Charity Jones
Charity Jones
Who Gets to Belong? Black Elitism and Sisterhood at Spelman
Who Gets to Belong? Black Elitism and Sisterhood at Spelman
“Let her first steps be toward Spelman” is a message whispered in many of our ears the day we receive the acceptance letter. But for some of our sisters, they heard it before anything else. It was woven into childhood, passed down at dinner tables and preserved in family photographs beneath the arch long before they ever packed for New Student Orientation (NSO).
Arrival that first week feels like a dream for most of us, but it does not take long to realize that sisterhood is vast—in history, in familiarity, in access. Some of us were taught what it meant to be a Spelman woman lifetimes before others. Others discovered it through social media and application portals, shaping its meaning in real time.
Outside the gates, we know the world was not built for Black women. Stepping onto Spelman’s campus can feel like arrival—the beginning of success—until, as Jay-Z suggests in “The Story of OJ,” you realize the terms of that success were never yours to set. But what happens when the terms of success feel closer to home than you expected? When the standards aren’t dictated by whiteness, but quietly shaped by Black prestige, polish and lineage? When the language of belonging begins to sound less like exclusion from the outside—and more like expectations set by your sister? Spelman is often celebrated as a sanctuary for Black women, and rightly so, but what happens when excellence begins to mirror exclusivity?
Black excellence has long been both an aspiration and expectation, but Black academic excellence took institutional form with the founding of HBCUs in the 1860s. In the aftermath of emancipation, education was framed not only as empowerment but as proof that Black people were worthy of citizenship, leadership and mutual authority.
Leaders such as Morehouse alumnus Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. echoed this belief, viewing education as a vehicle for racial uplift and moral legitimacy.
To be young, gifted and Black was never only about intellect. It required presentation. Excellence had to be visible and unimpeachable. What began as a defensive strategy under white surveillance—respectability politics—gradually evolved into an internal standard of distinction, separating the “respectable” from those deemed liabilities to collective progress.
Dr. Andrea Lewis, Class of 1996 and Director of the Student Success Program, remembers her first experience of Spelman sisterhood as grounded not in respectability, but in belonging. She recalls former Spelman College President Dr. Johnetta Betsch Cole telling students to “look out for your sister, and make sure she’s with you at the end.”
It was not about proving you belonged—belonging was assumed, and prestige was found in your tribe; today, belonging itself can feel like something to prove.
That version of belonging has helped sustain what feels like a Spelman monolith—the assumption that all Spelman women arrive equally prepared, equally connected and equally positioned to succeed—as if all have been crafted for success, beautifully and gracefully.
Lisa Simpson, Class of 1990, does not remember questioning whether she belonged.
“I wasn’t thinking about belonging, I was thinking about sisterhood," she said.
In that early immersion, prestige was rooted in proximity to one another, and belonging was treated as an inherent communal fact rather than a personal achievement.
But belonging, even when assumed, is not always evenly experienced. D’Airra Wyatt, Class of 2027 and a Washington D.C. native, arrived at Spelman already familiar with the language of Black excellence. Attending a predominantly Black private school had shown her what belonging alongside academic achievement could look like.
However, NSO Week, she recalls watching some of her peers form what seemed like lifelong bonds almost instantly.
It became clear that students were not only raised differently, but often within different class structures—structures that had always existed, yet were easier to recognize at Spelman. Inclusivity was something Wyatt was used to. However, at Spelman, she began to question whether all first-year students found sisterhood with the same ease.
Conversely, Avery Simpson, Class of 2027 and a Washington D.C. native, arrived at Spelman with multigenerational ties that stretched well beyond her own acceptance letter. The daughter of Lisa Simpson, and younger sister of a recent alumna, Simpson entered with inherited knowledge—stories, expectations and a familiarity with campus rhythms.
Yet, even with that foundation, there were moments of recalibration.
She recalls showing up for an interview with a mentorship organization in a sundress and Converses, only to look down the hall and see other candidates dressed in all-black business-casual attire.
Those interviewing her saw potential beyond presentation, but the lesson was clear: polish often shapes perception. Legacy and lineage provide access and often inform notions of “proper” preparation, but do not always eliminate the need for adjustment.
Though Spelman is a blessing, the differences between sisters are often visible, especially in conversations regarding financial aid, internships and institutional support.
Wyatt landed her first internship as a congressional intern at the Georgia State Capitol, a milestone that also revealed a deeper truth: the Spelman monolith does not exist. Prestige and legacy do not circulate evenly.
Some students enter rooms already fluent in the language of access, asking themselves, “Who do I know?” Others are still seeking their first contact.
Avery Simpson acknowledges that network matters. Having people to call—people who answer—changes how accessible opportunities feel. Not every student moves through Spelman with the same social or financial cushion.
For some, institutional support feels limited. The accessibility of aid can appear tied to what is legible on paper—resume, titles, polish—rather than to lived experience or quiet resilience.
When the administration evaluates merit, what weighs more heavily—documented achievement, or the context that shaped it?
Lewis is clear that the Student Success Program’s work must be intentional. Programs like “Through the Gates” were built with awareness that students do not all arrive with the same networks, familiarity with Spelman, or socioeconomic standing.
Over the years, Lewis has watched students who entered at vastly different starting points walk across the stage together. The goal, she insists, is not to erase difference, but to close the gaps difference can create.
Avery Simpson offers a parallel reflection.
“The only elite thing about us is that we go to the #1 school—period,” she said.
Beyond that, she believes Spelman gathers women from every corner of Black life, revealing just how expansive and varied Blackness truly is.
Perhaps that is both a source of tension and an opportunity to honor the full diversity of Black womanhood. Prestige may open the gates for some, but it is drive and diversity that determine who walks through together.
Lisa Simpson acknowledged that there is a fine line between excellence and elitism. Standards matter, but so does accessibility. When the bar feels unreachable, some women do not rise to meet it; they simply step back. They opt out of leadership, of queenship, of organizations—not for lack of ability, but for fear of inadequacy.
We often do not grasp Spelman's depth until we leave. However, the gift is only meaningful if it can be properly received. As application numbers rise and prestige expands, the question is not whether Spelman is exceptional—it is whether every exceptional Black girl yearning for sisterhood feels invited to claim it. Not because she lacks drive, but because she does not always see herself reflected in the image of who belongs.
We are creating our own legacy the moment we enter these gates. What we inherit should not be guarded, but expanded. To love your legacy is to want others to experience it too.
Lewis believes the work of closing those gaps is ongoing. Programs evolve and support structures adjust, but the intention remains the same: that students who enter from different starting points finish side by side.
Black excellence does not live in lineage or polish alone—it lives in the sister beside you, fluent or still learning.
“Let her first steps be toward Spelman” is a message whispered in many of our ears the day we receive the acceptance letter. But for some of our sisters, they heard it before anything else. It was woven into childhood, passed down at dinner tables and preserved in family photographs beneath the arch long before they ever packed for New Student Orientation (NSO).
Arrival that first week feels like a dream for most of us, but it does not take long to realize that sisterhood is vast—in history, in familiarity, in access. Some of us were taught what it meant to be a Spelman woman lifetimes before others. Others discovered it through social media and application portals, shaping its meaning in real time.
Outside the gates, we know the world was not built for Black women. Stepping onto Spelman’s campus can feel like arrival—the beginning of success—until, as Jay-Z suggests in “The Story of OJ,” you realize the terms of that success were never yours to set. But what happens when the terms of success feel closer to home than you expected? When the standards aren’t dictated by whiteness, but quietly shaped by Black prestige, polish and lineage? When the language of belonging begins to sound less like exclusion from the outside—and more like expectations set by your sister? Spelman is often celebrated as a sanctuary for Black women, and rightly so, but what happens when excellence begins to mirror exclusivity?
Black excellence has long been both an aspiration and expectation, but Black academic excellence took institutional form with the founding of HBCUs in the 1860s. In the aftermath of emancipation, education was framed not only as empowerment but as proof that Black people were worthy of citizenship, leadership and mutual authority.
Leaders such as Morehouse alumnus Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. echoed this belief, viewing education as a vehicle for racial uplift and moral legitimacy.
To be young, gifted and Black was never only about intellect. It required presentation. Excellence had to be visible and unimpeachable. What began as a defensive strategy under white surveillance—respectability politics—gradually evolved into an internal standard of distinction, separating the “respectable” from those deemed liabilities to collective progress.
Dr. Andrea Lewis, Class of 1996 and Director of the Student Success Program, remembers her first experience of Spelman sisterhood as grounded not in respectability, but in belonging. She recalls former Spelman College President Dr. Johnetta Betsch Cole telling students to “look out for your sister, and make sure she’s with you at the end.”
It was not about proving you belonged—belonging was assumed, and prestige was found in your tribe; today, belonging itself can feel like something to prove.
That version of belonging has helped sustain what feels like a Spelman monolith—the assumption that all Spelman women arrive equally prepared, equally connected and equally positioned to succeed—as if all have been crafted for success, beautifully and gracefully.
Lisa Simpson, Class of 1990, does not remember questioning whether she belonged.
“I wasn’t thinking about belonging, I was thinking about sisterhood," she said.
In that early immersion, prestige was rooted in proximity to one another, and belonging was treated as an inherent communal fact rather than a personal achievement.
But belonging, even when assumed, is not always evenly experienced. D’Airra Wyatt, Class of 2027 and a Washington D.C. native, arrived at Spelman already familiar with the language of Black excellence. Attending a predominantly Black private school had shown her what belonging alongside academic achievement could look like.
However, NSO Week, she recalls watching some of her peers form what seemed like lifelong bonds almost instantly.
It became clear that students were not only raised differently, but often within different class structures—structures that had always existed, yet were easier to recognize at Spelman. Inclusivity was something Wyatt was used to. However, at Spelman, she began to question whether all first-year students found sisterhood with the same ease.
Conversely, Avery Simpson, Class of 2027 and a Washington D.C. native, arrived at Spelman with multigenerational ties that stretched well beyond her own acceptance letter. The daughter of Lisa Simpson, and younger sister of a recent alumna, Simpson entered with inherited knowledge—stories, expectations and a familiarity with campus rhythms.
Yet, even with that foundation, there were moments of recalibration.
She recalls showing up for an interview with a mentorship organization in a sundress and Converses, only to look down the hall and see other candidates dressed in all-black business-casual attire.
Those interviewing her saw potential beyond presentation, but the lesson was clear: polish often shapes perception. Legacy and lineage provide access and often inform notions of “proper” preparation, but do not always eliminate the need for adjustment.
Though Spelman is a blessing, the differences between sisters are often visible, especially in conversations regarding financial aid, internships and institutional support.
Wyatt landed her first internship as a congressional intern at the Georgia State Capitol, a milestone that also revealed a deeper truth: the Spelman monolith does not exist. Prestige and legacy do not circulate evenly.
Some students enter rooms already fluent in the language of access, asking themselves, “Who do I know?” Others are still seeking their first contact.
Avery Simpson acknowledges that network matters. Having people to call—people who answer—changes how accessible opportunities feel. Not every student moves through Spelman with the same social or financial cushion.
For some, institutional support feels limited. The accessibility of aid can appear tied to what is legible on paper—resume, titles, polish—rather than to lived experience or quiet resilience.
When the administration evaluates merit, what weighs more heavily—documented achievement, or the context that shaped it?
Lewis is clear that the Student Success Program’s work must be intentional. Programs like “Through the Gates” were built with awareness that students do not all arrive with the same networks, familiarity with Spelman, or socioeconomic standing.
Over the years, Lewis has watched students who entered at vastly different starting points walk across the stage together. The goal, she insists, is not to erase difference, but to close the gaps difference can create.
Avery Simpson offers a parallel reflection.
“The only elite thing about us is that we go to the #1 school—period,” she said.
Beyond that, she believes Spelman gathers women from every corner of Black life, revealing just how expansive and varied Blackness truly is.
Perhaps that is both a source of tension and an opportunity to honor the full diversity of Black womanhood. Prestige may open the gates for some, but it is drive and diversity that determine who walks through together.
Lisa Simpson acknowledged that there is a fine line between excellence and elitism. Standards matter, but so does accessibility. When the bar feels unreachable, some women do not rise to meet it; they simply step back. They opt out of leadership, of queenship, of organizations—not for lack of ability, but for fear of inadequacy.
We often do not grasp Spelman's depth until we leave. However, the gift is only meaningful if it can be properly received. As application numbers rise and prestige expands, the question is not whether Spelman is exceptional—it is whether every exceptional Black girl yearning for sisterhood feels invited to claim it. Not because she lacks drive, but because she does not always see herself reflected in the image of who belongs.
We are creating our own legacy the moment we enter these gates. What we inherit should not be guarded, but expanded. To love your legacy is to want others to experience it too.
Lewis believes the work of closing those gaps is ongoing. Programs evolve and support structures adjust, but the intention remains the same: that students who enter from different starting points finish side by side.
Black excellence does not live in lineage or polish alone—it lives in the sister beside you, fluent or still learning.