For my brothers

28th January 2019   ·   0 Comments

By Edmund W. Lewis
Editor

Every now and then, my mind travels back to an encounter many years ago that I will never forget.

It was a Saturday in late December more than a decade ago that started out like any other day off for me. After a much-needed five-hour night of sleep, I decided to head to a few stores in eastern New Or­leans to look for some Kwanzaa gifts for a few of my friends and loved ones.

I met an intelligent, articulate young man with a story to share that pretty much made my day.

Every day we are bombarded with media images of menacing Black men who prey on anyone they come into contact with without an iota of remorse. This brother was nothing like that.

He shared with me the fact that he and a friend had been robbed the night before just steps away from his front door.

The four gunmen, I was told, got away with his leather jacket and a couple of bucks from his friend.

I can’t explain it, but I felt as if I had known this guy for years, so we continued to talk about a lot of different things. Almost everyone has met someone while out and about who they feel comfortable talking to. It’s not like we can go around trusting everyone we run into on the street, but every now and then we meet people who we just know mean us no harm and have something to share that can enrich our lives. That’s how I felt.

The other thing is, that’s what it used to be a lot more like in New Orleans in days gone by. Almost everywhere you could go, you might run into somebody who was willing to step out of their comfort zone to show you a little kindness and compassion.

We started talking about crime and the criminal justice system and this brother felt comfortable enough to share with me the fact that he spent a couple of years in prison for forging names on personal checks. He talked about what it felt like to be locked up in a prison cell, to have no privacy and very little dignity, and to be abused and exploited by a criminal justice system that labels Black men as criminals long before they even think about stepping outside of “the law.” I was impressed with the brother’s candor and honesty, and his willingness to relate something that was obviously very personal and private to me, a perfect stranger.

There was a time when meet­ing a positive brother or sister in the community was commonplace. Unfortu­nate­ly, that time has come and gone. But we can get it back if we’re willing to put aside our pride and self absorption and find our way back to authentic African communalism. All of our lives would be enriched by coming together even in the smallest of ways to celebrate what we have in common.

Several years ago, I read somewhere that Black fraternities are still needed — if for no other reason than the fact that it seems as though Black men need an excuse to care about one another. Whether it was the spirit of the Million Man March, or just the result of brothers raised by Black folks who have not forgotten the African way that led to the talk I had with the cat on the bus many years ago, I don’t know. What I do know is that more people like this will make New Orleans the city it once was. New Orleans was once a place where brothers and sisters who had never laid eyes on one another greeted one another warmly and did whatever they could to help their fellow man. New Orleans was once a place where my friends and I could walk all the way from the Superdome to our homes in Gentilly without fear of being robbed or killed. New Orleans was once a place where the balmy temperatures were only exceeded by the warmth in people’s hearts. New Orleans was once the village that raised its children to be God-fearing, considerate human beings who respected everyone and themselves. We’ve got to get that back.

Only Black men know what it feels like to be a Black man in a harsh and unforgiving world. And only Black men can fully grasp and appreciate the many daily struggles Black men face as they seek to better themselves and uplift their families and communities.

One of the first things we can do to get to that back is to get brothers to stand up and be men. Not men who shoot someone in a New York millisecond or raise a hand to a sister. I’m talking about real men, men who know that there is more strength in an open hand and an open heart. Men who know their role in the community as protector, provider, comforter, and freedom fighter, and who understand the need for reciprocity in their relationships with our mothers, sisters and daughters. Men who are willing to die for the red, black and green, not for some red or blue article of clothing or because somebody looked at them wrong, they wear a certain brand of tennis shoes or stand on the wrong corner. We need to be the kind of men who are ready, willing and able to do whatever it takes to make things right in our community.

As this new year rolls on, I am renewing my challenge to myself and all the brothers I know to be better and do better. I’m going to ask them to tap into the strength and love of our ancestors and ask them to sustain us throughout this African holocaust that continues to rage on. In short, I’m sending out a call to all the brothers prepared to carry on with the spirit of the Million Man March in their hearts and freedom on their minds.

And to think, this reflection on the need for strong, brave and independent-minded Black men was triggered many years ago by the positivity of one brother showing another brother his love and knowledge of self and his commitment to being the best he can be. Imagine what would happen if we got a thousand brothers to do this every day! We’d probably be free by now.

Hotep, my brothers. Stay strong and focused, and don’t give up the fight. All power to the people.

This article originally published in the January 28, 2019 print edition of The Louisiana Weekly newspaper.