She went on to get her CPA license and master’s degree in business administration. It took many years and different schools, but she did it while working to raise not two, but now three boys on her own. That’s right, three.
If you’re reading this book, chances are you’re past the knucklehead mentality I was in at that time. You’ve (hopefully) abandoned the “mediocre is cool” mentality. I was in middle school at the time and paid no attention to Mama’s struggles and achievements. We were a low-income family, and my mother worked through stretches of days that allowed only four hours of sleep, bills seemed to come from every direction, and broken promises to take us beyond our circumstances flooded our household. While she lost touch with friends who lived in the clubs to pursue her dreams and keep a roof over our heads, I hung out with friends in the streets and did just enough to get by in school.
The realization that I needed to do something with my life did not hit me until I was in the in the second half of 11th grade. By that time, I had a 2.1 cumulative Grade Point Average (GPA). It was not that I was dumb. Like many males of color, I just did not care about school. To fit in, I skipped class and hung out. I did not see the usefulness of school when I was able to make money instead; however, I had a rude awakening.
During that 11th grade year, reality hit as I sat in a courtroom facing felony charges. As I sat in the courtroom, I tried to brace myself for life as a juvenile delinquent by replaying every Tupac song in my head. But over the next few weeks, I had to watch my mother go through fits of crying so hard, she would hyperventilate and couldn’t keep food down. She would come home from work, put her purse down, go into her room, and collapse in the bed to weep while still in her work clothes.
My lil brother would cry, too. Not just because Mama was crying, but because he was already missing our older brother who had been incarcerated a few months prior. Yeah, it was like that. I wasn’t bringing anything but headaches to the situation. At the time, I did not know any better. I would sit there in the house wondering why Mama was so hurt. Eventually, I approached her and asked what the big deal was. Why was she trippin’? People get locked up. People get put on probation. That’s life (or more particular, the life of too many Black males in America). She propped herself up on her elbow and looked back at me with her mouth open in horror. I just knew I was going to get hit, so I backed up. She got to the edge of the bed with her eyes staring at my mouth in amazement. Her look shifted to anger as she sat at the bed’s edge. She exhaled. Her anger turned into grave concern. Mama laid her forehead in the palms of her upturned hands and told me her story…
Right after having she gave birth to my brother at fifteen, a group approached my mother in her hospital room. They asked her personal questions and when those questions became invasive, she wanted to know their purpose. She was tired and just wanted to heal. They kept beating around the bush and she finally gave them an ultimatum: provide an answer or leave. They finally said they were performing a study on teenage pregnancy and wanted to know if those children would end up involved with the law.
My mother flipped. She pounded the hospital bed rail and demanded they leave. How in the world would they dare discuss her child going to jail immediately after his being born? Fuming, she vowed that that would never happen to her children. And yet, eighteen years later, two out of her three sons were in trouble with the law. She had done all she could by working and going to school to raise her sons out of the “hood,” but it was not enough. She could not win against a justice system that targets, disproportionately arrests, and overly prosecutes Black males. And, most importantly, she could not win with children far too comfortable with living up to the world’s low expectations.
After hearing that story, I realized I needed to do something with my life. My family was going through a lot and I wanted to put a smile back on my mother’s face. Additionally, I could not stop worrying about my lil brother. What would he become without strong and successful male role models in his life? He already had two brothers who got involved with the law. To top it all off, getting caught up with the law costs money! Who would wind up having to pay? Oh no, I could not let that happen. My priorities shifted so deeply that I felt goosebumps.
Luckily, my mother came across a group called the 100 Black Men of South Florida, Inc., a local chapter of the national organization, the 100 Black Men of America. The 100 is a professional network of Black men dedicated to developing youth and empowering the African American community. The South Florida chapter had a group mentorship program now called the Dr. Harold Guinyard Leadership Academy. Knowing that we didn’t have any strong male role models in our lives, my mother made sure her boys were in the program. Almost every other week I attended a group mentoring session with prosperous Black male professionals. The sessions involved twenty to thirty boys and about five to seven Black men—laywers, judges, financial advisors, and other high-ranking officials. At the time, I viewed them as old men who talked WAY TOO MUCH! In addition, I thought they were stuck up and bougie. However, when my priorities changed, I began to look at them differently.
The men of the 100 drove nice cars, had big houses, and, most importantly to me, made money. My father was not in my life, and I had no concept of what it meant to be a successful, professional man. Many of the men in my community and family barely had their own place to stay. However, these men of the 100 were on point. I was not only blessed with the opportunity to see them, but also had the chance to get to know them and their families. This may seem small to you, but at the time, I did not know any Black, professional men. I kept wondering why? What made them different? Looking at the men of the 100, the men in my family and the community, the only difference I could find was that all the men of the 100 went to college and none of the men in my family or community that I knew ever did. That is when I realized there had to be something valuable to this college stuff, and so I vowed to attend and graduate just like my mother.
During my senior year, I got straight As and one B+. It was actually pretty easy: I stopped feeding into distractions, which allowed me to focus on what was most important. That meant showing up to class, taking tests seriously, and completing all my assignments. That’s it. In addition, my classes were not rigorous. Think about it: Is it really that hard to get an A in a class? Not really. The biggest problem most people have is being strong enough to cut their your so-called “friends” who don’t respect their grind. In this regard, I did not have to exert myself too much to get an A. But because of my late start in taking school seriously, I graduated with a 2.7 cumulative GPA (which was barely enough to get into college). That low GPA meant I lost out on all kinds of scholarships. Luckily, the 100 helped get me into Morehouse College, the premier institution for educating Black men in this world.
Morehouse College was my promised land. It is the alma mater of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Samuel L. Jackson, Spike Lee and other notable men. I had never before imagined so many Black men in college. These men weren’t young men that hung on the street; instead they were the sons of politicians, celebrities, lawyers, and businessmen from all walks of life. I was surrounded by national speech champions, valedictorians, salutatorians, Gates Millennium Scholars, and so many others with distinctions. Here I was thinking how awesome I was compared to my peers for leaving my home state to attend college, and I was surrounded by award-winning, world-traveling young men with family lineages of distinction. I needed to step my game up. WAY UP.
That hopeful future, however, was not guaranteed. My money situation was crucial. When my mother dropped me off at Morehouse, her last words were, “Baby, I hope you make the most of this because I can only do two years’ worth of loans.” While people back home blew their money and credit scores on cars, stereos, and clothes, my mother maxed out everything to invest in me. Everything. From time to time, I’d lean against a wall between classes from the very idea of it; my eyes would close, and I’d get warm in the face.
I needed to show respect for my mother’s efforts by getting cash money lined up for the rest of my years at Morehouse. It was as simple as