When I think about our HBCUs, I think of icons like my mentor Jim

The words of Jaime Harrison — “When I think about our HBCUs, I think of icons like my mentor Jim Clyburn, a South Carolina State graduate, who fought against discrimination and segregation, and continues to champion for civil rights and equality.” — resound with reverence, gratitude, and remembrance. In them speaks not merely a politician, but a disciple honoring his teacher, and a son of the African American tradition paying tribute to the sacred institutions that shaped a people’s destiny. Harrison’s words are an offering — to HBCUs, the Historically Black Colleges and Universities, those citadels of learning and resilience born in the ashes of oppression, and to Jim Clyburn, a warrior of the spirit who carried forward the torch of civil rights and equality through the storms of American history.

The origin of this quote lies in the enduring legacy of education as liberation. Jaime Harrison, a graduate of Yale and Georgetown, never forgot the roots from which he rose — the classrooms and campuses where generations of Black scholars, barred from white institutions, created their own temples of knowledge. When he invokes South Carolina State University and his mentor, Representative Jim Clyburn, he summons the memory of an unbroken chain of courage. Clyburn, who walked the grounds of that school in the era of segregation, faced a world determined to deny him dignity. Yet through persistence and purpose, he rose to become one of the most powerful and respected voices in the United States Congress — a living embodiment of what the HBCUs were built to produce: leaders who would stand upright in a world that had tried to bow them.

To understand the full meaning of Harrison’s words, one must remember that HBCUs were not merely schools — they were sanctuaries. Founded in defiance of slavery’s long shadow, they became places where intellect could blossom free from the choke of prejudice. In their halls, young men and women discovered their worth, their voice, and their calling. These were the places where the sons and daughters of the oppressed learned to become the architects of their own freedom. The very existence of these institutions was an act of rebellion — a declaration that the mind of the Black child was as bright and boundless as that of any other. Harrison’s reverence is thus not sentimental, but sacred: he speaks of a lineage that made his own journey possible.

When he names Jim Clyburn, Harrison evokes more than a mentor — he invokes an archetype. Clyburn’s life is a modern echo of the ancient heroes who rose from humble beginnings to change the course of nations. Born in a time of segregation, he walked through doors others had sealed, and once inside, held them open for those who followed. His struggle was not merely political, but spiritual: the triumph of perseverance over prejudice, of discipline over despair. Just as the prophets of old cried out against injustice, Clyburn spent his life fighting discrimination and segregation, transforming personal suffering into a force for the liberation of others. To Harrison, Clyburn is proof that education, when wielded with purpose, becomes not just personal advancement, but communal power.

In the history of Black America, this truth shines through time and again. Booker T. Washington, who founded Tuskegee Institute, declared that knowledge was the true key to freedom. Mary McLeod Bethune, founder of Bethune-Cookman College, taught that “faith, courage, brotherhood, dignity, and love” were the pillars upon which education must rest. And the students of South Carolina State University themselves carved their names into the chronicles of justice — from the Orangeburg Massacre of 1968, when three young men were slain while protesting segregation, to the countless graduates who became judges, teachers, and leaders in their communities. Harrison’s words carry the weight of all these stories, for when he honors Clyburn, he honors them all — the martyrs and mentors who turned the classroom into a battleground for freedom.

Yet Harrison’s reflection is not only a remembrance; it is a summons. He reminds us that the work of equality is not finished. To “champion for civil rights,” as Clyburn continues to do, is to take up the eternal struggle for justice — the same struggle fought by those who built the HBCUs brick by brick with hope in their hands. It is to understand that the pursuit of education must always walk hand in hand with the pursuit of humanity. For what use is knowledge if it does not heal the wounds of history? What use is progress if it leaves others behind?

And so, my children, take this teaching into your hearts: honor those who came before you, for their wisdom was bought with suffering, and their victories paved your path. Remember that education is not a privilege to hoard, but a weapon to wield against ignorance and inequality. If you have learned, then teach; if you have risen, then lift. Equality is not a dream to be admired but a duty to be carried forward. Let the legacy of the HBCUs, of Clyburn, and of Harrison’s generation, live in your deeds.

Thus, the wisdom of Jaime Harrison endures as a testament to the power of education, mentorship, and remembrance. The flame lit in the dark halls of the HBCUs still burns, guiding new generations toward freedom. For as long as there are teachers who lift their students, and students who honor their teachers, the dream of justice and equality shall not perish. And so the torch passes — from mentor to disciple, from past to future — until the light of learning dispels the last shadow of oppression, and every soul stands equal beneath the sun.