Black Student-Athlete Collective Second Annual Black History Month Poetry Night
2/27/2026
I walked into theMcLain Pavilion for Well-Being, excited about the moments and memories the Black Student-Athlete Collective would have that night. As I prepare the night with one of First Friday's poets, J Smooth, who came early because finding the Pavilion was a journey in itself for the Philadelphian, different before the program even began.
This was our 2nd Annual Black History Month Poetry Night, a collaboration with First Friday Poetry from Philadelphia, BSAC, the Black Student-Athlete Collective, and Tigers Together. This event was an offering. It was intention made visible.
Serving as the liaison to the Black Student-Athlete Collective, I have come to understand the beauty of wanting to hold space. Not control it. Not dominate it. Not perform inside of it. Just hold it steady, open, and sacred.
There is something powerful about student-athletes collaborating with the community to curate a space allow for creative ways to bring vulnerability. That their voices matter beyond what is seen. There is excitement around creating rooms where they can remove the armor.
And that night, they did.
Football players. Rugby players. Basketball players. Bodies built for contact stepped to the microphone and chose tenderness. Chose memory. Chose truth. I listened as I saw teammates who once had only seen each other in practice and in game shift to speech that spoke about family, faith, fear, joy, and survival. I heard the tremble in a voice that had never trembled on the field. I saw courage that looked different from the competition.
Then the poets from First Friday in Philadelphia spoke seasoned, grounded, carrying the rhythm of the city in their cadence. Their words lived. They stretched across generations. They reminded us that poetry has always been one of our survival tools from hush harbors to hip-hop, from church pews to street corners.
The New Mental Health and Wellness Center became a sanctuary. It became a place where “I’m good” turned into “I’m healing.” Where silence broke open into testimony. Where the subtle “mmm” and “aye” from the audience sounded like ancestral agreement. The claps and snaps were not just applause; they were affirmation. They were witness.
I remember looking around and seeing Princeton students, student-athletes, and community members leaning in, not scrolling, not distracted, but present. Fully present. Bound together by words that seemed to hover in the air long after they were spoken.
Black history was not something we referenced that night. It was something they embodied. It was their transparency. In our religiosity and our rebellion. In our grief and our gratitude. In our decision to gather at all.
For me, the most beautiful part was watching BSAC do what it set out to do: hold space. To create a container where joy could be loud. Where pain could be tender. Where excellence could be expansive.
Holding space is quiet work. It is setting the tone. It is inviting collaboration. It is making sure the mic works and the room feels safe. It is checking on the person who just shared something heavy. It is believed that our stories deserve air.
That night, they did more than host poetry.
They practiced collective care. They practiced courage. They practiced being seen.
And when I left, I did not feel like I had attended something. I felt like I had been part of something, living something rooted in Black history, shaped by all voices.
