A decade ago, I wrote for The Black Lens as an 11-year-old African American student. Even at that age, I had already seen too much–racism, hatred, and, for lack of a better word, a kind of purified evil. My adolescence was burdened with struggles that no child should face in a nation that claims its Constitution protects us all equally.
Ten years later, not much has changed. The overt death threats and playground slurs of my childhood have been replaced with something more insidious: subtle racism. Like a lion stalking a gazelle, it lurks just outside the forefront, waiting to remind those who look like me that our “place” in this country is conditional.
Since that first article, I’ve accomplished much. I became the first Black male ASB President at Gonzaga Preparatory. I received the Chase Youth Award for Judges’ Choice. I graduated high school Summa Cum Laude and earned the Act Six Scholarship to attend Whitworth University. I started two years on the football team, won a conference championship in 2023, and was named Whitworth’s Humanitarian of the Year that same year. Even as recently as Aug. 8 I received the Provost honors for carrying a GPA of 3.75 or above in college.
And yet, none of those accomplishments could shield me from the reality that–to many of my peers and professors–I was still “the exception.” They marveled: “You’re so articulate.” “You’re much nicer than I thought.” Compliments, on the surface, but rooted in surprise that a Black man could embody intelligence, grace, or kindness.
My size and athletic ability did not protect me from being cornered into situations where I had to beg for help from white counterparts who rarely offered it. My intelligence could not protect me from betrayal, dishonesty, and silence from a community I had poured my heart into.
In America, when you are Black, you are only valued as long as you are performing. If I sacked the quarterback, aced the exam, or stood as a pillar in my community, then I was “worthy.” To be average was to be criminal. To be good was to be less than. To be great was merely to be seen as “equal” to my white classmates.
On campus, I was a quota. Professors openly admitted, “Join our department–we need more Black students like you.”My worth was measured not by who I was, but by what I looked like and what I could do for others.
So what can we do, my brothers and sisters, against this subtle yet destructive racism? We can educate ourselves. We can refuse to be boxed into narrow roles. We can claim options beyond athletic scholarships and institutions that exploit our talent without loving us. We can broadcast our struggles so others know they are not alone. We can stand together, strong and unyielding, against injustice.
We can no longer wait for our white counterparts to do what they should have done long ago. No! We must decide for ourselves when we are “good enough.” We must become the voice of change, the architects of a more just future, and the paintbrush that colors a brighter picture for the next generation.
The great Florynce Kennedy once said: “You’ve got to rattle your cage door. You’ve got to let them know that you’re in there, and that you want out. Make noise. Cause trouble. You may not win right away, but you’ll sure have a lot more fun.”
I plan–Lord willing–to keep rattling that cage door until freedom and equality swing wide open. I hope you’re with me, brothers and sisters.