Democratic New York Governor Andrew Cuomo’s troubles are reaching a saturation point with the public and many congressional Democrats, who are demanding that he step down. As more women come forward to accuse him of sexual harassment, the more comical his refusal to resign becomes. These revelations come after data from the New York Department of Health revealed that Covid deaths in nursing homes were underreported by as much as 50 percent, leaving out deaths of patients that had been transferred out of nursing homes to hospitals. This discovery alone should be enough for Cuomo to resign. However, he denied that there was a discrepancy and refused to take responsibility, calling it a delay in reporting.
Since the election, which ousted Trump from the Oval office and ushered in the Biden Administration, the polarization of the American people is more prominent than ever. Many on the far right continue to push unfounded claims of a stolen vote, and the far left appears to still be gloating at President Biden’s significant, yet hotly contested, win. Biden is walking a fine line as he attempts to promote his unity message, and has said nothing about Cuomo’s scandals.
Biden has worked hard to promote his $1.9 trillion Covid relief package, and has been vocal about promoting the role of women in his administration, so his silence seems weird – and intentional. Several members of Congress, as well as New York mayor Bill DeBlasio and others, have made it clear that they believe Cuomo needs to resign.
Cuomo, who has been an outspoken critic of Donald Trump, appears to be taking a page out of his playbook. The Trump Administration ran roughshod over government and individual accountability over the last four years, denying wrongdoing for obvious transgressions, covering up scandals, and eroding public trust in our democracy. Democrats have made it quite clear that they would make (GOP) politicians accountable for their corruption. By logical extension, this should apply to all politicians, and many Democrats appear to be willing to apply that to members of their own party. Cuomo, on the other hand, is doubling down on his self-righteousness, defending the grievous gap in nursing home Covid deaths and expressing hollow regret for his actions toward the women he allegedly harassed.
Democrats have tenuous control of Congress, and Cuomo is endangering the delicate balance. He is handing the GOP the ammo it needs to wrestle back control in 2022. The New York state Assembly has authorized an impeachment investigation in an effort to remove the stain of his alleged misdeeds before they become permanent. That will take time, however – and more accusations may come forth, making Cuomo and the Democrats look even worse. This is as close to a guarantee that the GOP can grab back control of Congress as one might get.
Cuomo needs to acknowledge the scandals, express true contrition, and step down. He can make the hard choice, or have the choice made for him. His ouster – whether by resigning or impeachment – is inevitable.
I’ve heard it all. Which, as a U.S. born Citizen… feels surreal. Out of my entire family, I am the first to be born in the United States, though my heritage and ancestry span continents.
Originally, my ancestors are from India’s northernmost region, Punjab, to be exact, but the story does not start from there, though.
No, the story begins with my ancestors integrating with the Greeks, the Romans, the Persians, the Afghanis, the Mongols, and essentially the multitudes of other ethnicities that dreamt of India’s wonders and sought to conquer, trade in it, or subjugate it.
With each new group, with each new conquest, and with each new age, my ancestors survived, thrived, and grew. In a time where there were no universal laws or rules, my bloodline prevailed. And through all this time, they paved the course of my path, the purpose of my being, to one day be here, sitting in this very chair, typing these words out for anyone to read and digest.
Through famine, war, disease, political intrigue, migration, poverty, wealth, my ancestors ensured I would be here one day.
In a land that would be alien to them, but to me, it is all I have ever known to be home.
Here in this nation –
I scraped my knees for the first time, rollerblading.
I played handball in the public parks against the bigger boys.
I saw scobby-doo and sang along to its theme song E.V.E.R.Y. T.I.M.E.
I enjoyed my first pop-song – NSYNC
I had my first school detention
My first beat up after school.
My first fish, turtle, bird, dog, and now cat pet
My first best friend
My first kiss
My first love
My first heartbreak
My first Slurpee (My first brain freeze)
My first pizza
My first BaconEgg&Cheese
My first educational degree (Then my second first master’s degree)
My first credit card
My first job
My first paycheck
My first exposure to death
My first breakdown
My first sense of accomplishment…
You see, this country was my first for everything, as I was the first of my family to be born here. So when you tell me to go back to where I came from, where do you think that place is?
How could you know what it took, the sacrifices, the pain, the defeats, the victories, and the resilience and determination it took to ensure that I would be here one day?
They couldn’t know, but you, dear reader, you now know.
The next time someone decides to tell you to go back to where you came from, take a moment and realize you are everything your ancestors hoped, prayed, traveled, worked, fought, and died for to be here.
You are your bloodline’s greatest achievement.
And just like you, I am here to stay, to grow, to achieve, and to inspire.
Brooklyn Hospital was under siege during the first wave of the coronavirus outbreak in April. I live one block away from the Civil War era hospital. As ambulances raced through the empty streets, I could hear the echo of the sirens reverberate off of the buildings nearby.
The sirens wailed for weeks. To keep my mind occupied I had thrown myself into my work to preserve my sanity. From my brown upholstered chair in the corner of my apartment, I could hear every ambulance that passed by. At the sound of every siren, I could envision the darkness that was about to overtake the nation.
A tsunami of past traumas crashed into my mind as I recalled the lasting impacts of 9/11 on New York City, the country’s abysmal public healthcare system, and America’s world-renown legacy as one of the most viscously racist nations in the history of mankind.
I was defiant in my refusal to be mentally waterboarded by the sensationalism of the American media. Having already experienced NYC during 9/11, I already knew that the city was in dire straits in the years ahead. With the hourly increase in ambulance sirens and the death tally rising on my television screen, I clicked off the news media and turned up the volume of my soulful music collection.
In the weeks ahead, I dove into the business deals that I was working on and leaned heavily on my depression coping mechanisms. I was successfully navigating my way through murky mental waters until May when the recorded murders of two separate unarmed black men were released for the world to consume.
I sat there staring into the nothingness that I was feeling inside. Wondering yet again how America first contracted this disease of ruthless systemic racism. For a moment of relief, I imagined the scene from the television series Game of Thrones where the fictional character, Jorah Mormont, was inflicted with the disfiguring Grayscale skin disease by the exiled Stone Men. The disease of American systematic racism would reveal its hardened gray, scaly, scarred skin to us all in the midst of this devastating public health crisis.
(Silverbacks Note: Greetings from Amsterdam North! Frankly, it’s been difficult for me to write over the last several months. I began to find my stride in beginning to share my personal narrative with you in Music Is Life and Power of Love. I still have more to share on that basketball journey but it’s been tough to write from a negative headspace. As I attempt to find my roar again, I have been busy growing other aspects of the Soulful Silverback brand.
Since I last published a piece, we released the Silverback’s first reading mixtape on American racism titled “Chaining Day” (check out the fire album cover art here), we launched our first paid advertising marketing campaign (Oy! the comment section was divisive), we replenished the t-shirt inventory on the Silverbacks Shop (go cop some merch!) and registered the business as a company in the Netherlands (pretty dope, right?). More on this in the coming months.
It’s often been said that the pen is mightier than the sword. And y’all know I’m damn nice with my pen. This vignette is one of those occasions where I felt that I had to pick up my sword. Warning: parental advisory, colorful language in the words ahead.
Cheers,
P.S. – Click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
I sank deeper into the padding on the chair, deeper into thought, and was stunned by the intersectionality of this mounting crisis. I could taste the bitterness of America’s racist bitches brew hit the bumps on my palate.
It’s all of these nauseating miasmic ills mixing together: this nation’s continued bloodthirsty investment in the military-industrial complex; the amoral marriage of corporate profits to citizens’ healthcare; and the nation’s savage legacy of importing humans and legally classifying them and their offspring as non-persons.
These ingredients are America’s handcrafted recipe, her lasting legacy on the world stage, and her most lethal weapon; her bitches brew if you will. This concoction is so potent that Adolf Hitler was inspired by America’s centuries-long systemic performance that he commissioned the formula to be the foundation for his own deadly race laws.
During the last week in May, my phone began to vibrate as text messages from family, friends, and acquaintances from all over the world.
Big Nev! Just checking in on you. I wanted to make sure you’re good.
Hi my love, I wanted you to know that Mom is praying for you always.
Mate, how are you going? Crazy what’s happening in the States.
My initial feelings of being cared for were quickly switched to dread as I scrolled past a notification that Minneapolis law enforcement had killed an unarmed black man while in police custody. Given the flood of text messages, I instantaneously knew the visuals of the murder were likely to be devastating.
Just weeks before in early May, a cell phone recording was released of armed white men hunting and shooting a Black runner, Ahmuad Arbery, in the southern State of Georgia. In the chilling video, you can see Ahmad fleeing his attackers only to be cornered and shot dead in the street. His lifeless Black body lying facedown on the pavement in the southern breeze was an all too familiar image of the antebellum south.
Weeks later in late May, as more concerned text messages poured in, it only fortified my resolve to avoid the video of George Floyd’s execution until I was mentally prepared for the visuals. I continued reading the text messages.
How are you holding up Neville?
I can’t believe that this is happening. I am so sorry bro.
Hey Nev, be safe out there big fella! We’re worried about you.
As more and more concerned text messages from mostly white friends and acquaintances arrived, the more bewildered and enraged I became. The cushion beneath me was morphing a launchpad and I was beginning to rumble in anger. I wanted to lift off and explode in response to the text messages.
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN AM I OK?! I LIVE MY LIFE WITH THIS EXISTENTIAL FEAR!! I EXPECT THIS BEHAVIOR FROM WHITE FOLKS. THE REAL QUESTION IS: ARE YOU FUCKING OK WITH WHAT YOU SAW?
Delete, delete, delete, you can’t respond with that I thought. These folks are concerned about you.
But it was too late, I had already been poisoned by the news of the day.
I needed to calm down and quiet the war going on inside. I put my phone down and went back to working on a large technology partnership with Jay-Z’s entertainment company, Roc Nation.
Eight months prior, I had delivered one of the most riveting and personal business pitches to the leadership team at Roc Nation. Jay-Z had once compared the technology industry and its lack of diversity, inclusion, and retention to Major League Baseball prior to integration on his song Legacy.
“We gon’ start a society within a society
That’s major, just like the Negro League
There was a time America wouldn’t let us ball
Those times are now back, just now called Afro-tech”
With rhymes like that, it wasn’t lost on me that I was a Black man selling technology to the company he founded. It was a proud moment in my career to stand at the plate in the sleek Roc Nation conference room and deliver a homerun presentation to win their technology business. Just like Jackie Robinson stealing home plate decades prior, I was able to exemplify that diversity, inclusion, and retention can benefit corporate profits when our talents are unshackled and enabled to flourish.
When I brought the deal to my company I was again confronted with the taste of America’s racist bitches brew. I scheduled a conference call to discuss the details of the pricing negotiation. Two of my white bosses were on the conference call and when I joined the call I overheard their conversation.
“This is why I don’t do business deals with any Roc Nation type of companies,” one White boss scoffed to the other.
“Oh no, the guy we are working with is a White guy,” the other white boss replied to his off-color comment. “He’s not Black.”
It’s tough to describe the complexity of my feelings on that conference call but you know that bathroom scene from the movie Trading Places?
There’s an important scene near the end of the movie.
During the scene, Billy Ray Valentine, the main character, is hiding in a nearby stall and overhears the details of brothers Randolph and Mortimer Duke’s nefarious experiment as they settle their infamous $1 wager in the bathroom.
I guess you could say that I felt like Billy Ray overhearing the Duke brothers’ conversation except these two knew I was present on the call. But it was too late, they had already exposed their diseased mindset about Black people.
I remained silent on the call as that all too familiar taste of casual cultural racism filled my throat like vomit. I wrestled internally as to whether I should have made a witty remark or let the exchange slide entirely.
I didn’t address the offensive exchange and focused on the task at hand. This was not the time for activism, so I brushed off the comments and forged ahead with the internal conversation.
Months later when the deal closed in June, one of those white bosses had the audacity to attempt to tie my success with Roc Nation to the timing of George Floyd’s murder.
“Seems like George Floyd’s death really helped us close this deal,” he said in a pleasurable tone.
“Don’t tie that man’s tragic execution to my success in this deal,” I bristled. “The two events are not correlated.”
I was confronted with the casual nature of cultural racism at every turn. The reality of Jay-Z’s sharp lyrics from The Story of O.J. came to mind and my mood was dampened.
“Light nigga, dark nigga, faux nigga, real nigga
Rich nigga, poor nigga, house nigga, field nigga
Still nigga, still nigga”
The Grayscale skin disease was spreading and taking its toll on my mental health.
It took me weeks but I finally mustered up the courage to watch the full 8:46 minutes of George Floyd’s execution.
Late one night around the midnight hour in early June, I turned off all of the lights and closed the shades to be in total darkness. I slipped into my bed and curled up under the covers for what I was about to see and experience. I took a deep inhale and pressed play on the YouTube video.
There had been so much talk of the recording that I was not surprised by the images on my screen. It was just as devastating as I had feared.
I had been conditioned to expect white Americans to treat Black bodies with excessive force. However, what struck me the most about this video was the defiant entitlement, comfort, and smugness on the face of the white officer as he pressed his knees deeper into the skin on George Floyd’s neck. You could see from the expression on the officer’s face that he was relishing every moment of the execution.
I COULD NOT BELIEVE THAT THIS WAS STILL HAPPENING WHILE THE PLANET IS BATTING A FUCKING DEADLY PANDEMIC AT A SCALE THAT WE HAVE NOT SEEN IN OVER 100-YEARS! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN WITH PEOPLE STANDING RIGHT THERE?
American racism was crafted so that the enslavement was intellectual, moral, and legal. American racism is the real Grayscale skin disease from fictitious television series – except its white folks that are the asymptomatic carriers and they have infected us all with this highly contagious disease that has been slowly destroying the nation.
This strain of racism may be as infectious as “Grayscale” but its impact is excruciatingly more real. Black folks in this nation have been suffering from our daily engagement with this disease-riddled system for centuries.
American racism and white supremacy rob white people of the experience of being fully human. This particularly evil brand of racism is a disease that white people need to be cured of. Throughout history, the experience of attaining an elevated or supreme position within one’s community is earned through the content of one’s character and not by the birthright of their skin color.
I could go on and on about this topic but I refuse. I’m so tired of this shit. I fucking hate writing about racism.
The reality is plain and simple for the world to now see: America is not a healthy environment for the overall wellbeing of Black Americans across all socioeconomic backgrounds.
Sadly, unlike the television series, there is no healing ointment or witches brew to cure us of this disease either. Not Samwell Tarley, not Joe Biden, or even Jesus Christ can apply a balm to our skin to heal us from this affliction. We are irrevocably disfigured as People because racism is codified into the nation’s governing documents, cultural norms, and workplaces.
Sipping on America’s piping hot brew is slowly killing me and I have to protect my future generations from grappling with these feelings of worthlessness and despair.
America’s demons will never release this nation from its clutches and I refuse to fight against the federal and cultural racism that will likely result in my dead body being tossed onto the already mountain-high pile of young, gifted, and Black bodies that have spoken out against injustice before me.
I had to finally give up on America and flee her borders for my physical safety, my mental sanity, and my future legacy.
It was time to put down the sword and apply a healing balm to my hardened gray skin before it was too late.
The Coronavirus pandemic has become the #1 issue worldwide, causing widespread panic, anxiety, and isolation. I’ll admit, I originally thought the virus would be a fleeting issue; but as the death toll rises and countries lockdown, the seriousness of the situation can no longer be underestimated. I’m concerned for those who are most vulnerable to the virus, and the emotion that I find myself feeling the most is anger. The United States government has failed to properly respond to the Coronavirus outbreak, and this failure has shone a major light on the fact that the U.S. is horrifically flawed down to its’ very core, and has spent years devaluing, mistreating and oppressing anyone who doesn’t belong to the 1%. Most of us have already been aware of the many social inequities going on in this country, but this virus is now waking others up to how bad things truly are.
On March 7th, ABC News tweeted about a man with Coronavirus that worked several shifts at Hobart’s Grand Chancellor Hotel instead of self-quarantining. This is dangerous because his actions will more than likely cause harm to those who came in contact with him. However, his actions point to the larger issue of poverty in the U.S., as he is just one of many workers that have long been forced to put their health & the health of others in jeopardy because being fired or missing a paycheck could lead to their downfall. In addition to this, people are afraid to even get tested because of the expensive medical bills, another example of just how rampant poverty is in the supposed “best country in the world.”
Moving on to the closure of K-12 schools and universities, the Mayor of New York confirmed that NYC public schools are closed until April 20th; however, it was originally reported that the schools wouldn’t close since 114,000 homeless students depend on school meals to eat. Numerous colleges across the country have sent students home and will have classes online. But, this immediately raised concerns about the number of homeless students who depend on their college for housing and food, who were basically being thrown to the wolves. None of this is okay and it’s shameful that this country acts as if it is.
The fact that so many people are being forced to choose between their health or losing their job, and that tons of students are living in extreme poverty with no access to food or shelter outside of the schools they attend is not an individual issue, but a structural one. The United States is a rich country with enough money to guarantee things like healthcare, paid sick leave, and food/housing for its’ residents, but those who have the power to do this simply choose not to. Billions of dollars are poured into things like the military budget—so imagine what this country would be like if the money were put towards things that are actually needed, like healthcare or canceling student loan debt?
Furthermore, Coronavirus has shown that progressive policies that have been shut down for years are doable. The NYC Council Speaker, Corey Johnson, announced on March 15th that eviction proceedings would be suspended statewide until further notice (Miami Dade will be doing the same). In Bexar County, arrests for minor offenses have been suspended to prevent crowding in prisons. In Detroit, residents who’ve had their water shutoff will have their service turned back on. My question is, why did it take a pandemic for these things to be done? People have spent years calling for these actions to take place! Many of us are aware that evictions, mass incarceration, water shutoffs, etc. are backward, cruel and unnecessary, and should have ended a long time ago. But we were repeatedly told that this was impossible and that these things somehow needed to happen for society to function. Now that we’ve seen firsthand that that’s bullshit, and that our government has always had the power to make decisions that actually make life easier/better for us, we cannot allow things to go back to the way they were.Once the pandemic is over, those in power will attempt to go back to business as usual, but we can’t let them do that.
I urge everyone to let this moment radicalize them, and to demand that the rights being given to us during the pandemic remain. Greed and selfishness have been the heartbeat of this country for too long. People have stood up and fought back in the past, and this pandemic has been a breaking point for so many of us. It’s my hope that from this point on, people will stand up and fight back in a way that has never been seen before. In the words of Assata Shakur…
“It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love each other and support each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains.”
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.
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.
Before I begin this article, I think it’s important to state that I do not have children. I have no nieces or nephews. I’m rarely in the presence of young people. That includes everyone from those racking up Disney points, to those who voted in the 2008 election. My experience with young people is limited to being a long-term substitute teacher for several months, to law enforcement, to well… that’s about it. And it’s been years since I was either one; however, spoiler alert, the acts and ways of young people don’t change. They will always do naive things without thinking.
The most recent news about the Ball basketball family isn’t Lonzo Ball’s league-worst shooting percentage, the family’s terrible reality show, or theBig Baller Brand’slatest attempt to sell overpriced sporting apparel. It may sound like I don’t like the Ball family, which is led by the Don King and patriarch of the family, Lavar Ball; but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I support Lavar Ball and his outlandish acts, even his more than over the top sound bites. History has shown that when there’s a “Puff Daddy” to the father of Venus and Serena Williams to Flava Flav, a hype man/father/loud supporter of a particular talent, said talent generally does very well. Plus, the family last name is Ball – how cool is that? It’s like a military family with the last name “Sergeant.” And yes, I’ve met a Sergeant Sergeant before. Anyway, I digress.
LiAngelo Ball, Cody Riley, and Jalen Hill, all three freshmen of the UCLA Basketball team, decided to make the good (insert sarcasm) decision to steal sunglasses from an upscale and well-monitored store in China. Not Chinatown, New York City, but actual China. Not smart, I get it; however, teenagers and young people, until a real-life experience hits them, make a lot of dumb decisions.
To be clear, this isn’t about a lack of intelligence or common sense, but about the notion that young people are very naïve and arrogant at times. Mix in budding basketball stars of a premier basketball school, no life experience or knowledge regarding the nation they were in, and presto! An arrest for shoplifting, in China.
Speaking of the arrest… before anyone goes on a pious rant that it’s because “Lavar Ball is overbearing” and “poor little LiAngelo is acting out,” or the classic, these young black men with the world given to them “doing something stupid just wanna mess it up,” I’m very sure no player has ever wanted to just give back their fame and potential riches. LiAngelo and the others are doing what every other young person, I would say younger than 25, has and/or will do. That is an act depending on the opportunity, situation, person, etc., something very stupid that will either begin the process of true maturity, or will begin a negative trend of behavior sure to render a consequence that jeopardizes everything. It’s not like young people don’t possess the moral power to do right instead of wrong. But they do lack the need to understand that even the littlest wrongs can have a major impact that comes with major consequences, consequences they don’t foresee.
I will bet any amount of money these young basketball players never took into account that they were in a communist country. China’s legal system and procedures are nothing like the United States’. Another factor – they probably didn’t think they would get caught, or were important enough that if they did get caught they wouldn’t get in trouble. Yes, that has much to do with young athletes being treated like royalty early and far too often; however, that’s not that big of a deal. For the most part, most college and young professional athletes, both men and women, behave accordingly, given the circumstances they could easily act a fool.
Fortunately for the players,ole 45made a few calls and apparently even Lavar Ball knew a few people, and the players escaped a “Midnight Express” situation.
Once the players settle back in the U.S. their consequences will probably exceed their crime. The moral joke, which is the NCAA, will likely overreach and make “an example” of them.
In the final analysis, all we can do as responsible adults is stress the importance to young people to think beyond the current, and understand their negative acts last three times longer than their positive ones. We must stress that life is mostly about decision making, and the better one’s life, has much to do with his or her choices. I think young people, including star athletes, generally understand that. This incident was a technical foul they couldn’t argue with the refs about. But it didn’t matter, because as crazy as it sounds, Trump was there to help them win the game.
