Melisande Short-Colomb's dorm room at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., looks like any other. Textbooks and papers are scattered beside a laptop on the desk, while the windowsill is covered in touches of home — bright purple feathers, beads and wooden dolls from her native New Orleans.



The posters adorning her walls range from pretty paintings of flowers to political statements. The biggest one is of the famous moment of defiance at the 1968 Summer Olympics, when black U.S. athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their fists to the sky after receiving the gold and bronze medals, respectively.

For all the trappings of university living, Short-Colomb — who goes by Meli — is anything but a typical freshman. She’s a 63-year-old grandmother and retired chef sharing a floor with teenagers and 20-somethings.

Perched on a single bed topped with a puffy purple duvet, Short-Colomb reflects on being the oldest undergrad on campus.

"The kids, they move so fast," she jokes. "I was like, 'Oh my God, how can I keep up?' But I am."

Short-Colomb has no shortage of motivation. Coming to Washington, D.C., isn't only about the pursuit of a prestigious degree. It's also a mission to pay homage to her family's past — a past intertwined with Georgetown's own.

In 1838, in a bid to avoid bankruptcy, Jesuit priests who ran the university sold 272 slaves to plantation owners in Louisiana. The proceeds of the sale — the equivalent of $3.3 million US today — ended up saving what is now one of the country's most illustrious universities. But it also implicated it in one of the darkest chapters in U.S. history.

"They're sort of here with me. I feel whispers in my ears and pats on my back."

Among those slaves were two of Short-Colomb's ancestors: Abraham Mahoney and Mary Ellen Queen.

In the years before the sale, members of the Queen family in Maryland tried suing the Jesuits for their freedom. They were ultimately unsuccessful, and like the other 270 slaves, Short-Colomb’s ancestors were taken from Maryland, packed onto wooden vessels and shipped to the swamplands of Louisiana.

There, they would toil away on plantations for the rest of their lives. It was their descendants who would become free, long after the Civil War.

In 2016, Georgetown said it would offer preferential admission status to descendants of those sold, and it was the lure of that personal history that convinced Short-Colomb to apply to Georgetown.

"I'm very proud to be able to be here, in 2018, on this campus, to speak their names," she said of her ancestors. "They're sort of here with me. I feel whispers in my ears and pats on my back. I think they'd be very happy and very proud."

While Georgetown's offer of preferential admission helped Short-Colomb enter a new chapter in her life, there is a debate swirling over whether the university is doing enough to address the stain of slavery on its history.

How does an institution atone for having sold human beings?

This building on the Georgetown campus was renamed after Isaac Hawkins, the first name on the 1838 bill of sale. (Jason Burles/CBC)