HBCU homecoming season is here and the timelines are filled with pictures of people on their respective yards. This year I celebrated my tenth class reunion and was excited to hit the yard and hug people I haven’t seen in years. I was also stressed over the weekend itinerary.
In 2026 you can’t stumble into the time of your life. Setting up your party schedule feels like registering for class. Set an alarm. Refresh the page. Secure your spot. Send the confirmation to the group chat. Repeat for the next event.
As a result, homecoming felt less like a family reunion and more like a lineup for your favorite festival.
I first fell in love with Howard during my freshman homecoming in 2012. At Yardfest, I watched performers encompass range of the diaspora with performances by Meek Mill from Philly, Beenie Man by way of the Caribbean, and T.I. from the South. Everyone erupted when Drake appeared in that Howard sweatshirt. Every night that weekend, my friends and I bounced from basement to house parties, following the music and the people we knew. Back then, the possibilities were endless and we enjoyed every moment riding the wave of discovery.
That freedom was magic. Now, we’re trying to bottle up HBCU culture and sell it at the latest club after party. You need a Partiful RSVP, an Eventbrite ticket, a screenshot of your Eventnoire confirmation and, perhaps, a wristband that gets the first 100 guests into a special section. This doesn’t even include having to watch for early ticket drops and coordinating with the group chat weeks in advance. While this culture feels instinctive for current students, it’s off-putting to alumni at their homecomings from Howard to Delaware State and Spelman.
What felt most like home to me was running into former classmates who could remember and relate to our time as Howard undergraduates. We got to reminisce on our dorms with no air conditioning, admired the fashions that represent the full range of Blackness, sang sorority songs on our plot, and narrowly avoided the extended hugs from exes.
That is what a true homecoming experience feels like for me.
And it’s why the RSVP culture feels like the epitome of losing the plot. HBCUs have always nurtured entrepreneurs and high standards for events. As inflation and the cost of living rises, I understand events need higher priced tickets. Along with RSVPs, they allow organizers to understand party capacity and plan accordingly. I also believe party promoters deserve to earn money from the experiences they create and the work they put into creating these experiences.
But it gets to a point. When event listings warn that a ticket does not guarantee entry, what kind of experience are we actually creating? When alumni need an additional $300–$500 to celebrate, we’re past the point of nostalgia.
Two years ago my line sisters and I celebrated our tenth anniversary. We pooled our money for tables at a prominent party. We arrived but couldn’t find our seats—or get a straight answer from the promoters about where we were supposed to go. We planned and paid to celebrate together, only to spend part of the night chasing down something we’d already bought. Something that, in another industry or context, was already ours.
We aren’t the only ones with a story like that. My group chats trade warnings about packed venues, elusive promoters, and parties that’re only fun from 12-1:30. Some party promoters resemble scammers more than classmates. Just like with blood family, misleading alumni of your school represents a betrayal of trust.
I’m grateful for the people putting real work into events that bring us together. But I don’t want HBCU students and alumni to accept a weekend where promoters prioritize access over connection and treat us like customers instead of cherished family.
Of course homecoming has evolved as everything does. I’ve changed, too. I no longer expect to party the way I did at 19; it’s why I even entertain paying for a party in the first place. I need somewhere to sit and a bottle that’s all mine. I am also too old to fight over invisible seats at a party. Too busy to sit around my phone and refresh the link. Too knowledgeable to believe all of this will lead to a good time.
But I’ll never be too old to come home. This year, I took a picture with my father, a fellow Bison, celebrating over thirty years as a Bison and he reminded me why alumni take the trip across the country to celebrate at our respective yards.
The magic existed simply because we did.
May we return to that magic. Because if nothing else, jumping through all these hoops reminded me that no promoter can buy, bottle, or repackage our magic.