Soulful Silverback – Page 2

A TEMPLE WITHIN AN IRON ORCHESTRA

Silverback’s Note: There are no “Avengers: Endgame” spoilers ahead.

We gather at the Acropolis of Brooklyn. Our sneakers hit the artificial turf from various races, ethnicities, experiences, sexualities, regions, sizes, shapes, journeys, and stories.

Some of us drive the subway cars that herd millions of New Yorkers and visitors throughout this great city.

Some of us have raised our right hands to take an oath to support and defend the laws of the United States Constitution.

Some of us aspire to perform our talents under the brightest lights on the biggest stages.

We are “Kranksters.”

And on the surface, what brings this diverse community together is simply iron, rubber, and sweat.

However, if you attune your ears to the sounds that thunder from Krank Brooklyn you might hear a beautiful harmony.

Situated on the top floor of a less than auspicious storage facility, Krank is a boutique fitness gym featuring a body of citizens that exemplify America’s idealistic goals for diversity.

For me though, Krank has been the buoy that I drift to in my darkest moments lost at sea.

Owner Dan Salazar launched Krank in 2010. His love of performance science and insane competitive drive fueled his passion to master the art of training himself and others. The dude has over 15 training related credentials and certifications. The guy basically has information spilling out of his signature beanie. He is so encouraging, his energy is infectious.

A native New Yorker from the Lower East Side (LES) of Manhattan, Dan’s entrepreneurial spirit embodies a dream that has been fulfilled for millions of Latinos who arrived in New York City just a generation ago hoping to provide a better future for their families.

Dan’s vast knowledge and passion for training is what attracted some of the first Kranksters to join the gym. Admittedly, these first Kranksters were some of his childhood friends from the neighborhood in LES.

You may not be aware of this but it’s a Herculean task to get folks who live in Manhattan to cross the bridge and come into Brooklyn for anything — let alone to work out. The fact that he was able to convince his friends from the neighborhood to cross the bridge and put them through grueling workouts is a testament to just how special of a guy Dan is.

These “O.G. Kranksters” cemented the foundation this community is built upon.

One of these O.G.’s changed the course of his career by joining Krank. Head Coach, Miguel Gonzalez, known by various nicknames that are all synonymous with pain — mostly goes by “Migs” for short.

Miguel is genetically gifted and incredibly hard-working. The gods bestowed upon him a physique that appears to be carved out of marble, and I am convinced that he farts body fat for laughs. Nicknames and body fat aside, my fellow Aquarian is one of the most authentic, genuine, and caring guys I’ve come to know in recent years. I’ve always walked away from our discussions with a deep sense of connection. But more on that later.

Today — almost a decade later — Dan and Miguel continue to conduct Krank sessions like maestros. Directing, instructing, encouraging Kranksters and coaches to push themselves even harder to achieve their goals. All while remaining in tune with the pulse and pace of every section of this iron orchestra.

Traditional orchestras have four sections separated into categories of instrument. There is a woodwind, brass, percussion, and string section. Krank’s iron orchestra also features four sections. There’s the turf section, the rubber section, the iron section, and the raised platform section.

It was at this Acropolis where I built my Parthenon: my temple dedicated to guarding myself against my innermost demons.

Like most first time Kranksters, I couldn’t find the gym for my first session back in 2013. (Spoiler alert, the gym is actually inside the storage facility next to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway)

I hobbled into this no-frills storage facility desperate to make a change.

A few months earlier I had torn my second Achilles’ tendon playing basketball and required surgery to repair the injury.

Against my surgeon’s advice and with my thighs chafing from the August humidity, I rode the elevator thinking to myself, “What the (bleep) did I get myself into?”

Dan and Miguel’s attention to the limitations of my injury and their vast knowledge of modifying exercises for me to prevent further injury reassured me that this gym was the perfect match.

Months later I had reclaimed my body and was stronger than ever, but even more importantly, I had formed new friendships with some amazing people I had met along my Krank journey.

I love to challenge and compete with myself. But how does one compete with themselves without first establishing a baseline of success?

All right: Now I’ll admit that while I was hobbling through my first session I was picking out other Kranksters who I wanted to model my success after.

Later I would meet three Krank legends: Angel, Jamal, and Jessica.

Angel, an O.G. Krankster from LES, is a devoted family man and the strongest person that I know. Now I’m strong for your average mortal, but Angel is a Puerto Rican Samson. His strength is of biblical proportions.

Jamal, an O.G. Krankster from Brooklyn of Caribbean descent, is the most athletic person that I know. After years at Krank, I surpassed him in strength on the bench press and he then put me to shame by walking his large muscular frame on his hands for the entire length of the gym. (Yes, you read that correctly.)

Jessica, an O.G. Krankster from one of those cities in New England (kidding, Boston) is one of the most consistent people I know. There she is, day in and day out, a living embodiment of Krank’s mantra: “Do work, son!” Like me, she’s also of Cape Verdean descent which often reminds me of our ancestors.

Strength, agility, and consistency. Afro and Latino. Togetherness and encouragement. All the qualities that I possess, represented through these legendary Kranksters. The Krank community had breathed life into me and awakened the finest characteristics of my being.

It was also around this time in 2014 that I began to see a therapist on a weekly basis.

Between the almost daily sessions at Krank and my weekly visits with my therapist, I had begun to transform my mind and body. The place where I could release stress, let out a roar, and embrace the sense of community that we social creatures crave. Krank had become my sanctuary, my temple.

In fact, it was in my workouts with Angel and Jamal that the moniker “Silverback” was born.

Then years later through my love of music, I would add “Soulful” to Silverback and here we are.

So you see Soulful Silverback was conceived during a time of holistic wellness in my life. As a result of that healthy foundation, Soulful Silverback represents the finest ideals of who I continually strive to be as a person. Krank is the temple where the Silverback defeats his personal Thanos (the devastating supervillain from Marvel’s Avengers series).

Over the last two years, I’ve allowed that inner Thanos to get the upper hand on me and I found myself yet again lost at sea.

Krank is a short 10-minute walk from my apartment and I had intentionally been avoiding that climb to the Acropolis of Brooklyn.

I had forgotten what the iron orchestra sounded like and I was embarrassed to return in the poor shape I was in.

But like Thor in Marvel’s latest “Avengers: Endgame” film, I had to remind myself that, “I’m still worthy.” (And if you’ve seen the film, I probably looked like him too)

My mind, body, and soul was yearning for a dip in the temple waters.

Then out of the blue, my phone was buzzing. It was a text from Jessica and two other Kranksters wondering where I had been.

Like the Hulk, they encouraged me to come back home to Krank. I got the sense that they missed the Silverback but more importantly, I missed them.

Weeks have passed since I returned to my temple atop the Acropolis of Brooklyn and oh how I have missed rumbling around this sanctuary.

As I was alluding to earlier, the discussions on the temple grounds of Krank are sometimes even better than the workouts themselves (if you can catch your breath).

They are discussions that would make any political pollster salivate. Discussions that express the soaring highs and the dark lows of the human experience. Discussions that center around the eternal principles of art, faith, justice, thought, and love.

They are topics, discussions, and stories that exemplify the storytelling tradition of our species. And in the backdrop, the drive that our species has to improve on what Leonardo da Vinci thought he perfected when he drew the Vitruvian Man.

Dan, Miguel, Angel, Jamal, Jessica, and countless other Kranksters are all central figures in my adventures atop the Acropolis of Brooklyn. They are the people who make Krank a special community to be a part of. It’s these interconnected bonds — a celebration of togetherness — that lures every Krankster back to sweat in that old storage facility.

These days as I take that rickety elevator to the 8th floor — those blue elevator doors slowly peel open and as I get closer to the temple grounds — I can hear the instruments of the iron orchestra get louder and louder.

I smile as I am reminded that there is healing in community, and together we go farther than we could alone.

Time to “Do work, son!” and be the hero of your own story.

Similar Read: Dreams of Wakanda

A MAN WAS LYNCHED YESTERDAY

This weekend I experienced overt racism in Arizona.

400 years after the first African human beings arrived in shackles to the shores of the then English colony, Virginia.

162 years after a Chief Supreme Court Justice informed the plaintiff, a free Black man, that he could not try his case as he was not considered a person in the eyes of the American legal system.

72 years to the day after Major League Baseball allowed the first human with Black skin to play a professional sport in Brooklyn.

51 years after a reverend with a peaceful dream was gunned down on a balcony in Memphis.

2 years after sixty-three million Americans got dressed, left their homes, and cast a vote for the sitting President.

1 year after a Lynching Memorial, The National Memorial for Peace and Justice, opened in Alabama.

I, a Black American, experienced overt racism in an upscale Arizona restaurant in the year of our Lord 2019.

I’d love to tell you the full story but I refuse. Short of being referred to outside of my given name, the story unfolds in just the way you’d imagine it would.

I shared the story with my Black friends and they responded with a Bran Stark level of surprise.

I shared the story with my White friends and they responded with a Jaime Lannister level of shock.

It’s a tale as old as time. One that Black folks are all too familiar with and one that White folks are all too unfamiliar with.

As if I had forgotten, I was reminded that my blackness is still not welcome in American dining establishments. As the incident was unravelling, I quickly assessed what was happening and it felt like time began to slow down. The moment Black folks fear on a daily basis was actually happening.

This was not a drill. Man your battle stations. We are under attack.

I remained calm, composed, and graceful in navigating our group out of the situation. Not because of anything that I actively train for but because my DNA is hardwired for survival in these moments.

I always walk away from these incidents feeling like I cheated death. Like a victorious warrior in the Roman Colosseum, you almost want to let out a primal roar. However, I moved on clutching to my dignity, my pride, and knowing that my ancestors are always guiding me.

Then minutes go by, then hours, and then days and you struggle to breathe because you still smell that foul odor all around you.

It’s like stepping in a massive pile of dog shit. You look to wipe your shoes in the nearest puddle of water. You find a stick to pick out the particles of shit that are in the grooves of your shoes. You slide your shoes back and forth on the pavement hoping to remove any last bits that remain. You ask people around you if they smell anything funny. But everywhere you go all you can smell is that lingering smell of shit following you everywhere.

Major League Baseball celebrates Jackie Robinson Day on every April 15. Every team and player that plays on Jackie Robinson Day has to wear my favorite number, 42. I always try to attend a baseball game to see all the jerseys adorned in that beautiful number and honor Jackie’s lasting impact on my life.

It’s not lost on me that today is Jackie Robinson Day.

22 years after the inaugural Jackie Robinson Day and I am still yearning for the day that Langston Hughes once wrote about in his classic poem I, Too in 1926. The day that, “They’ll see how beautiful I am and be ashamed.”

Because, honestly, I’m tired of this shit.

A REUNION IN LAGOS

You know that scene from Back to the Future? The one where Marty McFly, the main character, delivers a thrilling rendition of the song “Johnny B. Goode” on that red guitar?

It’s one of my favorites.

During that scene, Marty is on stage with a band called “Marvin Berry and the Starlighters.” As Marty continues to rip on the strings, Marvin can’t believe his ears. He runs to call his cousin, Chuck Berry, the famous musician who actually sang the original song in real life:

“Chuck, Chuck! It’s Marvin,” he said. “You know that new sound you were looking for? Well, listen to THIS!”

Listen to this….

In 2015, I received a similar phone call from my friend Ian who’s like family to me. At the time, he was working for an American multinational corporation while on rotation in Lagos, Nigeria.

Ian was so excited. He was telling me all about this new sound he’d encountered one night in Lagos. He described the sound as a combination of Jamaican Dancehall and American Pop music.

Now I knew I could trust Ian’s musical taste. Ever since I met the guy twenty-five years ago, we’ve spent countless nights dancing to Reggae music well into the early hours of the morning. While I tend to rumble around like a fool, Ian is actually a good dancer. He smoothly glides around the floor and he never seems to get tired. The guy can also pick up just about any dance move within seconds.

So when he sent me a few Afrobeat songs, I wasn’t surprised that I got hooked and couldn’t get enough of this new delightful rhythm.

Ian, who had been stationed in Nigeria for four months, quickly fell head over heels in love. I’ll never forget when he came back because he couldn’t stop talking about his life there. The people, the food, the accents, the clothing. He was gushing. So I promised him I would visit Lagos one day.

Then I met his friend, Chukwudubem (or “Dubem” for short). The instant you meet Dubem you just get a good vibe from him. He’s a salt of the earth kind of guy. A cool, laid-back, soft-spoken gentleman who quietly makes his presence known in whatever room he’s in. I met Dubem in 2016 when I was partying with Ian near his new rotation in Dubai. Dubem was born and raised in Nigeria and the more I talked to him, the more curious I got about Lagos.

Over the course of my stay in Dubai, we talked for what felt like for hours and when I returned home we continued to message one another on WhatsApp. I’d ask him questions like: What did he think of Black Lives Matter? Who’s better: Patoranking or Gyptian? What did he think of Black Panther?

Sometimes I wanted to get his perspective on a certain topic. And other times (I have to admit) I wanted him to validate a point that I had been debating with my American friends on the African diaspora.

With every exchange, my curiosity continued to grow. Then one day he mentioned he was getting married to a beautiful Nigerian woman whom he had met in Dubai. He shared that he may not be able to extend an official wedding invite but that I was welcome to tag along with Ian. If the stars aligned I may even be able to attend the after party.

“So you’re saying I can crash your wedding?!” I replied.

He said “yes”! Soon after that, I bought a ticket to Lagos. I’d take off in December.

A few months before we left, I had received an email from 23andMe informing me that they had been able to drill deeper to clarify my ancestry results. Previously, my results showed that I was generally 58% African, 33% European, and 6% Native American. I opened the app on my phone and was pleasantly surprised to learn that the highest percentage of my African ancestry is from—you guessed it—Nigeria!

I am typically never one to get excited about trips abroad until a few days before I leave. However, I had been excited about this trip for months. Between constantly listening to Afrobeat music, to meeting Dubem, and the recent discovery of my Nigerian ancestry, the anticipation for this trip had surpassed any feeling that I had ever had stepping onto an airplane.

But beneath the excitement there was a bit of unease. Here I was onboard a midnight ten-hour direct flight across the Atlantic Ocean to return to a continent that I had never physically been. My mind was racing with questions like:

What if the Nigerians weren’t friendly towards me?

I never go anywhere for eleven days … What if I get bored while I am there for so long?

What if being an American Afro-Latino kid from Brooklyn is not welcome by the people I encounter?

What the hell am I going to wear to this wedding?

Do I know enough dance moves to keep up with Ian?

What if my ancestors were never stolen off the continent to begin with?

When I arrived in Nigeria, I was quickly taken aback by all of the commotion. Apparently, Christmas time in Nigeria is the busiest season of the year. Many Nigerians return from abroad to visit family for the holidays so the streets are jammed with traffic. The humid air is filled with the melodic percussions of Afrobeat music pouring out of every car and bar. Sometimes even today I hear that symphony in my head — the ruckus of the cars, the horns and irresistible beat of “Able God” — and I can’t help but break out my finest Shaku Shaku dance.

All of the top Nigerian musicians are in town. Their concert billboards were plastered everywhere. For me, it’s like a Who’s Who of all the artists I had come to love over the years. I can only imagine that this is what Detroit must have been like during the Motown era in the 60s or the Bronx during the birth of hip-hop in the early 80s.

The club scene is electric. Filled wall to wall with joyous dancing Black bodies. It’s a beautiful sight to behold.

One night, I was doing my usual rumble on the dancefloor when Ian taps me on the shoulder to leave. But I was feeling the vibe and it was only 1 a.m. I wanted more.

“Why are we leaving?” I asked. “The music is so good here!”

A sly smile creeped across Ian’s face, “The music is good everywhere in Lagos!” he replied.

Ian wasn’t exaggerating. Every club we went to had amazing music. Every now and then the DJ would play two or three American songs but that’s it.

After a week of clubbing every night I had taken on the moniker, “Chike from BK.” A nod to my roots but still a label of my difference. We had debated if I might be of the Hausa or Igbo tribe. And ultimately settled on Igbo because of my stature and regal demeanor (kidding).

But alas we were nearing the end of our voyage. The day had arrived for the first of two wedding ceremonies. First, the traditional wedding which was a beautiful tribal ceremony that joined the two families as one and felt more “African.” Then two days later, the “White” wedding which was a more Western style ceremony with a lavish reception. I was ready to immerse myself into these rich cultural experiences.

I’ve been a groomsmen in an inordinate amount of weddings back home. Just off the top of my head I can count about ten, so I understand the jitters of a wedding day. Regardless of my involvement, I always try my best to stay in the periphery and be as helpful as I can to keep the day flowing smoothly. Sometimes I throw in a joke or two to keep the mood light.

Dubem had reached out to get my clothing measurements before I arrived in Lagos so I wouldn’t feel left out. To my surprise, on the morning of the traditional wedding ceremony, I learned that I would be dressed exactly like the groomsmen. I felt a strong sense of belonging as I put on my brown hat, white top, and what can only be described as a pink wrap skirt.

I was ready to attend this meaningful cultural ceremony but still wanted to add a little Brooklyn flavor to my outfit so I slightly tilted my hat to the side.

Before the ceremony, the wedding party began to take pictures and I watched observantly on the sidelines. Then suddenly, Dubem invited me to join them as if I were a member of his family. Stunned, I initially declined as I felt out of place. Most of the members of the wedding party were lifelong friends of the bride and groom.

I don’t know about you, but my parents and I have gone through their wedding photos many times over years and I have asked about every single person represented in those photographs. I was honored that this Afro-Latino kid from Brooklyn by way of Grenada, Puerto Rico, and Cape Verde would forever be documented in Dubem and Ore’s wedding photos.

Maybe one day when their children point to me in their wedding photos they can tell my story.

Maybe they can tell their children about our collective story as we across the African diaspora continue to reconnect with our roots.

Maybe they can share with their children that love — the love of music, the love amongst friends, and the romantic love between partners — has always brought us together.

As I stood there with the sound of cameras flashing, I began to reflect on my ancestors. Their son was back home for the first time. They’d be happy to know this son of theirs was welcomed back by one of his best friends Ian, embraced by his new friend Chukwudubem, and moved to dance by Afrobeats into the wee morning hours. As I envision our ancestor’s benediction upon us, I see our reunion bringing a smile to their faces.

…That’s the new sound I was looking for. The sound of belonging.

LA VIE EN ROSE

With one of the bloodiest wars in human history as the backdrop, Édith Piaf penned one of the most romantic love songs of all time in 1945.

“La Vie En Rose” is a world-famous ode to two enamored lovers and a song that has been covered by some of the world’s most famous artists like Louis Armstrong, Grace Jones, and most recently Michael Bublé and Lady Gaga. This song touches me because Édith was a woman whose life was littered with various personal tragedies. You’d think most of her music would be downtrodden but somehow she was able to find some light within her to write this beautiful melody.

In English, the song title translates to “life in rosy hues,” and it is a song we should all reflect on this holiday season. It’s a song that invokes romantic feelings of lovers in a warm embrace. Which might seem rather mushy for some, but to my surprise, this song has been really meaningful to me this year.

Actually, the last two years have been rather difficult for me.

I lost friends I loved, I lost confidence in myself, and I lost hope in our nation. This mounting sense of loss led to some painful yet beautiful moments of self-reflection. Some of that pain had derived from much needed personal maturation around my romantic pursuits. Some of that pain had derived from a phase in my career where it felt like I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. And some of that pain derived from the anxiety of dealing with the onslaught of political drama coming out of the White House.

The other night, I was driving to Brooklyn on the FDR Drive when I got caught in some dead stop traffic. I felt like I was in LA. As I am sitting in the car looking at the Brooklyn Bridge on the horizon, “La Vie En Rose” began to play on my stereo. This time, Louis Armstrong was singing the song, and the moment I heard his voice, I began to reflect on the words Edith originally sang 73 years ago. I suddenly felt tears well up in my eyes.

“Hold me close…”

As I sang along I was overcome by this overwhelming sense that everything was going to be okay. Despite my fears, anxieties, and concerns the Universe was holding me close. Somehow things would work out in my favor. Maybe it was the soft strokes of the piano keys or the ringing clarity of Satchmo’s trumpet, but I knew at that moment that things were going to turn around.

“…And though I close my eyes I see la vie en rose…”

When I was younger and less jaded, I would close my eyes and see boundless possibilities — life ahead could only have been in rosy hues. Even as war raged on in my own personal life, I could still see happy hues. But as I became more conscious of the world around me, those hues began to darken. And sometimes when I close my eyes I don’t see la vie en rose anymore, I see a much darker place. But while I was in the car with my eyes closed, I found relief — if only for a moment.

“…When you press me to your heart and in a world apart…”

Some of us because of whatever circumstances may be weighing us down, may not be able to see life in a rosy hue anymore. To those dear friends, I’d encourage you to find someone you love, someone who loves you or even a lovely song and hide in their warm embrace. If you can’t find love then give love. And if you can’t find love or give love then message me! After all, love is one of the most powerful forces on the planet in binding us together.

We find ourselves at a precarious moment in the history of our species. When you remove your rosy spectacles, you may see that between our continued destruction of the planet and the manner in which our world leaders continue to lead through violence that we face a palpable existential crisis at every turn.

However, as I turn up the volume on this beautiful song, I am able to better understand President Obama’s recent comments in South Africa:

“And now an entire generation has grown up in a world that by most measures has gotten steadily freer and healthier and wealthier and less violent and more tolerant during the course of their lifetimes.”

To be clear, I’m not suggesting that we deny what is happening before our eyes. Not at all. However, we should consider how our constant attention to the media cycle could be impacting us. I know it’s caused me to think rather irrationally at times and has ushered me into a feeling of hopelessness. But I know I feel more hopeful when I turn my gaze to identify things I’m truly grateful for.

“…Give your heart and soul to me and life will always be la vie en rose.”

This Holiday season — as madness continues to swirl around us — I pray that you too see what Edith, Louis, Obama, and I have embraced in loving life at such a time as this. Let’s turn up the volume and celebrate la vie en rose.

Similar Read: A Reunion in Lagos

CULTURE CON REVIEW: BLACK PEOPLE AT PEACE

Remember what it felt like when you walked into Toys R Us (R.I.P. to my guy Geoffrey) as a kid? You almost dislocated your parents shoulder out of the socket you’d be so eager to race towards the aisles. You’d see the other children playing with all the newest toys with joy on their faces.

That’s what it felt like to be at Culture Con 2018. Except this time there was no proverbial parent holding me back from indulging in Black Boy Joy. Culture Con is an amazing one day conference that embodied, both visually and audibly, what it feels like to be a black creative in New York City. There were artists of all ilks represented in the room where it happened.

The color pallette featured the bold colors of the African diaspora encapsulated in an exposed brick Industrial event space on the Brooklyn and Queens border. Half of the space highlighted the corporate sponsors who have invested in growing their Black consumer base. Companies like Essence, BET, Dove, Tidal, and Vaseline to name a few. In the front of the space is where the inspiration bellowed out. Interviews were headlined by John Legend, Charlamagne Tha God, La La Anthony, and hosted by Taylor Rooks.

All of the speakers offered a wealth of information and encouragement on how to best tap into their creative inspirations. I could write full pieces on the pearls of wisdom that were spoken in that room but the one that jumped out to me the most was by 23 year old Tyler Mitchell. Mitchell, the first black photographer to shoot a Vogue cover in their 126 year history, shot the iconic Beyonce cover back in September 2018. While the audience gushed over the thought of being six degrees of separation from Queen Beyonce herself, Mitchell spoke of the inspiration behind his photographs, “In my work I try to elevate the Black body into not being a thing… I just want to shoot photos of Black people at peace.”

Black people at peace? Black people at peace? Black people at peace?

The words are still ringing in my hippocampus as I continue to wonder if my people will ever be at peace with the cultural gnats that continue to nag us on a hourly basis. Let alone capturing what that would look like in high end photographs. Here’s to Tyler Mitchell as he continues on his journey!

However what was most gratifying was the collective soulful vibe of the folks who were in attendance. The style was impeccable and the unity was palpable. You could almost reach out and touch it or taste it dancing on your taste buds. There was heaps of denim, leather, silk, suede, and a smattering of statement pieces that unapologetically affirmed our blackness. My personal favorite was an all black hoodie that read, “I’m Black yall, im Black yall, im Blackity Black I’m Black yall.”

Culture Con was a modern Black Gatsby style celebration of Blackness and boy did it feel good to be surrounded by a room full of like minded humans who not only want to create but continue to leave our indelible mark on American Culture. After all as Jay-Z once said, “We are the culture. Nothing moves without us.” Nothing.

Until we meet again to experience peace and joy together, Culture Con!

THANK YOU, PRESIDENT TRUMP

Thank you, President Trump. Thank you for electrifying a nation that was politically flaccid. Thank you for jolting younger generations into political action. And, If I am being totally honest, thank for driving me to awaken the Silverback inside me.

Over the last six hundred and fifty four days of this Presidency, I’ve observed many things that have equally disturbed me and broken my heart. Unfortunately, at the top of that list are Conservatives of Faith who have continued to support this President. The more that I continued to see the bastardization of Faith, did it only drive me to recall my own Christian upbringing. While the net outcome of those conversations with myself will be shared at a later time, I did remember the following passage from 1 Kings 3: 16-27. Which is a story about King Solomon making a decision between amongst two disputing women:

16 Now two prostitutes came to the king and stood before him. 17 One of them said, “Pardon me, my lord. This woman and I live in the same house, and I had a baby while she was there with me. 18 The third day after my child was born, this woman also had a baby. We were alone; there was no one in the house but the two of us.

19 “During the night this woman’s son died because she lay on him. 20 So she got up in the middle of the night and took my son from my side while I your servant was asleep. She put him by her breast and put her dead son by my breast. 21 The next morning, I got up to nurse my son—and he was dead! But when I looked at him closely in the morning light, I saw that it wasn’t the son I had borne.”

22 The other woman said, “No! The living one is my son; the dead one is yours.”

But the first one insisted, “No! The dead one is yours; the living one is mine.” And so they argued before the king.

23 The king said, “This one says, ‘My son is alive and your son is dead,’ while that one says, ‘No! Your son is dead and mine is alive.’”

24 Then the king said, “Bring me a sword.” So they brought a sword for the king.25 He then gave an order: “Cut the living child in two and give half to one and half to the other.”

26 The woman whose son was alive was deeply moved out of love for her son and said to the king, “Please, my lord, give her the living baby! Don’t kill him!”

But the other said, “Neither I nor you shall have him. Cut him in two!”

27 Then the king gave his ruling: “Give the living baby to the first woman. Do not kill him; she is his mother.”

America is the baby. Love always wins. Go vote.

WITNESSING A BLUEPRINT IN MEMPHIS

Scribbled on notepads in his study are the contemplations of a young man with a heavenly calling. With a skylight shining through an overhead window, a modern-day pioneer surrounded by sneaker boxes sketches his vision for a city in the Antebellum South. In the coming weeks and months, those scribbles will blossom into palatable messages that will inspire and challenge the lives in his adopted community. Often only remembered as the location for the final living moments of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Memphis is in dire need of a rebirth. Once a major slave trading post, in 1862 during the Civil War, the Union Army recaptured the city of Memphis in an effort to emancipate those in bondage. Similarly, Pastors Jeremy and Tasha Louison are poised to capture the city of Memphis on behalf of the church they have been called to plant, Pioneer Church.

As someone who has raged against the machine of celebrity Christianity for the greater part of ten years, I have had a peek behind the curtain of a few mega churches. In Memphis, however, I had the pleasure of witnessing the grunt work that goes on behind the scenes of bringing to life a young church’s mission of creating an “environment where passionate, diverse, and spirit-filled people experience oneness with God and oneness with each other.”

After collectively working 100-hour weeks in their full-time careers and raising an energetic one-year-old, the Louisons can be found on Saturday evenings discussing edits to their announcements or dripping in sweat from moving tables and chairs in the sweltering southern heat. Absent are the smoke machines, Broadway-style lighting, Grammy-nominated choirs, and over-inflated salaries of pastors who are exempt from paying taxes. In an era where celebrity pastors strategically plant churches using the same business model as Starbucks, the Louisons have instead decided to adopt the model of The Apostle Paul: bringing the Gospel to the forgotten Gentiles of downtown Memphis. While other churches have decided to plant churches in affluent communities, Pioneer planted their flag where their message is most needed, in downtown Memphis. In an area that is riddled with abandoned commercial real estate and illegal prostitution is rampant when night falls, Pioneer Church is embodying what the Christian church is called to do in a modern world that is so in need of a life-giving message.

In the face of various naysayers who have stood on the sidelines shouting that the young couple’s vision was destined to fail, they have pressed on with a steely focus on the lives they have been called to impact. The congregants they lead steal away on Sundays to meet just as the congregants in the early church did: a small group of young men, women, and children finding oneness in their faith. A group that can be found exposing their wounds to one another while finding community through encouraging one another with love.

In 1967, a year before his death, Dr. King delivered a speech to a Philadelphia middle school where he posed the question, “What is your life’s blueprint?” A speech that is not as heralded as some of his more notable speeches, King encourages students to determine their own self-worth, to always achieve excellence in whatever work they put their hands to no matter the scale, and that there should always be a commitment to beauty, love, and justice. And in the place where Dr. King exhaled his final breaths, Pioneer Church is exhaling new ones by embodying that blueprint.

I swell with pride to call Pastor Jeremy and Tasha Louison my family. And after spending time in their home, I am even more eager to see their divine Blueprint come to life. I left their home reflecting on Chance The Rapper’s song, Blessings, as a benediction for that area of downtown Memphis: “Are you ready for your blessing? Are you ready for your miracle?”

OF GODS AND MEN: KING JAMES & THE SILVERBACK

Filled with plastic trays and your typical school lunch fare, we all sat like Black Vikings at these elongated brown tables. While the top five floors of St. Edmund Preparatory High School were for a formal education of the mind, the basement lunchroom tables were for informal debate. In those days, watching the basketball team play on cold Friday nights in Brooklyn was the must-see event of the week. Naturally being a starter on the basketball team, I earned my seat with the jocks, upperclassmen, and the “cool kids.” It was 2002 and our junior varsity basketball team had just won the city championship the previous year and I had lost weight to prepare myself to play on the varsity level. Socially, I was dating my first girlfriend, I had lots of gelled curly hair, and admittedly was feeling myself. Our coach mostly played upperclassman and I struggled to find minutes on the court that season, but otherwise, life was good.

A bit of a bookworm and a basketball junkie, I couldn’t wait for my issue of Sports Illustrated to arrive every week. I’ll never forget that week in February of 2002 that I received my issue with a kid that kinda looked like me on the cover along with the words “The Chosen One” emblazoned in white letters. As a deeply religious teenager, you can image how incendiary I felt that cover was, but it only inflamed my curiosity even more: Who was this kid? And why was the iconic Sports Illustrated magazine saying he could play in the NBA as a high school junior? I was a high school junior and was struggling for minutes at St. Edmund and you’re telling me this kid can play with Shaquille O’Neal (my favorite player at the time) in the NBA?! Where is Akron, Ohio anyway? Why does his school name have two hyphenated saints? Who is this kid?!

Because my family invested in the luxury of books and magazines, we were probably one of the last families to order cable television. So when LeBron James made his television debut in December of 2002, I did not get to watch ESPN broadcast the first nationally televised high school game featuring LeBron’s high school team, St. Vincent-St. Mary. Trust me when I say that I actually asked my mom if I could go watch a high school kid play basketball at a friend’s house. I have Caribbean parents so you can imagine how that conversation went with my mother: “Are you crazy? No, you’re not going to no Wesley’s house to watch no game ah esta hora a la manana! Are you crazy?” Obviously, I wanted to be prepared for the following days’ lunchroom debate to give my reaction of the kid they were calling “King James.” Alas, I was relegated to reading about him in the paper the next day. He dropped 31 points? Who is this kid?

The following year I was voted as one of the captains of the varsity basketball team. Although I was our team’s grossly undersized center, we hoisted our second New York City championship before losing in the state tournament. But I had earned the respect of my basketball peers and was voted All-City along with two of my teammates by all of the head coaches in our league. Meanwhile in Ohio, LeBron also won a city championship, but he then went on to win a third state championship and second Mr. Basketball award for the state of Ohio. He went on a few months later to be drafted the overall number one pick by his home state team, Cleveland Cavaliers. By his NBA debut in October 2003, Nike had already signed him to a record $90 million dollar endorsement deal and the pressure was mounting for LeBron to deliver that night. Although we still didn’t have cable, my mamma couldn’t tell me nothing now that I was in college, so I went to a friend’s house to watch his debut versus the Sacramento Kings. This time I didn’t have to read about it in the paper: he had 25 points, 9 rebounds, 6 assists, and 4 steals. Who is this kid?

I graduated college in three years with a 3.6 G.P.A, and in those three years, I had three internships and three jobs. You do the math. My hard work paid off and in 2007 I was proudly hired by the iconic American company, American Express. “Is this what it felt like to be drafted,” I wondered at the time. A designer that I knew from college reached out to invite me to LeBron’s Nike sneaker release party in lower Manhattan one night. I partied a lot in those days and as I was playing NBA 2K at the event a voice asks from behind me, “Who’s winning?” I turn around and it’s Lebron James in a cream mink vest. I keep my cool and simply respond, “You.” He laughs and we dap each other and he walks away. Later that summer, LeBron was taking his grossly inexperienced and relatively untalented team to the NBA Finals for the first time in Cavs franchise history – and in only his fourth year in the league! Who is this kid?

I was having a great year at work and was on my way to receiving the company’s highest rating for elite performers. In the spring of 2012, I was selected from thousands of employees to be a member of the highly selective, Global Rotation Program, which afforded me the opportunity to live in Sydney, Australia. About to embark on what would be the professional and personal journey of a lifetime, I watched from my work computer at the Amex Tower in Sydney, as LeBron won his first NBA championship as a member of the Miami Heat. He was winning on South Beach and I was winning on Bondi Beach. Who is this kid?

In 2016, I signed the largest deal of my sales career to date and Lebron had returned to the Cleveland Cavaliers to win their first championship in franchise history – the state of Ohio’s first professional championship since 1964 – his third ring overall. Since then, as I write this piece, I am at a moment of transition in my career and LeBron recently announced that he was leaving Cleveland, transitioning to the legendary Los Angeles Lakers. Who is this man?

Over the last 16 years, the world has come to intimately know Lebron Raymone James and his family. And in a sense, he and I have grown up together. From the evolution of our sense of style to our ever-receding hairlines, I’ve grown up with King James as a reflection of my generation. And in my own small way, possibly even a reflection of myself. As a double entendre, he is the celebrity look-alike that I get most often.

The Michael Jordan vs. LeBron James debate will fervently continue to go on and that is a piece for another day. Yet, there is something LeBron did this week that continues to set him apart from not only all the other sports greats before him but as one of the great philanthropists of our time. In addition to lending his voice to social issues and spending $41 million dollars in 2015 to sponsor 1,100 college educations, this week he opened a public school in Akron whose mission is to aid students and parents of underprivileged families in Akron. Certainly, other athletes (like Dikembe Mutombo, who built a state-of-the-art hospital in his native Democratic Republic of Congo) have given back to their communities in major ways. Though what LeBron is doing is slightly different given the scale of the impact that he is achieving through educating children and college kids. This is a shining moment in a darkened backdrop of Black Americans deeply complicated relationship with the American Education system. Perhaps, his legacy through education will even shine brighter than his legacy as a basketball prodigy.

In Grant Wahl’s now iconic Sports Illustrated article from 2002, he famously described the meeting between “His Airness and King James,” as akin to when a teenage Bill Clinton met JFK. But maybe the photo above is actually the more appropriate comparison.

That’s who that man is… I hope to follow in his footsteps.

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A Peek Inside American Sports: Cheers & Protests

“Hahahahahah yeah too [sic] bad I’m fucking grounded nigger can’t do shit” – Josh Hader, October 20, 2011.

To be recognized as an All-Star in any profession is a high honor. To be recognized as an All-Star in any professional sport is a tremendous honor. To be recognized as a racist All-Star on the night you make your first All-Star appearance is a disgrace; depending on who you ask in Milwaukee.

Josh Hader is a 24-year-old pitcher for the Milwaukee Brewers. Josh Hader is White. During last weeks MLB All-Star Game, various racist, misogynistic, homophobic, and xenophobic tweets from 2011 surfaced during the game (see above). Following the game, Hader was informed that the tweets had gone viral and with the help of his PR team delivered the usual platitudes that are given by White athletes in this scenario. By now, you know them well. The words “sorry” “ashamed” “misguided” are often carpet bombed through the statement which typically ends with a reassurance that the comments don’t reflect their current views.

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We’ve seen this scenario play out quite a few times over the last year. During the NCAA Men’s basketball championship in April, breakout star Donte DiVincenzo’s racist tweets surfaced during the game. After attesting Cam Newton’s sexist remarks at a press conference in October, Charlotte Observer reporter, Jourdan Rodrigue’s racist tweets were surfaced. To date, neither Hader, DiVincenzo, and Rodrigue have suffered any public consequence for their tweets. While the flippant tweets of teenagers are surely a glimpse into how they were parented and their mindset at the time, I fully accept that people’s ideologies can evolve from teenage years to young adulthood. Rodrigue continues her career at the Charlotte Observer, DiVincenzo recently signed a million-dollar NBA contract with the Milwaukee Bucks, and Hader was given a standing ovation by the Milwaukee Brewers fan’s when he entered the game this weekend. Yes, you read that correctly; the fans gave Hader a standing ovation. A visual, audible, and symbolic affirmation of his vile commentary. Don’t believe me, just watch.

In a week that included watching the sitting President of the United States bend the proverbial knee to the President of a foreign advisory, watching the Milwaukee fans rise to applaud Hader was by far the most disgusting act I saw last week. As I watched a large majority of the 36,000 fans applaud, I could only wonder what were their professions. Then I was reminded of Sterling Brown.

Sterling Brown is a 23-year-old basketball player for the NBA’s Milwaukee Bucks. Sterling Brown is Black. While standing in a handicap parking space, Mr. Brown was tased and violently arrested by the Milwaukee Police Department earlier this year. Body camera footage showed that Mr. Brown was compliant in the face of excessive force used by police. Mr. Brown is currently suing the Milwaukee Police Department for police brutality. Yep, and you guessed it, one of the arresting officers – wait for it – went on social media to boast about his arrest and make racially charged comments.

Juxtapose these events in Milwaukee and therein you’ll find a microcosm of not only sports in America but America. A White man is cheered for his racism in MLB and another receives a million-dollar NBA contract in spite of his racism. Meanwhile, a Black man in the NBA is brutalized by police for his existence and another continues to be blackballed by the NFL for exercising his right to take a knee to demand justice for it all.

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KANYE EXPOSED US

He had me at Jesus Walks.

Having grown up in an evangelical church, I began exploring my own musical palate outside of gospel music in the late 90s. Like most adolescents growing up in Brooklyn at that time, my ears immediately gravitated to the sweet sounds of hip-hop. So listening to this collision of flavors in gospel and hip-hop music almost instantaneously turned me into a massive Kanye Omari West fan. Two years later I was able to briefly work with Kanye and meet his mother, Donda, on one special evening early in my career.

Over the last fifteen years, I have defended Kanye’s contributions to American culture and interpreted his infamous rants with much aplomb. Most of the time I felt that Kanye and I were kindred spirits and I had the ability to articulate the beauty in his messages. In doing so, I felt connected to one of history’s musical geniuses. Often, I would end my defense of Kanye with a prophetic word saying, “history will view Kanye’s contribution to music more favorably than his contemporaries.”

Having closely followed his career, I know that Kanye mostly engages on social media when he is looking to push a product. So it came as no shock to me that Kanye returned to Twitter with content that would spice things up. However, before spicing things up he was tweeting overwhelmingly positive messages before folks began to pay attention. But in this climate, positivity doesn’t sell.

As is my modus operandi, I put on the full armor of Kanye defenses and prepared for battle. In full regalia I defended Kanye, that is until the salute to Candace Owens knocked off my helmet. But I pressed on, explaining that he merely said that he liked how she thinks. That is until the signed Make America Great Again hat penetrated my shield. Only left with a sword to defend myself, I battled on evangelizing to any left-leaning person that would listen about the framework of our American Democracy. That is until the sword was knocked out of my hand when Kanye basically insinuated that American slavery was a choice that our ancestors made for themselves. Defenseless and fallen to my knees in defeat, I began asking folks, “Why they thought American slavery wasn’t a choice?” The various answers that I received not only invigorated me but exposed the bedsores riddled all over America’s already brittle skin.

The response to the question, “Why wasn’t American slavery a choice?” begins with the fact that slavery was rooted in the Founding Documents of America and backed by the full power of the American legal system and military. Specifically, the iconic Supreme Court Dred Scott v. Sandford case where Chief Justice Taney basically informed Mr. Scott to leave his courtroom as he was property and therefore property had no right to adjudicate the case. American slavery was an American government-sponsored genocide and exploitations of my ancestors. Continue to research and follow that line of thinking and let me know how you feel.

There were more white people in the South than the slaves? NO

The slaves were not educated and therefore weren’t smart? NO

The slaves didn’t have the will because their master repeatedly broke their will? NO

The slaves didn’t… NO

Even when the slaves decided against slavery for themselves, like Dred Scott, it was the Rule of Law that returned them to their slave masters at best or to their deaths at worst. Remember that Amistad and 12 Years A Slave were both award-winning films where the Law is the main protagonist. Our ancestors were intellectual, intentional, and strong-willed people who would not have chosen slavery for themselves had it not been for the Law of the land that they were captured too. Any explanation that is not first rooted in a discussion around American Law is shrouded in racism and victim blaming.

As responses to my question poured in what I realized is that Kanye is uninformed and a majority of the public are also uninformed. So in effect, it was the uninformed shouting down the uninformed. This lack of understanding is a glaring indictment against the education system of one of the wealthiest empires in the history of the world. In the end, it’s imperative that we continue in a relentless pursuit of knowledge.

Thanks for exposing us Ye.