Connecticut had been removed then.

Knowing what I believed at the time, I probably would have viewed his removal through that lens.

So would a lot of other people.

Some would have celebrated it.

Some would have condemned it.

Someone would have called it “woke.”

Someone else would have called it offensive.

And social media would have done what social media does.

All while missing one fairly important fact:

That wasn’t why he came down.

He came down because he needed repair.

That is the lesson in this for me.

Maybe before we decide what something means, we should spend a little more time learning what it actually is.

Before we defend it.

Before we condemn it.

Before we share the meme.

Before we repeat the headline.

Before we choose our side.

And most importantly, when new information tells us that something we believed was wrong, we should be willing to say:

I didn’t know that. I was wrong.

I was wrong about Connecticut.

And now that I know more of the story, I have a different question.

Connecticut has reportedly remained in storage since 2019 awaiting the repair and restoration necessary for him to return to public display.

So perhaps instead of arguing about whether Richmond should have taken him down…

we should be asking whether it is time to restore him and put him back above the city.

Because sometimes learning the history doesn’t just change your opinion.

It changes the question.

Frankly Speaking,
Adrienne P. Whitaker

09/09/2026

What Dolly Parton Taught Us About Allyship

Over the last few days, I have watched something interesting happen in Black America.

As people have reflected on the life of Dolly Parton, many of us have also been reflecting on why this white woman from the mountains of East Tennessee held such a special place in our hearts.

And I think I know why.

Dolly Parton showed us what a real ally can look like.

Not performative.

Not constantly announcing that she was an ally.

Not trying to use all the right words.

She simply seemed determined to be a decent human being.

She believed people deserved to be treated with kindness and dignity. She wasn’t particularly interested in judging people for being Black, gay, transgender, poor, different — or really anything else.

She just led with love.

And perhaps that is why I have seen so many Black folks jokingly — but sincerely — declare this week that Dolly Parton was one of our favorite white people.

Because when you strip away all of the terminology around diversity, equity, inclusion and belonging, what are we really talking about?

People wanting to be seen.

People wanting to be valued.

People wanting to be respected.

People wanting to know that they matter.

Dolly seemed to understand that without needing a seminar to explain it to her.

And there was something especially notable about that coming from a Southern woman born into poverty in Appalachia — someone who could easily have absorbed some of the prejudices of her time and place but instead built a life and public persona around generosity, acceptance and kindness.

So yesterday, when I hosted our annual cookout at my home, I decided dessert would be our little tribute to Aunt Dolly.

And let me tell you, we ate well.

We had ribs from Buz and Ned’s, fish from Mama J's, gumbo prepared by my cousin Kevin, and enough side dishes coming out of my kitchen to make sure nobody went home hungry.

Then came dessert.

I recently learned that Dolly had her own peach cobbler, so I ordered several through Instacart from Publix.

I had never tried it before.

Y’all.

It was DELICIOUS.

I combined them in one big aluminum pan, baked them according to the directions and served the cobbler warm, à la mode, with vanilla bean ice cream.

And every spoonful tasted like sweetness, comfort and home.

Which, when I thought about it, seemed pretty appropriate.

Because maybe Dolly’s greatest gift wasn’t simply that she made extraordinary music.

Maybe it was that she spent 80 years demonstrating something remarkably ordinary that we still seem to have trouble getting right:

Be kind to people.
Respect people.
Help when you can.
Don’t spend your life deciding who is worthy of your humanity.

Sometimes allyship really can be that simple.

So here’s to Aunt Dolly.

And if you’re looking for your own little way to celebrate her, I highly recommend starting with the peach cobbler.

Add a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream.

Trust me on this one. ❤️

Frankly Speaking,
Adrienne P. Whitaker

09/09/2026

Yesterday, Virginia removed the last three state-owned Confederate statues from Capitol Square in Richmond.

Watching them come down brought back something I had not thought about in a while.

Because I have two very personal connections to this history.

The first goes back to the early 1980s.

I had moved to Virginia from California and was attending Lake Taylor High School in Norfolk. I opened my Virginia history textbook and immediately noticed something.

The history I was reading was different from the history I had been taught in California.

I took the book home and showed my parents.

They saw what I was seeing and encouraged me to raise it with my teacher.

So I did.

My teacher did not dismiss me. She told me I was right.

Then she challenged me:

Find out why.

So I did.

That question sent me down one of the first historical rabbit holes of my life.

I learned about the United Daughters of the Confederacy and the broader movement that worked for decades to preserve and promote a romanticized version of the Confederate South.

They did not simply help erect monuments.

They helped shape memory.

They promoted a version of history in which the Confederacy was noble, slavery was softened or minimized, and generations of Southern children were taught to view the antebellum South through a lens of honor, heritage and gallantry rather than through the reality of human bo***ge.

And versions of that history remained in Southern classrooms well into the 1970s and, in some places, into the 1980s.

A couple of years later, I wrote an essay about the UDC, its revisionist movement and the impact that movement continued to have on the South.

That essay went on to win a national award.

So when people tell me Confederate monuments are simply “history,” I understand exactly why that argument troubles me.

The statues themselves are part of that revisionist history.

They helped romanticize one of the most brutal chapters in the American story — a racial order built through generations of enslavement and then reinforced through Jim Crow, disenfranchisement, racial violence and legally enforced inequality.

And for generations of Black Americans, those monuments standing in some of the most prestigious civic spaces in the South carried another message.

Remember your place.

And that is important because messages like that do more than tell people where they stand in a social hierarchy.

They shape dreams.

They shape aspirations.

They shape what children believe is possible for them and what adults come to accept as the natural order of things.

When monuments to Confederate leaders tower over courthouses, capitol grounds and major boulevards, they are not simply telling us who came before us.

They are telling us who was worthy of honor.

And, just as importantly, who was expected to remain beneath them.

Because a monument is not merely a record that someone existed.

A history book records history.

A museum preserves history.

An archive documents history.

A monument honors.

And when Confederate leaders were placed on pedestals towering above courthouse squares, capitol grounds and major boulevards, society was making a very deliberate statement about who deserved to be elevated and remembered with reverence.

My second personal connection came in 2020.

Shortly before one of Richmond’s Confederate monuments came down, my phone rang.

I won’t say who called me.

And I won’t say exactly why.

But someone needed the answer to a rather obscure historical question.

And for once, my lifelong tendency to research things nobody asked me to research and remember completely random pieces of information came in handy.

I knew the answer.

It was probably no more than an hour or so before the monument came down.

So I have always had this tiny, unusual connection to that moment in Richmond history.

And now, six years later, I am watching many of the same arguments unfold as the final state-owned Confederate statues leave Capitol Square.

I understand the frustration of people who say:

Why spend money removing statues when children need better schools?

When people need housing?

When families are struggling with food, health care, gas and everyday affordability?

Those concerns are legitimate.

But I reject the premise that we must choose between them.

Do I believe Virginia should address housing affordability?

Absolutely.

Do I believe we should invest in education and close disparities?

Absolutely.

Do I believe leaders should be focused on the cost of living and the economic pressures facing families?

Absolutely.

And do I believe Confederate monuments should continue to be removed from places of public honor?

Absolutely.

We can do both.

Government is capable of doing more than one thing at a time.

We can work to make housing more affordable.

We can improve schools.

We can strengthen communities.

And we can also decide that our most prominent public spaces should not continue honoring a government created in defense of slavery.

We can walk and chew gum at the same time.

And perhaps there is something fitting about where this story began for me.

A teenager noticed that something in her history book did not quite add up.

Her parents told her to question it.

Her teacher told her she was right.

And then the teacher gave her an assignment that stayed with her:

Find out why.

I still think that may be some of the best advice we can give when we argue about history.

Don’t erase it.

Don’t romanticize it.

Don’t be afraid of it.

Find out why.

And then tell the whole story.

Frankly Speaking,

Adrienne P. Whitaker

09/09/2026

Yesterday, Donald Trump signed an executive order renaming Lake Ontario “Lake America.” And while signing it, he said:

“So if you think about it, we have a gulf and we have a lake. Now all we need is an ocean.”

I rolled my eyes and changed the channel.

Because at this point, I truly do not give a damn what we call the Gulf of Mexico, Lake Ontario, the Atlantic Ocean, or a building in Washington.

I do not care if he paints the Reflecting Pool blue. Green. Polka-dotted.

I do not care if he regilds statues in D.C. with 23.75-karat gold leaf.

And I do not give two hoots whose name is on the side of a building.

Whatever.

What bothers me is not the naming, changing, or embellishing.

It is the distraction.

And I increasingly believe that is exactly what much of this is: very public, very expensive distraction from the things Americans are actually worried about.

Because while we are debating what to call a lake, millions of Americans are trying to figure out what they can afford to put on the dinner table.

While we are arguing about names on buildings, families are sitting on waiting lists hoping somebody calls to tell them an affordable apartment has finally become available.

While we shake our heads over a blue Reflecting Pool and gold statues, people are delaying healthcare because they cannot afford it.

Teachers are buying classroom supplies with their own money because their schools cannot provide enough.

Parents are deciding which bill gets paid this month and which one has to wait.

And more than four in ten American households do not earn enough to cover the basic cost of living where they live.

That is an affordability crisis.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized Donald Trump is not the only person I should be looking at.

I should probably look in the mirror too.

Because I am comfortable.

I sit on my sofa, pick up my iPad, order whatever groceries I want for the week and have somebody bring them to my door. And for that convenience, I add a tip.

I may complain about how much groceries cost, but I am not standing in the grocery store putting things back because I cannot afford them.

Meanwhile, somewhere not very far from me, another family is standing in a food distribution line hoping there will still be enough when they get to the front.

I have a roof over my head.

Someone else is adding their name to an affordable housing waiting list.

I can make a doctor’s appointment when I need one.

Someone else is sitting in an emergency room because they could not afford routine medical care.

And while those of us who are comfortable sit back and shake our heads at the spectacle in Washington, our fellow Americans are struggling.

Maybe that is the bigger problem.

Maybe we have become spectators.

We laugh.

We share the memes.

We argue in comment sections.

We roll our eyes.

Then we change the channel and go back to our lives.

A hungry child does not care what we call Lake Ontario.

A mother worried about eviction does not care whether the Reflecting Pool is blue, green, or polka-dotted.

A teacher spending her own paycheck on pencils and paper does not care whose name is on a building in Washington.

And somebody choosing between medicine and groceries certainly does not care what we name the Atlantic Ocean.

So yes, I will probably continue to laugh at some of the absurdity because, Lord knows, some of this stuff is ridiculous.

But I am becoming much less interested in the circus and much more interested in the people outside the tent.

Quite frankly, it isn’t new for America to seize land, property, or even bodies of water—by force, by treaty, and now, apparently, by executive order.

Taking has been part of the American story since the first Europeans arrived.

Take. Take. And keep on taking.

That has been woven into the American story for centuries.

That is the long, hard truth.

But today, America’s biggest problem isn’t what we are calling things.

It is what we are willing to ignore.

Frankly Speaking,

Adrienne P. Whitaker

09/09/2026

Another HBCU is, for all practical purposes, closing its doors. And I think we need to have a serious conversation about what that means. Saint Augustine’s University in Raleigh was founded in 1867, just two years after the end of the Civil War. This fall, for the first time in nearly 160 years, there will be no students returning to classes.

The university filed for bankruptcy in April with approximately $74 million in debt. It had hoped to continue through online certificates and nondegree programs while reorganizing, but those plans have now been suspended.

That is heartbreaking.

But I don’t think the right response is simply to say, “We have to save our HBCUs.”

I think we have to ask a harder question:

What will it take for HBCUs to survive — and remain relevant — for another 100 years?

I ask that question as someone with a very personal connection to these institutions.

I formerly served as Vice President for Institutional Advancement at Virginia State University and previously served on the Foundation Board of Norfolk State University.

My father graduated from Fisk University before earning two additional degrees from predominantly white institutions. Many members of my family attended Florida A&M University — for three generations.

And today, I am a donor to both Virginia State University and Virginia Union University.

So I have skin in this game.

I want HBCUs to thrive.

But loving an institution also means being willing to ask difficult questions about its future.

HBCUs were created because Black Americans needed them.

After slavery, millions of newly freed Black Americans were denied access to most existing colleges and universities. HBCUs educated generations of teachers, doctors, lawyers, ministers, scientists, business leaders and public servants when much of American higher education either excluded Black students entirely or severely restricted their access.

Their contribution to the development of the Black middle class cannot be overstated.

But the world in which HBCUs operate today is fundamentally different.

Our ancestors needed HBCUs because, in many cases, they had nowhere else to go.

Our youth must choose HBCUs when they can go almost anywhere.

That is a very different competitive environment.

And this is where the current picture gets interesting.

Because while Saint Augustine’s is fighting for its existence, other HBCUs are growing, raising significant money, expanding research and completely rethinking who their students can be.

Virginia State University has grown enrollment, achieved Carnegie R2 research status and received a $50 million gift from MacKenzie Scott — the largest single gift in the university’s history.

Norfolk State University has built nationally recognized expertise in cybersecurity and other workforce-driven fields.
Florida A&M University is pursuing Carnegie R1 research status while expanding research, graduate education, engineering, health sciences and other high-demand programs.

And Fisk University, my father’s alma mater, is pursuing an ambitious long-term campus plan that includes major investments in technology, research and innovation.

These institutions are not simply saying:

“Preserve us because we are historic.”

They are asking:

What do we need to become next?

Here in Richmond, Virginia Union University may be one of the most interesting examples.

VUU reports enrollment above 2,000 students, including more than 600 graduate students, and has added nine new master’s degree programs aligned with workforce demand.

At a meeting I attended last week, university leadership also shared that VUU is expanding into associate degree offerings as well as undergraduate and graduate certificate programs.

Think about what that means.

The future VUU student does not necessarily have to be an 18-year-old coming to Richmond for a traditional four-year degree.

It can be the adult changing careers.

The working professional who needs a new credential.

The student who begins with an associate degree.

The graduate who returns years later for another certificate or degree.

That is not abandoning the historic mission.

That is finding new ways to deliver it.

But institutions cannot do this alone.

One of the most important things I learned while working in institutional advancement at Virginia State is that HBCU alumni pride does not always translate into HBCU philanthropy.

We are very good at saying:

“I love my HBCU.”

But love alone does not pay professors, fund scholarships, repair buildings or build endowments.

At some point, “I love my HBCU” has to become:

“I give to my HBCU.”

If we truly believe these institutions are essential, then alumni and supporters have to help finance their future.

And that may be one of the hardest parts of this conversation.

Because the future of HBCUs is not solely about presidents, boards, accreditors or state legislatures.

It is also about us.

Still, alumni giving alone will not save an institution without a sustainable strategy.

History cannot pay faculty.

Tradition cannot balance a budget.

Alumni pride cannot replace enrollment.

And a glorious legacy does not automatically create a sustainable business model.

Every HBCU does not have to become Howard, FAMU or North Carolina A&T.

But I do believe every HBCU has to answer one question:

Why should a student choose us in 2026?

One university may answer that through STEM.

Another through teacher education.

Healthcare.

Cybersecurity.

Agriculture.

Research.

The arts.

Entrepreneurship.

Adult education.

Online learning.

Workforce credentials.

Or by becoming the institution that gives students who were overlooked elsewhere an extraordinary pathway into the middle class.

There is still tremendous value in the HBCU experience — culturally, academically, socially and historically.

But preserving the mission does not require preserving every practice, every program or every institutional model exactly as it existed 50 years ago.

In fact, trying to do that may be the fastest way to lose some of these institutions altogether.

Saint Augustine’s does not prove that HBCUs have become irrelevant.

The success of institutions like Virginia State, FAMU and others tells us just the opposite.

What Saint Augustine’s reminds us is something much more uncomfortable:

History can explain why an institution deserves to be remembered. It cannot, by itself, guarantee that institution a future.

And those of us who love them, who have benefited from them, owe them our time, talent and treasure.

Frankly Speaking,
Adrienne P. Whitaker

Frankly Speaking with Adrienne P. Whitaker

09/09/2026

09/09/2026

09/09/2026

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