Have We Forgotten Already?: Five Lessons for Young People in Rememberance of Derrion Albert

It’s winter.

Winter in America

And ain’t nobody fighting.

Cause nobody knows what to save.

—Gil Scott Heron

Everything that is learned must be taught. –Lev Vygotsky

On September 24, 2009, on sixteen year old male, a honor student, was beaten to death on the south side of Chicago.

And as I suspected, just as always has happened, for a few days, for a week or so, we were completely infuriated by the incident. For a few days, for a week or so, we walked around shaking our heads, wondering just how an incident of this nature might happen, wondering just what malevolent forces could drive young men to commit such a heinous act. For a few days, for a week or so, we talked about it, and we blogged about, and we looked for answerw.

But as soon as the furor died down, the whole episode seemed to just fade away, and we moved on to the next new outrage.

The president even dispatched a team consisting of U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder and Education Secretary Arne Duncan to Chicago with $500,000 in emergency grant funds to meet with school officials, parents, and students. However, from what I have read, the meeting took place across town in the Four Seasons Hotel, far removed from the inner city, the locus of the violence.

Please do not misconstrue this as acrimonious; however, perhaps within the comfortable, safe confines of the four seasons hotel was not the best place to hold the meeting. The meeting should have been held there in the very streets where the violence occurred.

And though more funding is desperately needed, money is perhaps not the greatest need; we have a bad habit of throwing money at a problem, and then standing back waiting for the problem to solve itself. But what we really need on the south side of Chicago and in the inner cities across the nation are people willing to step outside their comfort zone, willing to take leave of the suburbs and the Four Seasons Hotels, and give of themselves.

We need teachers, and by teachers, I do not mean school teachers. I mean those who have come from similar backgrounds, those who have faced similar obstacles, those who should have been statistics but ended up otherwise, those with a testimony to give. We need those people to come back and maybe take responsibility for as many as they believe themselves to be able to handle, and teach those who need instruction the most. Based on my experience with working with inner city youth, the five lessons that follow are those that need to be taught first:

1. Every action has a consequence.

I teach my own children this very same lesson. Every action, no matter how great or small, carries with it a consequence. For every positive action, the consequence is usually positive; conversely, for every negative action, the consequence is usually negative. But the catch is we cannot the magnitude of the consequence.

I don’t think those young men meant to kill young Derrion Albert. This type of incidence occurs with such frequency in inner cities that the young men involved thought nothing of it. However, this time it was caught on tape and somebody died. Now as a consequence of their action, their lives are forever altered, which brings us to the next lesson:

2. In only a brief moment, your life can change forever.

My grandmother was fond of saying, “In the twinkling of an eye…” In just the time it takes you to blink your eye, the action you take may have consequences that could irretrievably alter your life. The whole notion of being caught up in the moment, in the emotion, is inexcusable. Take time to think.

3. There are no acceptable excuses.

It seems to me that we give our children far too many excuses to fail. I attended the sentencing trial of a young man recently, and for almost a whole afternoon, person after person—relatives, neighbors, psychologists, former teachers, coaches and other individuals—took the stand to offer excuse after excuse for this young man’s behavior. In the end, the judge simply shook his head and handed down the maximum possible sentence.

Then a few days later I was speaking to another young man about his behavior. I usually begin such conversations with the question, “Why?”. Often in the process of trying to articulate the rationale for their actions, they realize how utterly foolish their actions were.

But this young man took me completely by surprise. He gave me the most learned, clinical explanation of inappropriate behavior that I have ever heard. He had been through so many hearings that he had memorized and internalized those very excuses we had given him as excuses in our pleas for leniency.

4. Everyone who tells you no is not necessarily against you, and everyone who tells you yes is not necessarily for you.

Often I meet with groups of students who, for whatever reason, are behind in their studies. And when I say behind, I mean fifteen and sixteen year olds in middle school. There is one main theme to the excuse I hear most often: I am in the condition I am in because someone did not like me.

It seems that too often our children are under the impression that for someone to have their best interests at heart, they must necessarily say yes to all their whims. They must always offer them the path of least resistance, and God forbid that anyone should take the time to reprimand them for improper behavior.

However, those who are really on your side, those hoping most for you to succeed, will offer the appropriate response and will point out the most efficacious path, and they will offer praise and reprimand as needed. And it is not necessary for them to smile when they do so.

5. Life ain’t fair.

There seems to be some prevailing notion that life is somehow fair. But I found out a long time ago, this is not always the case. However, I have find that somehow I can manipulate the curve simply by putting forth the very best effort I can offer and preparing myself for that day when things do go in my favor.

Whose Responsibility Is It Anyway?: On the Brutal & Inexplicable Death of Derrion Albert

Earlier this week, I awoke to find my wife standing directly in front of the television with a look of abject terror on her face. Both her hands were clasped to either side of her face, and in the dimness of the room, I could make out her slowly mouthing, “Oh, my God!,” drawing out and extending the pronunciation of each word.

I could not see the video, but from the bed, I could plainly hear the audio. Even after pulling the covers over my head as if to hide from the sound, I could hear the audio. Long after the television was turned off and I was in my car headed to work, I could hear the audio.

Maybe it’s the sound of a group of teenagers beating another teenager to death that has affected me so deeply. Perhaps it was the shrieks of on-lookers, the shouts of encouragement from both instigators and participants, the blare of car horns trying to shock the teenagers back to their senses, I just don’t know.

But I wasn’t going to say anything. I wasn’t going to write about it all. However, over the last day or so, this post has been writing and re-writing itself in my head. Each time I mentally disposed of a draft, it would soon return, subconsciously revised and edited and awaiting publication.

And the question that keeps returning to my mind is “Whose responsibility is this?”. Let me rephrase this question. Those teenagers, those children, running amok in the street seemingly intoxicated by the violence taking place around them, seemingly under the spell of an inexplicable bloodlust, “Whose responsibility are they?”.

I posed this question before I number of friends and colleagues, and the answer was almost invariably the same. The answer usually began with “Those people…” and was framed in term of “Them [you supply the racial epithet].” But rarely did I hear the answer framed in terms of “we” or “us.” And these were all African Americans—black folk.

For some time now, I have been cognizant of the wide and ever growing chasm between classes within the African American community; the lower socio-economic class seems to devalue all those things the other class deems worthwhile and necessary, while the middle to upper socio-economic class seems to devalue them because of it. But, while you can take umbrage at adult foolishness, children are a completely different story.

Keep in mind, those were our children out there in that street whether we want to admit it or not. Though we may not know them, though we may not be able to claim a sanguineous kinship, a blood relationship, I believe that they still belong to us.

But I ask you again for your opinion: “Whose responsibility are they?”

And I keep hearing people say, “Those folk need to raise their children” or “Black folk need to raise their kids,” and I do not disagree with this one bit. But, in the same instance, in some segments of the African American community, you have a generation of parents, who were never raised themselves, attempting to raise another generation. You have a generation of parents who were never taught how to conduct themselves, how to think critically and rationally, passing on what they know about conducting themselves and thinking critically and rationally.

But in reality, what do they have to offer the younger generation? They need remedial instruction themselves. And more often than not, just merely providing the daily necessities--food, clothing, shelter--takes them outside the home so often and for so long, they have little time to offer their children. Who will teach this younger generation how to conduct themselves, how to use their minds and talents to their greatest advantage?

Whose responsibility is this?

You have whole families stuck in a perpetual cycle, a never ending narrative, of poverty and ignorance for whom the chaos and privation and struggle of the inner city ghetto are the driving plot elements; this is their reality, and they know no other.

I sure many want to do better, many hope to do better, but simply know of no way out. But who will offer them a counter-narrative, a glimpse at an alternate reality? Who will be the one to step up and offer hope to the hopeless, enlightenment to the unenlightened?

Whose responsibility is this?

Previously, I have mentioned Henry Louis Gates’ conjecture that perhaps crisis was desirable because only when we are faced with crisis do we make the difficult decisions necessary. Only crisis will force the necessary players out of the darkness into the light. Only crisis will force the timid to summon the courage to take a stand. A teenager has been beaten to death in the street; if this is not crisis, what is?

Or maybe we should just wait until the violence spreads out of the inner city into the suburbs. Maybe we should wait until one of my children or one of your children is senselessly beaten to death in the street before we finally declare a crisis and take action.

However, we seem to be stuck trying to decide, just whose responsibility it is.

My blog brother RiPPa of The Intersection of Madness and Reality has also chosen today to turn a critical and discerning eye on the this incident and its root causes. [Click here to read his post, "Understanding the Culture of Violence in America."]

The Homoerotic Imagery Inherent in the Sport of Football

On yesterday, a casual acquaintance again invited me to watch an afternoon of college football with him and a few of his friends and colleagues. Evidently this is a weekly ritual for them. And so as to not offend him by turning down his invitation yet again, I decided to go. But just as I had suspected, I did not fit in at all.

First of all, the homophobic remarks were very much in abundance. Perhaps, because we were a crowd of men stuffed into such a small space around such a huge television (Was the host trying to overcompensate for something?) that the men were trying to reassure one another of their heterosexual bona fides. I do suspect many of the remarks were aimed at me.

And I didn’t help my case any when I lingered just a little too long in the room where, for whatever reason, the women watched the game separate from the men. But when I passed through on my way to the bathroom, someone asked me about a book, and a very stimulating conversation ensued around a topic I am passionate about—books.

Plus, though their television was smaller, the women’s room was much larger and more accommodating, which is why I suggested that the men move from our small, cramped quarters into the room with the women which had room to spare. I guess this suggestion made me even more suspect in their eyes.

But it probably was my objection to the continued homophobic remarks that solidified their opinion of me. However, perhaps they do not realize the homoerotic imagery inherent in the sport they profess to love so much.

Keep in mind that the potential for homosexuality is greatest in those exclusionary spaces inhabited only by men—street gangs, military barracks, and sports locker rooms to name a few that come readily to mind. And even further, violence or the potential to do violence often elides doubts about male sexuality and sometimes acts as a precondition for outward shows of affection between males.

With that said, let’s examine football. I will mention the opening stanch of the quarterback, hunched over the upturned behind of the center, his hands secured between the center’s legs only in passing. To mention that seems like a cheap shot.

But let’s look first at the aim of the sport. The whole object of football is for one group of men to violently invade the territory of another group of men with the end goal of penetrating their most sacred of places, the endzone, with a cylindrical shaped object, a phallic symbol. Sounds a bit like prison rape, does it not?

And if the former group of men is successful in the completion of their mission, or if the latter group of men is able to violently rip that phallic symbol away or take it away by any other means, a celebration ensues.

And in that celebration precipitated by violence, the usual rules of male to male affection are stripped away. The men are free to grab each others’ behinds and embrace and roll around on the ground still trapped in that love embrace. Yesterday during one such celebration, one player placed his hands tenderly on either side of his teammate’s face and brought his face into such close proximity that the two faces were almost touching, and they seemed to gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes as they congratulated one another on the violence done.

And when the violence is complete, the players retire to the locker room, where convinced by the violent spectacle they all just took part in that no one among them is gay, even the tiny little kicker, they prance around naked as the day they were born, confident in their heterosexuality. I have seen it written that to insert a gay man in such an environment would disrupt the atmosphere and lead a plummet in team morale.

Do they really think there is not a gay man among them already or does the violence work to assuage any suspicions they may have?

If after a particularly good performance, the glee club began grabbing each others’ buttocks and embracing and rolling about on the ground or gazing into each others’ eyes before retiring to the locker room where they stripped naked and pranced about, what would the reaction be? Absent of the specter of violence, I’m sure the giggles and the winks and the jokes would abound.

But I do not mean this as a snide attempt to get back at that obnoxious group of men from yesterday; I just wanted to share some of my observations with you to determine if anyone agrees or disagrees. Now I am preparing myself for an evening of football here in the sanctuary of my own home with my wife even though she does ask the most annoying questions just as I like it.

The Fact Is I Need You…Teach Me How to Love [Guest Post]

This evening Charles J., a long time reader and frequent commenter, will act as guest host. In fact, he was such a frequent and fervent commenter that challenged him to have his own say in 750 words or less, and he responded.

Charles describes himself simply as a young, black male from Baltimore, Maryland, who is, above all else, enthusiastic, persistent and authentic .

Recently Charles was certified as a diversity practitioner, and he splits his time between consulting and facilitating discussions on diversity/inclusion issues and investing in real estate in the Baltimore metro area.

“I Wish I Could Love Every Girl in the World” are the eponymous lyrics from the new Lil Wayne song that is playing somewhere on the radio right now, and I can’t get it out of my head. I’m a 25 year old young black male and that pretty much sums up my group.

Marginalized for being born Black yet privileged for being born male, we young Black men have a huge inner conflict going on. Hmm, let’s see. Hyper-masculine, non-emotional, violent and useless baby making machines are the primary charges hurled at us daily. So what is our relationship to women? Two words: messed up!

I have a few thoughts…

Men but Not White Men… Black but Not Women

So, we’re men, and stereotypically we are supposed to be big, strong and not very good at expressing ourselves other than through sports, sometimes music, and sexual prowess. White dudes don’t get us fully but neither do Black women.

We are conditioned by society to get all the women we can and not allow ourselves to be hurt mentally or physically just like white guys, but we are talked about and downed by society for doing it. My question is what are Black men supposed to do with our emotions?

I've come up with a theory after listening to woman participating in a diversity training program. They explained that the roughhousing of men and young boys is actually just another form of aggression.

After listening to those statements, I thought as a man what can I do in public with ease and still be looked upon as a man—cry or fight? After easily picking fight, I came up with a theory that men are really allowed one emotion and that is aggression. And only being allowed one emotions can lead to women being abused (mentally and physcially) by their husbands/lovers etc. Okay, I know that may be a reach, but follow me for a few minutes.

My theory is that men abuse woman because the system (our society) deems that aggression is the only emotion that men, especially black men, can display so when we get upset/angry we can't discuss it because that's too girly. Men are told to let out your frustration in a few ways—fighting it out (fighting another man/ hitting a wall), smoking/drinking your hurt away, or taking it out on a woman (having sex to your frustration goes away).

So when a man gets frustrated or feels less than a man how can he feel in control or have some type of power? Can he talk about his feelings? Probably not or he will be called a punk or a sissy. Hmm, so that just leaves aggression. So...

1. The wall gets punched,
2. the E&J gets drank,
3. the woman on the side gets slept with, or the strip club gets visited, and
4. the wife that he loves who wants him to talk about his problem gets slapped for asking too many questions.

This leaves women, especially Black women, used and abused. Young black men are trying hard to find a way to relate and truly love the women in our lives, but we need to be taught correctly. If we start teaching our sons it is okay to express themselves in other ways, the will lessen the chances of our daughters becoming victims of assault by those she loves. This “boys will be boys” bull is old; let's try to think outside of the box.

Adjectives like caring/sensitve/thoughtful should be able to be applied to any gender, period. I guarantee if we start thinking outside of the box, we will have more fulfilled men and more secure women.

The Romance of Anger [450 Words]

Late last week, a colleague asked that I assist her with a project. She needed 450 words on how to quell the perceived anger among black youths. So, I dutifully sat down to complete my task.

I consulted a few articles written by this Ph.D. and that M.D., but after floundering about for a while, I still was no closer to being able to address the question. However, on Saturday, I caught a bit of a CNN program entitled “Taking Aim at Youth Violence.”

At some time during the program, it dawned on me. With all the programs designed to quell youth anger, none of them focus on the usefulness, the utility of anger.

Anger, or any other strong emotion, is not only natural, but is useful if harnessed and used in a productive manner.

And isn’t it only natural to be angry if the problems and hardships you are bound to face over the course of your lifetime eclipse those faced by the mainstream society and culture? Isn’t it only natural to be angry if in your entrance into the mainstream society and culture, you are greeted with prevailing assumptions of innate inferiority and fundamental deficiency?

Wouldn’t you too be angry if the mainstream society and culture reacted to you with a certain ingrained sense of fear and hostility? If you found the deck stacked against you even before you got started?

If you were born into poverty and could imagine no greater future? If in the midst of plenty, you found yourself possessing nothing? If you grew up not knowing or spending time with your father or any other positive role model? If daily you watched drug addiction ravage your family and community? If perhaps you stood a greater chance of going to prison than going to college. If you so desperately wanted to achieve, to overcome, but you did not possess the means or know how to do so? If you were locked in a perpetual prison house of ignorance.

It would only be natural for you to be angry. In fact, if you were not angry, I would go so far as to say, there is something fundamentally wrong with you.

So, then, the solution can be found not in quelling that anger, but in recognizing and knowing that anger. The solution can be found in discovering a positive outlet for that anger. The solution can be found in directing the natural energy and impetus to act inherent in that anger toward constructive pursuits as opposed to avenues to self-destruction.

There is a certain romance to be found in anger. There is a certain brilliance, a certain beauty, to be discovered in the redness of outrage.