Black Male
Claiming Space, Reconstructing Images, and Moving Forward
Powered By
THE MAROON TIGER
Introduction
Page Two
28.79295°N 81.32965°W Claiming Space, Reconstructing Images, and Moving Forward
Illustration By: Jayson Ovebry
From The Editorial Board
Four years ago, a movement was ignited. Black men and boys were brought into national focus via the spread of viral videos depicting widespread police brutality. Black bodies became the recurring site of objectification, misrepresentation, fear, and terror. Collectively, we became the boy in the hoodie who carried skittles and a can of Arizona iced tea. Protests stirred, conversations ensued, and black folks gathered. We like to consider February, Black History Month, as a month centered around our ancestral heroes and their accomplishments and a reminder of how far black folks have triumphed. But with two days left in February of 2012, Trayvon Martin’s death whispered a reminder of where the black male body stood. Bodies like Trayvon’s have been devalued by society but remain attached to our complexities. Trayvon, like many black boys became February in a literal sense – Black and present for no longer than 28— 28 years that is. There is an ongoing conversation about what it means to be a Black man or boy in the contemporary context, but for many black boys that conversation is established before many reach puberty. As an act of preservation, black boys are taught the limiting realms in which they are allowed to exist. Tears become bullet shells that pierce their confidence. Wounds from life’s sorrows are forced to heal quickly. The black man becomes a symbol of strength. “Strong”
becomes a goal and as a black boy you must strive for it. In the silence of their own bodies, black boys and men have long been at the center of the movement: Emmet Till, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, Samuel Dubose, The Central Park Five, Alton Sterling, Jordan Davis, Michael Brown, Philando Castile, Ernest Sayon, Michael Stewart, Anthony Hill, Kenny Smith, Terrence Crutcher, Deravis ‘Caine’ Rodgers, Jamarion Robinson, David Joseph, Walter Scott, Jamar Clark. The list doesn’t end there. The list never actually ends. When the lights shut off and the camera angle is shifted – our narratives don’t. Nothing black boys do can mitigate the trauma others place on our blackness, but our story is ongoing and ever-changing. Unbroken, we’ve always had to stand firm in these black bodies. We have and we will continue to, as we have no other choice. Our distinction as black boys give us the ability and authority to claim space while reimagining our responsibility to the greater community. We have a duty to ourselves and each other to regain control of our stories and the narratives that revolve around us. Black men have proven that we will always stand tall in this world, even when the world itself is weighing down on our shoulders. The coordinates don’t start here, they never did. We arrive in Sanford, Florida; Cleveland, Ohio; Mon-
ey, Mississippi; Ferguson, Missouri; Atlanta, Georgia; where the w of Black boys is still superimposed on unpaved concrete, park tables, white t-shirts, on the hands of police officers and in the arms of broken mothers and families. Our black and brown bodies have been menaced as targets while police officers have tallied our black and brown corpses like trophies and plaques atop tables. With the labels on these trophies identifying the names, dates, and cities of these heinous crimes, the game is never ending, but the prey is always certain. In every way, he is Black, he is a “criminal”, he is going southbound down the middle of Pulaksi, his body has laid in the streets for four minutes, but somehow he still got up – he holds on every day. The boy is still dreaming, and the boy still has hope for the world – he is still being that black boy. In many ways, this issue, the magazine, and other mediums for this project attempt to offer nuance regarding the ways in which black men — trans black men, queer black men, cisgender black men and gender nonconforming black men — might navigate these spaces of fear, and the various other spaces we continue to occupy. Move forward, hold on, and don’t let go. This is for us, this is by us and this is with us.
Editors Letter
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Jayson ‘Jase’ Overby Editor-in-Chief
Shifting A Narrative “Take me into the museum and show me myself, show me my people, show me soul America. If you cannot show me myself, if you cannot teach my people what they need to know – and they need to know the truth, and they need to know that nothing is more important than human life – then why shouldn’t I attach the temples of America and blow them up?” Less than a year ago, we began production for our special edition, which was then slated to be released in February of 2016. A few things fell through, some articles didn’t get finished, and the conversation just didn’t seem to fully unfold. Black men and boys have continually brought into mainstream media focus largely thanks to the prevalence of police brutality videos circulated around the internet, yet we (The Maroon Tiger) never figured out what we could/would lend to the conversation, or even if we had the right to lend anything at all. For years, we’ve been coined the “Organ of student expression,” but at some point, we had to lift the veil and become the voice of Black expression. Rather than limiting the conversation on a collegiate level, we reached out to men and boys around the world to figure out what they had to say. These black men, who were all at different points in their lives, had stories. At the rate we were moving, their voice mattered more than ever before. Undeniably, a curator by nature, I’ve always had a niche for telling stories and shifting narratives. In its broadest terms, to shift a narrative is to shift the perspective while telling a story – any story. Be it changing the storyteller, the lens in which you use, or even the focus of the story – you’re charged with changing things up. For me, Thelma Golden, Director and Chief Curator of the Studio Museum in Harlem, New York City, shifted not only my narrative, but also made me reimagine what it meant to think about Blackness and being a Black male – then and now. Art as Activism I have an interest in bringing stories off the page, shifting narratives with a visual component. Photography and visual journalism stories come to life for a readership, at the level of visual presentation. In many ways, photojournalism for me validates how photography carries the visual narrative of movements and moments. Two years ago, I found myself on the frontlines, reporting a protest that followed the non-indictment of Darren Wilson for the murder of Michael Brown. It was there, at the heart of Atlanta, where I realized the work I performed for The Maroon Tiger would visually narrate that day. Under the vision of activism, I documented experiences and stories. Unlike other activists, I didn’t want to lead on the battleground, and I wasn’t going to do so. Through varying mediums, we [The Maroon Tiger] lead folk by listening to their stories and reporting what was happening. At the time, Editor-in-Chief, Darren Martin, along witAt the time, Editor-in-Chief, Darren Martin, along with his Managing Editor, Jared Loggins, announced that they would be releasing a special issue following
the non-indictment. There was a call for submissions: poetry, essays, short films, etc. The 12 submissions we received lead us to assume that folks didn’t know what to say, or they just didn’t want to say anything at all – so the issue wasn’t published. A year later, the police officer who killed 12-year-old Tamir Rice of Cleveland, OH didn’t face any criminal charges. The jury on the case decided not to indict both officers. Following the non-indictment, we (The Maroon Tiger) redeveloped our visual framework to figure out how to articulate the state in which Black men are in now and moving forward. I found our lane, and we stayed in it. When we budgeted for Black male two years ago, I wanted to bring publicity to a movement and group of people I thought mattered the most, to me at least. Along with other staff members, I gathered to reimagine about how we could reposition Black men and boys in a contemporary context to lend our voice as a form of activism – and I think we did it. Here at MT, I’ve followed my heart for three years, and never have I felt as passionate about something like this organization. For this issue, I’ve given my all and hopefully it’ll show through the work we’ve pushed forward with. Am I Not a Man and a Brother? Still, as I type this letter, I’m trying to find the right words to utter how I felt, as we inched towards the release of this project. We’ve worked so long and hard to make sure we got everything right, and still at times, we felt a bit unsure. I, along with other staff members, made sure that we had everyone represented, or at least everyone felt represented in this project at some point. But still, there was an impending fear that we (Black men) could still get our story wrong. As our days of production wrapped up, and articles were being finalized, Black men and boys were still being slain. And still, in the silence of their bodies, we drove the movement forward. Another Black man was murdered last week. Kajaun Raye, 19, an unarmed man, was fatally shot and killed by a Chicago police officer late in the evening on November 23, 2016. Years on end, folks will organize around those coordinates of that block, N 41.77572 and W -87.665416, to remember him. His vigil, like other Black deaths, will be marked by photographs, flowers, candles, and other spiritual iconography that’ll preserve his life. We’ll struggle to move toward transparency concerning Black folk and police officers, but the video recording of him running away will be forever imprinted
in our thoughts. His name, along with other Black folk around the world will whisper melodies that sing his praises. In March, I had the privilege of speaking with Lucia McBath, the mother of Jordan Davis. Davis, 17, who had been killed in November of 2012 at a gas station in Jacksonville, Florida, became another name we yelled at marches seeking justice and peace. In the few moments we conversed, she urged how we [Black boys] had to keep on fighting and keep on going, we have nothing to lose. In our eyes, she saw Jordan. We all were Jordan. We were all Trayvon. We were all Tamir. In her honor and in the spirit of the caskets we’ve had to carry, we move along and carry their stories. We carry those conversations, those candid words about holding on. This project, and its supporting components, will be used as a vehicle for expression, as Black men and boys around the world articulate their feelings and engage in a movement, building around many of the issues that take form in and around Black men and boys. In many ways, we hope this platform will attempt to foster original thought and lend a new voice to the conversation regarding the recent events, including the police brutality cases in Falcon Heights, Minnesota; Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Cleveland, Ohio; Sanford, Florida; Chicago, Illinois. America.
Thelma Golden
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Black Male
Black Male
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My Dearest February By : Kaitlin Crandall Photography By : Jayson Overby
Dear unborn son, I will name you February. In your short time on this Earth, they will make your black body history. It is rare you will make it past 28. Years ago, before they started Emmett Till’ing black boy seeds in Florida, I would have named you Ishmael because God heard me ask for you. The world is not ready for you, they are afraid of how you brandish your pride in your broad shoulders, it is much more threatening than the gun in their hands. I remember when they plastered images of you on billboards and said the most dangerous place for you was in my womb. But ever since they cut the umbilical cord they’ve been trying to transform it into a noose. I’m sorry I cannot shield you beyond my womb but I promise if I could turn it into a bulletproof vest I would.
But promise me three things: 1. Should you ever hunger for a snack from the corner store, stay away from the Arizonas and Skittles instead buy grape juice and crackers. This may be your Last Supper before a vigilante’s bullets pierce you in the side on a crosswalk. 2. Should you want to blast music at the gas station, make sure it is gospel. God will hear your ascendance to Heaven, when a coward of a man realizes black boys are wonderfully and fearfully made, he will make a shooting range out of the gas station and our red SUV the bull’s-eye. 3. Never find yourself standing on ground that turns out to be quicksand, like many laws the laws of gravity don’t favor brown skin. Faithfully, Your melanin-marked mother P.S. I will raise you to be an earthquake of a man, you are not ground to be stood upon.
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Black Male
A Family Divided
On Queer Black Men And The Struggle For Community By: Ramon W. Johnson Queer Black men are constantly being policed and pushed into boxes that discourage us from defining ourselves and our truths. We struggle with topics related to sexuality and gender . We practice sex, but are afraid of sexuality and intimacy. Some of us are socialized and conditioned to believe that our identities are sinful and immoral. Often despised and vilified by Black men and women, coupled with the already vilifying nature of whiteness and white supremacy, we are made to feel like we don’t have a home. We internalize hatred and inflict it on others by policing the boundaries of masculinity. We begin to cope with the pain of not being accepted in various unhealthy ways: conforming, isolation from other queer students and family, excessive code switching, risky behavior, and even contemplating and committing suicide. One would assume that Black queer men would
depend on each other for support. However, there is a lack of community: A family divided. It appears that we separate ourselves in different groups or cliques. Some of us do so in order to avoid stigma. Some of us avoid each other in order to socially advance in society. The resources provided to us on campus, in our community, and at homes are limited. Sometimes, it can be frustrating to find community as a Black queer man, especially under a patriarchal and heteronormative system that constantly seeks to erase you. There are only a few ways a Black queer man can survive under such a system: resistance or queer respectability. Resistance requires strength to stand alone, even when your own people try to assimilate. It is not easy but it is necessary to do this in order to bring change. Resistance forces your oppressor to see your existence and fresh-out-of-fucks-to-give identity. There is no
Photography By Daquan Spratley With Edits By Timothy Tukes
room for seeking validation from heteronormative frameworks. You are forced to see the divinity within yourself. Resistance is a long process of unlearning the lies your oppressor told you. You search for others who are like you or seek to find whose shoulders you stand on. Queer respectability refers to those who “straighten up” for heterosexual or authoritative audiences. They modulate their queerness up and down depending on who they are around. Sometimes they smooth their queer edges and try to blend in. Their worst fear is that their queerness might cause a fuss or draw undue attention so they use it to self-loath. Respectability signifies acceptance of the norm. To be respectable is to follow a normative standard of behavior in public, while being aware of continual evaluations against that standard. For example, it is no secret that men who are masculine receive more respect than men who are feminine.
This is a sad and unfortunate truth caused by hetero-patriarchy and homophobia. Respect connotes acceptance of difference. Moreover, at the same time as identifying with the norm, respectability entails differentiating oneself from others who fall outside the norm. I hope that we as Black queer men will no longer feel the need to mask our true selves regardless of our differences. This is what self-preservation looks like. We possess multiple identities that deserve to be affirmed. We must reject the notion that we are inferior. We must remember the words of our brother Essex Hemphill who stated, “It is not enough to tell us that one was a brilliant poet, scientist, educator, or rebel. Whom did he love? It makes a difference. I can’t become a whole man simply on what is fed to me: watered down versions of Black life in America. I need the ass-splitting truth to be told, so I can have something pure to emulate, a reason to remain loyal.”
The liberation is here and we will continue to resist.
Black Male
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behind these bars
By: Darrin B
Above, an adolescent Darrin is pictured with alondside his two cousins, Andre and Andrew.
Being locked up and witnessing the atrocities, mistreatment, dehumanization, racism, and cultural debasement depicted upon Ohio prisoners has led me to the point of identifying my enemies by sadistic calculations and designs. My enemy being this “O so righteous” Ohio criminal justice system. The title of this essay may lead you to ask the question. Who are the slaves? As a Black Man, I must first shed light upon the fact that African Americans only consist of 12-13 percent of Ohio’s population but still in horrible amazement comprises 44.44 percent of Ohio’s prison population. This is a fact that should embarrass the willing or unwilling participants in this mockery of a Department of Rehabilitation and Correction. This brings me to the question presented in paragraph one, “Who are the slaves of the Ohio slave plantations?” The slaves of the Ohio slave plantations are 50,601 human beings -- 91.71 percent males and 8.29 percent females -- average ages of 37 for males and 35 for females. The average daily cost to house these humans is $64.01, which equals out to $23,365 a year. To further the numbers, the grand total to house all of Ohio’s slaves is $1,192,292,365. What a wonderful investment, when our state spends billions of dollars on housing its new age slaves, while schools are being shut down. Drug use is at an all-time high, and the debt created by student loans has made education damn near unattainable. Not only are we profitable slaves just by merely being incarcerated, but we’re also contracted out to big companies to produce their products for labor fees that make minimum wage look like a miracle. There are 1601 prisoners working for the OHIO PENAL INDUSTRIES (OPI) and the average pay across the state is approximately $55.00. But who cares about their
PRISONERS right? It’s a shame that in January of 2016 alone, the OPI make $3,011,866, 91 while only paying its slaves a grand total of $88,770. Blood sucking capitalism at its peak. In 2008, Ohio had its highest inmate population at 51,273, and now six years later the population is 50,601. The numbers honestly show the true colors of the Department of Rehabilitation. For the ODRC’s to care and place so much emphasis on “rehabilitation,” it has failed in its endeavor to rehabilitate due to its greed and disregard of human life. How can I prove it, right? In 2014, The ODRC’S budget was $1,599,694,767; in 2015, $1,619,85,11; in 2016, $1,666,729,709. The gradual increase in the ODRC budget, which presents another problem. How is it that the prison population decreases over the years but the budget for the ODRC increases? The answer is greed gained upon the backs of human beings who are considered the undesirables; as we all know a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. How strong are we as a country? How strong are we as Ohioans? For our country to take pride in calling itself the land of the free, portraying itself as the home of equality, then why the fuck is it okay for us to “free” Black slaves to only then turn around and incarcerate Blacks at an alarming rate along with “undesirable” whites and guise it in the name of the Department of Rehabilitation and Correction. For you naysayers, please take heed from this 24-year-old educated slave and refer this information to the pitiful Constitution of the United States, which states: “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States or any place under its jurisdiction.”
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remember the last time I saw you? By: Jayson Overby
“I knew the life I lived, and have always lived, was normal, and what’s normal doesn’t need a declaration.”
Most of the Black men I’ve dated are praiseworthy; but the one who gave me my voice as a teenage Black boy has yet to end his unending stay at the Ohio State Penitentiary. Barely fourteen-years-old, I found myself in what was the beginning of a four-year long relationship with a man whose experiences in life motivated my own, but also poorly influenced how I interacted with men: both romantically and informally. On a Blackberry Bold 9700, I recently read through emotional misfortunes and triumphs etched into forwarded and sent SMS-messages and emails that were sent during late hours of the night. For four years, I masked my weaknesses with excuses, yet vicariously lived through an alter ego that fell short of self-respect and self-actualization. Outside of my mom and a few close friends, I’ve never explicitly spoke about what it meant for me growing up Black, gay, and chaotically figuring out how to love someone, and even myself, all at the same time. At some point, I found it in myself to affirm that there wasn’t a need for me to “come out,” contrary to what other people expected. I knew that the life I lived, and have always lived, was normal. And, what’s normal doesn’t need declaration. Those who considered the life that I lived to be crazy assured me that they had to be crazy themselves. Being Black, gay, and presumably masculine was what I knew. Typically, I kept my former relationship private, but it wasn’t until recently that Barry Jenkins’s “Moonlight” brought things back to the forefront, and my voice back into focus. Told in three defining intervals, the viewer is introduced to an adolescent Chiron, nicknamed “Little;” a teenage Chiron; and an adult Chiron, newly named “Black.” Played by three distinctly different actors, each actor progressively moves the film forward with intense desire and emotion. From a young Chiron caressing his high school lover, Kevin’s, soft, round, and scared face – to a teenage Chiron reluctantly releasing the touch of Kevin’s hand – and an adult Chiron caught in an unnatural stillness within seconds after being in the company of Kevin, each character is palpably not one in the same. Unbearably personal, near the end of the film, Kevin eagerly mouthed to Chiron “Remember the last time I saw you,” just feet away in the kitchen of his home,
and maybe no further than when Chiron had last seen Kevin before retreating to the back of the cop car that took him away. For many Black gay boys and men, we’ve heard those same words. Maybe not in the same iteration, but with the same meaning. Months ago, in early April, I’d received a call late in the afternoon from an unknown number with an Atlanta area code. Before I could fix my mouth to say, “hello,” he spoke softly through the phone and muttered, “I miss you.” With a grin on my face that couldn’t be contained and thoughts scattered, I led the conversation like I had always done. It was just weeks after he had been released from prison for the second time. Much like Black, adult Chiron, my ex is an urban guy: hustler at his core, and even has the looks to match, but not so much the muscular physique. What he lacked in body size, he possessed in personality and values, which gave way to how he attempted to show his affection. In the few minutes we spoke on the phone, I tried detaching any distressing moments we had together, but that was only in attempt to appease and impress him. Instead of trying to meet what I thought he needed me to be, and neglecting how far I’d come, I gathered the strength to let him know that I wasn’t the same guy I was years ago, let alone a week ago. In a strangled tone, Chiron mumbled, “For a long time, I tried not to remember. I tried to forget all those times.” Unlike Chiron, and with an increasing sense of empathy for him, I desired to remember all of those moments. Those very moments nurtured me into the very
man I am. And now more than ever, I grow weary every day, wondering if that man will ever be more than “okay.” Oddly, we’ve arrived at a point in our lives where I’ve asked, “Remember the last time I saw you.” The best of men make it somehow, and he’s doing just that. Even if it means making it in prison. Although I’d seen “Moonlight” for the third time, I still wrestled with whether he was Chiron or Kevin. In more ways than I can explain, he had always been Chiron: caught up within the drug trade, lost his father early on, brother killed months after having been released from prison, and grappling with his own sexuality and identity. Like Chiron, he had to build himself up hard at an early age. Yet at other times, he was Kevin: unknowing of how much emotional control he possessed, returning to prison more than often, and still, grappling with his own sexuality and identity. It’s no surprise that for years I only took interest in men who I thought could protect me, mentally and emotionally. For years, he worked to build both of us up hard, and even at times broke me down, only to build me right back up. Early on in the film, Juan, Chiron’s stand-in father, introduced him to the water. As the film progressed, and Chiron began to come into himself, the water became a reoccurring motif. As a point of entry, the water represented a base, or a second home for Chiron to return to throughout his life. Returning home to Miami, the ocean came into view
on the screen after he had been on the road for some time. In the frame, the viewer is presented with a group of kids playing in the water, and then the camera soon panned to a dimly lit restaurant, which is brought into focus by a nearly empty parking lot. Unaware of his existence inside, Chiron stepped out the car and inched towards the building, returning to his home, and to his water – Kevin. Often, I’d like to think that I’ve been on this ongoing world tour: The men I’ve met being the cities, their bodies being the venue, and the time we spent being how long the tour date lasted. Out of these tours, his tour is the only one that ran consecutively with others, and at times, had the dates pushed back. Every time, I found myself revisiting that place which I knew to be home, even if it meant enduring suffering or hardship to be there. With a heaviness in my body, and offering false contentment – I kept going back. But this time, I won’t be returning home. Moving Forward This one’s for the Black and brown boy who gave someone a voice, but have yet to liberate their own. In thinking about self, both in its literal definition and in a contemporary context, others often forget that “self ” isn’t established by one individual, but through a series of events and changes in life. Those changes in life, instituted by people and places, shift narratives. For so many gay Black and brown boys, those changes in life were – for the most part – instituted by another boy. Many of times, I’ve thought about how I didn’t motivate him to live free from chasing money, and my heart seems to stop every time. In the moments that I’ve seen him smile or crack a joke, I’ve seen his good. But right now, behind those bars, and in that cell – he ain’t it. The same voice that gave me room to shine, has never had its own moment of glory and self-realization, at least not beyond the bars of a prison cell. This is a thing that I will always think of and perhaps may never come to terms with. But just like Kevin, and just like Chiron, and just like the millions of Black boys who found solace in this story, I will always remember the last time I saw you.
Black Male
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The Histories Our Bodies Know Uncovered and Putting Our Hands Where Their Eyes Can See A video still of Kajaun Raye running, soon after he was killed in an alley along the 6500 block of South Marshfield in the West Englewood neighborhood of Chicago
A video still of Tamir Rice playing outside, soon after he was gunned down police officers in Cleveland, OH
An image of Mike Brown’s body as he laid lifeless in the middle of the street for 4.5 hours.
___________________
By: Jayson Overby The video recordings shot by bystanders – of the killings of Black men, boys, and women, along with Black folk shot at the hands of police officers aren’t one in the same. Marked by words like brutal and tragic, the killings of Black folk have never been justified, just senseless. Our bodies have had a history, yet in the silence of these bodies, we affirm forthcoming narratives that are still unwritten. This body knows slavery, lynching, and even the Three-Fifths Compromise. And still, we rise. When we do, it’s in the form of activism, a kind of activism that is unmatched and unparalleled. In its broadest terms, activism is defined as “the policy or action of using vigorous campaigning to bring about political or social change.” Surely, we’ve done enough campaigning about how to move forward in our bodies, but somehow the voices that justify the validity of our death speak otherwise. We’ve been in-line and online, bellowing “I Am A Man,” “Am I Not a Man And a Brother,” “Black Lives Matter,” “No Justice, No Peace,” etc. Yet still, we move forward chanting “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot,” which has become a running motif in imagery and literary texts referencing any reported instances against Black folk. A defining slogan and symbol, the gesture – raised hands – draws out the many nuanced tones of the movement.
We’ve seen Black folk beaten, objectified, and killed – with White folk and police officers being the primary patrons. In analyzing the representations of the Black body, we can suppose that the lingering language of the Black body as “other” is unrelenting. In many ways, it (the killings) repetitively repositions the discourse around the Black bodily experience, within the overarching framework of identity politics. On the margins of representation and imagination, Black folk work day in and day out to rework their narratives; especially with protest art resurfacing in the name of activism. A kind of self as activism, we affirm – with our bodies – our lived experiences. Our bodies, in their literal forms, is a protest. Over the summer, on July 5, 2016, Alton Sterling was slain – a day later Philando Castile was slain. The following day, many of us (Black folk) walked in the administrative offices of companies and cultural institutions that didn’t identify with our body and emotional undertaking. Two black men were murdered by officers of the law in one week, yet we knew a conversation wouldn’t ensue in our place of work. The conversation about the killings, or the lack thereof, was maybe neglected in part due to our own emotional fatigue, but also the fact that they didn’t know what to say– we didn’t know what to say.
Navigating and existing in this Black body; this Black armor – isn’t easy, but we do it. We didn’t think we could make it through that day, especially after watching those two men inactive in their own blood. And then, we watched them plastered all over social media and nationally syndicated news channels. A new day began, but another fight had already begun. On the forefront, we stood hand in hand with other brown and Black bodies, claiming space. But still, ain’t it hard just to live? Those cellphone videos, which drive home much of the fury we explicitly talk about, as it pertains to the killings of these men, is what we need to move away from. Collectively, we must abstain from witnessing these killings. Although just in a cell phone, and only in our hand – it still feels firsthand. The outer body experience, which you’ve felt every second watching those men get slain, is nonetheless an experience in itself. Out of the 1.5 million Black men reported missing by the New York Times (NYT), how many have you watched get killed? It’s you, me, and nothing but the numbers. Of the reported 1.5 million Black men missing, approximately 600,000 of those men are behind bars, as stated by NYT. Assuredly, we can presume that many of those men who aren’t accounted for were claimed by violence, specifically homicide – one out of
every six Black men in the United States is missing. Per the Guardian’s interactive database, The Counted, it seems as if police officers are sternly gunning down unarmed Black men out of implicit basis. In 2015, over 290 Black men were reported gunned down by police officers, and in comparison, more than 200 have been gunned down in 2016. And even with the reported data, we still could be unaware of other Black men who have been disregarded, in turn increasing the numbers reported by NYT. In contrast, the Washington Post (Post) also gathered data to report people shot dead by police in 2015, and the numbers are immeasurably different. As stated in the Post’s methodology, they began compiling their database after Jan. 1, 2015, and six months later The Counted was launched on June 1, 2015. Even so, practically 47 Black men have gone unreported, and essentially unnoticed, on the Post’s database. And although their intentions are to progressively count the number of people killed by police and other law enforcement agencies, they’ve still not got in right. While they count our bodies, let’s count every day we have with one another, because we are all that we got. Refrain from framing that slain Black body on your TV and in your hand, he had a name, and he too sung “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot.”
28.79295°N 81.32965°W 33.6512° N 90.2093° 41.479083°N 81.752365°W 39.12322°N 84.51319°W 30°28′05″N 91°08′22″W 36°12’22.1”N 95°57’34.6”W
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activist [ak-tuh-vist] an especially active, vigorous advocate of a cause, especially a political cause.
Photography By : Jayson Overby
Black Male
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Black Male
He Can Move Mountains
How Barack Obama Ignited The Fire In So Many Black boys
By : Grant Bennett
My hero does not have super strength but his voice makes you believe he could move mountains. He does not have the ability to fly nor does he wear a cape, but the swagger in his walk and his fresh apparel reflect his confidence and fortitude. His Kryptonite is only sparked by those who could not (or rather did not) see his vision. He and his sidekicks do everything they can to defend the world he swore to protect, even though his journey is full of villains and nemeses who never want to see him succeed. However, his greatest power is instilling hope into communities where there is essentially
none present. With the emergence of a new election season and with President Obama’s final days amongst us, I felt an urge to reflect on the impact that he has had on my generation of Black boys. Unlike many of my friends, I was blessed enough to have my father in my life and ultimately he is the single most influential factor in me becoming the man I am today. In elementary school you would probably see me wearing a huge South Pole t-shirt with baggy jeans and a pair of K-Swiss. I was the only black boy in my grade that was identified as academically and intellectually gifted, and asides from future 2016 Pre-Season ACC Basketball Freshman of the Year, Dennis Smith Jr, I was
the best hooper in the school. With all that in mind, the main reason that the year is most memorable to me is because I was introduced to who would become the most poignant Black hero of my upbringing. In the fifth grade I could not grasp the concept that my culture would differentiate my development from that of boys of other races. I did not have the mental capacity to comprehend the idea that my brothers and I would have a much more difficult road to manhood. Though many of those factors were too abstract to understand, I knew that I wanted to grow up with a Black President and that Barack Obama is a Black hero. Within the context of Black culture in America, in my mind the civil rights movement represented the pinnacle of Black heroes in America. The lives of men such as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Thurgood Marshall, Muhammad Ali, Malcolm X, and Bill Russell were not only revolutionary for their time, but set the foundation for future generations to continue the fight against racism in this country. The beauty of their impact was that they were faces that were constantly in the media portraying Black men as prominent figures in society. In the 60s, the unemployment rate for African-American men was about four percent, there was a higher rate of Black fathers in households, and more Black boys grew up in communities where Black male leaders were prevalent. Though the Black community was still oppressed, Black boys had more positive male figures, specifically in the media, to inspire them to become better men. Toward the late 1960s there was a juristic change in the climate of the Black community. The death of Malcolm X and Dr. King symbolized more than the end of an era of leadership, it also represented the beginning of a new definition of Black heroes. For over the next half century, the image of our Black male leaders shifted in a new direction. In 1960, the year before Obama was born, 22
percent of Black children lived in single parent households. In 1968, the number rose to thirty one percent. By 2008, the 1960 percentage had more than doubled to fifty-six percent. The absence of fathers corresponds with a host of social ills, including school dropout rates and mass incarceration figures. Children who grow up without a father are five times more likely to live in poverty and commit crime; nine times more likely to dropout of schools and 20 times more likely to end up in prison. This is the same incarceration system that now holds more than one million fathers to Black boys and is steadily increasing by the year. This leads us to the media’s bias image of the Black boy today as unintelligent, belligerent, and ignorant. With a vacancy of Black intellectual leaders portrayed in the media, Black boys turned to new role models. As a generation we found comfort in sports icons, actors, and music entertainers to idolize. Partially because many of them grew up in similar environments but also they were the only promising image of Black men seen in mass media in our country. Though there were preeminent Black figures in society throughout that timespan, no man matched the significance of a Dr. King or Malcolm X to our community until President Obama. My father served in the US Army for more than 20 years and throughout my childhood there were stints of time where he was not around. Like most Black boys without a father in the house on a consistent basis, I turned to television and music to find role models. Growing up, in my eyes, Dwyane Wade was the coldest player in the NBA. I would spend hours in my driveway trying to perfect the euro step that he made look effortless. I wanted to have Ryan Howard’s ability to change the dynamic of a baseball game with one swing of the bat, yet play a smooth infield like Robinson Cano. I remember the revival of Michael Vick with the Eagles and how he snapped with six touchdowns on Monday Night Football against the Washington Redskins. This was also around the same time I began to fall in love with music. Aside from being the first out of my friends to start downloading mixtapes, I already had a compilation of classic hip-hop and R&B albums at my disposal. Most of my childhood Tupac, Nas, and Biggie were always in rotation and often were mixed with classics from Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, and Marvin Gaye. Though, I was heavy into early Wale, Kendrick Lamar, and Wiz Khalifa material. During the summer of my sixth grade year I was asked to be in a music video of an up and coming star from Fayetteville. He was a tall light-skinned dude, who was rocking his high school varsity letterman jacket. At the time I did not know J. Cole would become one of the biggest artists in the world, that he would become
the face of my generation of hip hop, or that he would influence my identity throughout my life. Though these men inspired me to become a better man, President Obama challenged me to strengthen my mind. His impact ultimately pushed me to become a better student but more importantly to become knowledgeable about the world we live in. Fast-forward eight years and Barack Obama still holds a special place in my heart. Nowadays you will probably see me with a Dreamville hoodie, a pair of jeans, and my Jordan Wolf Grey 3s. The majority of my athletic idols are toward the end of their careers and my taste in music has vastly broadened since I was younger. Though many phases of my life have altered over the years, there’s some things that have not changed. I still believe in Black heroes and their ability to mold the lives of Black boys. There is a cycle of leadership and responsibility we as Black men carry throughout our lives in regards to the development of our Black boys. Barack Obama was the focal point for that change to many Black boys, including myself. His presence influenced many of my biggest decisions, especially my choice of attending Morehouse. I do not know who will be the next notable Black hero, but I do know that that person will have been heavily influenced by him and the lasting impact he has had on Black boys in America.
Black Male
Page Thirteen
21st Century Black Man Black. Male.Transgender. By : Laura Eley and Miah Hardy Photography By : KaiYanna Washington
Pictured above is Keo Chance O’Neal.
Conversations about the Black man in America will always surround us. While we create dialogues and spaces that center around cisgender people – persons who identify with the gender given to them at birth – we forget about the trans-Black man, especially those at Spelman College. Spelman College is an institution that prides itself on producing countless Spelman women who will go out into the world and make a change. What happens when the Spelman woman is a Spel-Man? What happens when the change that students aim to complete affects the infrastructure of the very same institution that
constantly fed them the idea that one should fight for the change that they want to see in the world? All hell seems to break loose. For most freshmen, their first year is a time to explore the freedoms of finally being independent. You are able to make lifelong memories and careless mistakes as a first-year student because you have the freedom to do so. But for self-proclaimed Spel-Man Keo Chance O’Neal, born a woman and going by his birth name at the time, freshman year was a year of misgendering and self-doubt that changed his outlook on Spelman and himself. “My freshman year was really hard trying to deal with my identity and just the Black community in general and not being accepted,” O’Neal said. “Not everyone was as aware about pronouns and preferred name, so I got called my legal name a lot and I went by she/her pronouns because no one could understand the concept of they/them pronouns.” From Black pastors spewing hate speech from the pulpit to administrators at HBCUs implementing dress codes that reinforce harmful gender roles, it is well known that Black spaces are not typically open for discussions on the inclusion of LGBTQIA (lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer, intersexual, and asexual) folks. Spelman College’s Fitness Coordinator for the Wellness Center and LGBTQIA advocate, Makeba Reed-Johnson, said, “We, as people of color, should be so sensitive to discrimination, but we’re not. We’re sen-
sitive to it when it’s directed against us, but when other marginalized groups are discriminated against, we don’t have that same level of compassion.” That lack of compassion O’Neal felt from Spelman College caused him to leave the institution at the end of his first year and enter Bryn Mawr College, a predominantly-white all-women’s institution which announced trans-inclusive admissions policies in 2015. “I went to Bryn Mawr College, which is pretty much all white, all women’s, but there were trans-men there as well and I was able to be more of myself,” O’Neal said. “The only problem with Bryn Mawr was that I couldn’t identify as Black without being overly sexualized because now, I am this exotic being. I am a Black trans-man.” On his journey back to Spelman College, O’Neal said, “I had to sit down with myself and I ask myself, ‘Which school do I want to fight for myself in?’ I came back and I am ready to give Spelman hell.” Spelman College continues to preach about “equality,” yet students who identify outside of the gender-binary feel like outsiders due to the exclusive language used. In countless convocations where speakers begin by saying, “Good morning, my Spelman sisters” and when professors automatically refer to students with pronouns like she/her, students are made to feel uncomfortable on their own campus if they do not identify as female. Students begin to find allies within the faculty/staff at Spelman College, and Coach Makeba is one of them.
“There are a lot of non-binary students here at Spelman that were here before Keo was even here, and there are a lot of woke professors here at Spelman that realize that,” said Coach Makeba. “A trans-student at Spelman College is not taking anything away from any other student that is also here getting their education.” With allies identified within the faculty, staff, and student body of Spelman College, LGBTQIA students are still fighting for their right to have necessary amenities to make them feel safe on campus, one of those amenities being gender-neutral bathrooms. Recently, LGBT+ students and allies across the AUC united at Spelman and Morehouse to protest for the inclusion of gender-neutral bathrooms on both campuses. The newest building on Spelman’s campus, The Wellness Center, includes gender-neutral bathrooms, but academic buildings such as Giles, the Science Center, and residence halls do not offer such amenities. When students gathered outside of Spelman’s administrative building, Rockefeller Hall, campus security bombarded the protestors with threats of arrest as well as overly aggressive behavior. “There’s a lot that needs to go into meeting the needs of queer students, queer students that are already here and queer students [Spelman’s administration] plans on accepting,” O’Neal said. “I think that part of being a Spelman student is changing the world, so why can’t I change the world while also bringing Spelman along with me?”
Page Ten
Black Male
Jayson Overby Editor-in-Chief & Layout Editor jayson.overby@morehouse.edu
Robert James Staff Writer robert.james@morehouse.edu
Timothy Tukes Contributing Writer tukes.timothy@gmail.com
Omar Ashuur Photographer omarashhur97@gmail.com
Chad Rhym Managing Editor chad.rhym@morehouse.edu
Maya Lewis Staff Writer maya.lewis.96@gmail.com
Wayne Hayer Contributin Writer hayerwayne@yahoo.com
Chris Covington Photographer clip2195@gmail.com
Michael Scott Deputy-Managing Editor michael.Scott6@morehouse.edu
Nicholas Clemmons Staff Writer nicholas.Clemmons@morehouse.edu
Tyra Seals Copy Editor tseals2@scmail.spelman.edu
Caleb Barco Cartoonist caleb.barco@yahoo.com
Justin Carter Business Manager justin.carter@morehouse.edu
Laura Eley Staff Writer eley1@scmail.spelman.edu
Irayah Cooper Copy Editor rayah.cooper@gmail.com
Paul Brister Executive Producer paul.brister@morehouse.edu
Ayron Lewallen Campus News Editor ayronlewallen@gmail.com
Grant Bennett Staff Writer bennett.grant15@gmail.com
Paul Brister Copy Editor paul.brister@morehouse.edu
Madison McCaskey. Social Media Director madisonmccaskey@gmail.com
Isaiah Smalls Sports Editor claude.smalls@morehouse.edu
Tucker Toole Staff Writer tuctat@aol.com
Jonell Brown Copy Editor jdbrown905@gmail.com
Aaron Hobbs Social Media Director aaronh405@gmail.com
Javon Wilson World and Local Editor javon.wilson12@gmail.com
Jair Hilburn Staff Writer jair.hilburn@morehouse.edu
Wesley Canady Copy Editor wesleycanady@gmail.com
Kylan Kester Project Manager kylan.Kester@morehouse.edu
Brandon Welcome Staff Writer brandon.welcome@morehouse.edu
Miah Hardy Staff Writer mhardy9@scmail.spelman.edu
Austyn Wyche Senior Photographer austyn.wyche@morehouse.edu
Christopher Morris Marketing chrismorris1995@gmail.com
Javonna Robinett Staff Writer javonnarobinett@gmail.com
Ramon Johnson Contributing Writer ramonjohnson2017@yahoo.com
KaiYanna Washington Photographer tsehayphotography@gmail.com
Zuri Cheathem Marketing zuri.Cheathem@morehouse.edu
Oran Williams, Jr. Assistant Layout Editor oran.williams@morehouse.edu Robert James Assistant Layout Editor robert.james@morehouse.edu Ron Thomas Advisor ron.thomas@morehouse.edu David Dennis Advisor davidjdennis@gmail.com Greater Georgia Printers Printing Services 706-208-8800
Black Male
Page Fifteen
Resurrection By : Justin M. Winston Photography By : Jayson Overby
I’m in my second childhood But I don’t know if I’m living good, Things I ain’t get people say I should Only thing I tell them is I wish I could They say I’m messing up I consider the comments funny Talking to me like I’m some kind of dummy I wish they could see the person I’m becoming And though the road less traveled is laid with many perils I won’t say this isn’t the first time I looked down the barrel. No I didn’t blink wasn’t a moment I wanted to miss I didn’t want to dismiss on a chance to reminisce And though they say that ignorance is truly bliss I’m sitting here wondering what I can gain for this The full scope is something I tend to miss But look up at the stars that’s if you can see them They fading away that’s why I don’t want to be them Some wish their name to last forever in time, So you can’t criticize how I’m using mine. Guess it’s not over so you can’t say I’m done Best thing about being young is I can be anyone Worse thing about gaining years is you lose some of your peers, Can’t make any progress without willing to overcome your fears Still its some chances one just shouldn’t take It’s some circumstances that you just shouldn’t fake Still if taken for granted one thing that you can’t develop is hate Contempt with your own surroundings then change your perspective, You will soon find all you been lacking is directive No telling when my next childhood will begin So I enjoy every second of this as if it won’t come again If I’ve offended you in this life then maybe in the next we can make amends.
28.79295°N 81.32965°W 33.6512° N 90.2093° 41.479083°N 81.752365°W 39.12322°N 84.51319°W 30°28′05″N 91°08′22″W 36°12’22.1”N 95°57’34.6”W 39.2904° N, 76.6122° W 40.7027° N, 73.7890° W 41°49′04.7″N 87°43′26.4″W if you rub this paper hard enough, the red ink will come off