Confession time. One of my favorite shows on television is HBO’s “Sex and the City.” I know, I know. But wait guys, don’t revoke my man card just yet – allow me to explain. I’d be willing to guess there are a few other men out there who have snuck a peek or two at the musings of Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte for one reason or another.

I have a running joke amongst friends and family. It’s not fall out of your chair kind of funny, it’s the kind of thing that just sounds believable enough to be possibly true and might make your chuckle a bit. The joke is that on graduation day I plan to shake President Gary Ransdell’s hand and, with the kind of hops former Olympic gymnast Kerri Strug would be proud of, will turn a cartwheel on stage for all to see.

W.E.B. DuBois once said “…through history, the powers of single black men flash here and there like falling stars and die sometimes before the world has rightly gauged their brightness.” I am reminded of these profound words as I think about a call I received one morning from my mother.

I didn’t know any of the three young ladies who died so tragically last week traveling across the highways and byways as so many of us do daily without thinking. Like many other of my fellow Western peers, I only know their names and have seen the sorrow and outpouring of love and support that their untimely passing left behind.