One in a Million

I started this about a week ago, and then proceeded to leave my notebook in the seatback pocket of an airplane. So, I gave it another try and here it is. Enjoy.

Looking up from my steaming bowl of Quaker Oatmeal this morning, I gazed not through the blinds and out the window that peers out over the MacArthur freeway that is a mere stone’s throw from my building, but at the black-framed front page of an old Washington Post that sits just above the elevated bar table in my breakfast nook. I’ve stared at this newspaper hundreds of times, to the point that I have nearly memorized the headlines as well as the faces in the photographs that appear. On this morning, however, I was actually struck by not only the significance of this particular edition, but rather by the fact that this paper was dated exactly 11 years ago today: October 17, 1995.

After wiping the “wow!” expression off my face, I immediately began to peruse that day’s headlines with renewed interest. Oh, how the world had changed. One headline talked about an impending meeting between Hamas and the late Yassir Arafat. Ground was to be broken for the downtown D.C. arena that would come to be the MCI Center, according to another. In another, still, then President Bill Clinton urged America to put an end to racism. A cursory glance seemed to reveal that the day’s news had no new themes, only new characters being featured.

Certainly my life has changed tremendously. On this day in 1995, I was in the midst of my 2nd year of Super Senior-dom, still chasing the elusive and excruciatingly painful Electrical Engineering degree that would eventually make a mockery out of my grade point average. Back then, my life consisted of midterms, midnight runs to SavOn foods with my roommates, fraternity parties and an occasional woefully under-funded roadtrip. Surprisingly, the duality that is my current routine as serial business traveler and car-pool driving soccer Dad is no less exciting, as I’m often called to duty as referee of the epic battle that often rages on in the backseat of my SUV, between rival factions “She did it first” and “he broke mine” . At least I now regularly experience the forbidden world on the other side of the curtain when aboard airplanes, and give not 2 seconds of thought to why I should not consider driving somewhere for 5 hours that I can fly to in 1.

I feel an almost familial connection with the man whose image is featured prominently in black and white newsprint on this edition. Not only has he been on the wall at all of my residences the way a family member might, but the emotion splashed across his face and outstretched arms sang a song of many that were in attendance for that day’s events on the Mall in Washington, D.C. that day. I’m talking about none other than the Million Man March. As the brass label on the frame that encloses this historical periodical states, “I was One in a Million”.

I can remember stumbling upon a Final Call as I rummaged through all of the reading material at the barber shop, having already brought myself up to date on that week’s top 25 in College Football as well as all of the “Beauty of the Weeks” that had graced the pages of Jet since my last fade. On the cover of that issue, Minister Louis Farrakhan had boldly challenged black men from all across the land to descend upon the Chocolate City for a Day of Atonement and to renew the commitments of our forefathers to uplift our communities. Somewhere between the Freedom Marches, Afros, bell-bottoms, crack cocaine and slain leaders, the light at the end of that tunnel had grown very dim. Ours was a generation that was apparently less willing to resist, struggle and sacrifice like Malcolm, Martin, and Huey, instead choosing to be more like…well, Mike. Hip-hop music, one of the last bastions of transcendental positivity, able to entert-, er…excuse me EDU-tain the masses, unfortunately was exiting the period where consciousness and afro-centricity were en vogue, giving way in most cases to gangsta rap and non-sensical anthems that applauded and glorified pornography and promiscuity.

Although I was nearing the half-way point of a stretch of 11 years in which no pork products would touch my lips, I was not one with 2 feet firmly in Farrakhan’s or the Nation of Islam’s camp. However, I knew almost immediately that this was an event that I must not miss. It was not surprising when my roommate came home from work that day with the same notion, as if we were both struck by the same thunderbolt at the same time. After all, as two young, collegiate, black men , this day’s Talented Tenth, it was almost our duty to be there. So, after making a few phone calls and securing some accommodations with friends, we purchased our tickets from San Francisco to Washington, D.C.

When we arrived, I was overcome by a feeling of homecoming. Immediately, Washington’s National Airport (I STILL call it National!) was like a big family reunion. At Continental Airlines baggage claim, I ran into a former teammate of mine from UDC that was working for the airline. Before I left the airport, I saw another guy that I knew from my time in L.A. It seemed like everyone there was a familiar face. As we would discover later that night, the family atmosphere would even carry over to the night club scene. Unfortunately, my generation has almost come to expect at least the possibility of a physical altercation each time we are at a club, and even more so when it is very crowded like it was that night. To my amazement, not even the cold reality of the night club scene could extinguish the love that was seemingly apparent everywhere on this weekend. The same cutting in line, or stepping on a shoe that would ordinarily lead to posturing or fisticuffs, was instead followed by very gracious, “My bad…excuse me, brotha,” or “no disrespect….” It was unbelievable! Of course, there’s always that one brotha that takes the “spirit of the season” a bit too far, chastising anotha brotha with, “Aren’t you down with the March!?” when that brotha took exception to this brotha’s advances on his lady friend.

It was an incredible weekend culminated by perhaps the most amazing feat of all, as we right in the middle of the peaceful assembly of more than 1 Million black men captivated by the words of one Louis Farrakhan. Although the media tried to belittle the occasion, claming that a mere 300,000 to 400,000 were on hand, all of us on hand had no doubt of the true attendance figures. Minister Farrakhan spoke of atoning for the sins that had made fatherless households, objectification and disrespect of black women the norm rather than the exception in the black community. Farrakhan urged black men to look within themselves and take responsibility for repairing their relationships and become the positive role models that were ever so present in the communities of years past.

So as I finished that bowl of oatmeal, I reflected on what has transpired in the 11 years since then. Yassir Arafat has since passed away, but Hamas and other such organizations continue to grab headlines on the myriad of news channels that seem to exist for no other reason than to incite fear and justify American military activity around the world. Bill Clinton, the greatest president of my lifetime, left the Nation’s highest office under a cloud of shame. The MCI Center became the home of the Bullets who would subsequently change their name to Wizards, who, despite their name have yet to perfect the magical, mystical feat of making the numbers in the loss column disappear (POOF!) in a puff of smoke. In the grander scheme of things, the black community does not appear to have been able to sustain the incredible momentum that followed this event. The city in which I live has continued to outdistance itself, setting records 3 of the last 4 years for total homicides. A very well known member of perhaps the most prominent of the conscious hip hop groups, has become a weekly spectacle on cable TV, objectifying and continually disrespecting hordes of scantily clad black women, who seem not to mind. Closer to home, I find myself constantly trying to keep my children from listening to the misogynistic, denigrating strip club anthems that are no longer relegated to the parental advisory section of the record store, but rather are prevalent on daytime radio. Rather than give up hope though, I instead choose to at least step up to Minister Farrakhan’s challenge and be a very involved father and role model. Furthermore, and perhaps most amazing to me is the role that my faith has played in my striving for daily improvements. That 23-year-old, much less worldly, and much more footloose and fancy free kid was not very likely to have prayed for much more than a passing grade on an exam in 1995. In 2006, this 34-year-old, regular fixture in the church on Sundays prays for the day when we will all have the faith to collectively renew the atonement that we sought so many Octobers ago.