I spoke for a few more minutes about my affection for the school and then, almost without conscious thought, said, “You are, of course, aware that there are very few of us with darker skins at the Chelsea School. That is in part what this meeting is about. I ask you only to consider this as you look back at the education you received at Chelsea. You have received an education that has made you welcome wherever you go. You are no longer just Negro men, black men, what have you. You are Chelsea men. There is no finer imprimatur you can wear.”

At first there was silence, then a thin, brief patter of applause as I sat down. Fox resumed his spot at the lectern without looking at me. He made an appeal for donations and applications from those interested, and then the floor was opened to questions. There was a short pause and then a tall, dark-skinned man, neatly groomed, stood up. I recognized him immediately, though his name escaped me—Darrell maybe?—something like that. He had attended Chelsea about fifteen years before and had studied Latin briefly though he didn’t make the full two years. He went on to become one of the school rabble-rousers, loudly proclaiming Latin a dead language and declaring the need for classes aimed specifically at Negro students. I remember trying to tell him at the time that he had much to learn from Chelsea and from the ancients, but he would have none of it. After he left my class, I had not thought he would come to much good and was not sad to see him leave the school—though he did make it to graduation. Now, however, he was clearly prosperous. Obviously the values that he so railed against had served him magnificently He seemed to bear out my final words beautifully. His voice, when he began speaking, was clear and resonant.

“My name is Derrick Harper, and I’m pleased to be here, gentlemen. It’s good to see you again,” he said, “and I’m interested to have heard what you all have to say. But I’ve got to say this. When I attended Chelsea fifteen years ago, there were six other black students and one black faculty member—you, Mr. Washington, in fact. Neither of you has indicated that anything has changed in that regard. So as far as I can tell, it’s still a school for white boys, run by white men. If that’s the case, then I’ve got to confess my very strong reservations about it as a place for any son I might someday have. Mr. Washington seems not to share my concerns. I trust that you do, Mr. Fox.”