As football season rolls in, I’m reminded of how strongly people felt, on both sides, when some NFL players took a knee during the national anthem. I remember the feelings and opinions being so intense that it ruined friendships, dominated social media and gave the impression that these highly paid athletes, mostly Black men, were unpatriotic.
I have a different view of that.
Back home in New York, you can ride the subway two inches away from people struggling with severe mental health issues. Ride the train long enough, and you’d likely see someone urinating or defecating in the stairwells. Some of those people would walk the dangerous tracks, flirting with death by electrocution or being struck by a train. You’d see the homeless people asleep, with pungent body odor, sometimes talking to themselves. And the levels of violence vary. After some time, any New Yorker would tell you that they’ve become accustomed to and even indifferent to a mental health system that seems to be failing and social workers who are overwhelmed.
"When gangs target kids for recruitment, they’re looking for youth who need acceptance from their peers and guidance from someone older. Unfortunately, Manchester and many urban neighborhoods across America have an abundance of those kids. They seek to be respected by their peers, and some will go to any lengths to attain stature. When they see their peers wearing the latest fashion and newest phone, it piques their interest. They come from homes where money is tight and embrace a culture that prioritizes materialism. This is a toxic combination for kids in those environments and people in those communities. We hope that, if not from the guidance of their household, they learn social behavior from teachers and counselors. And we also hope that those kids will have some positive peer influences. But how does that kid take a mentor seriously when sharing his clothes with his siblings and living in a household below the poverty line?"
I remember sitting in prison watching the spectacle that was the 2016 presidential election. It was so powerful that I began to see how my societal role would start to change. Whoever won this presidency would still be in office once I was released. I was determined to vote once free, but I had no idea if I could. As it stands, voters' rights are restored once leaving prison. You need an I.D. and must re-register if you were already registered before your prison sentence. This can be frustrating to the newly released person, but I was determined to be a part of that process. After my first vote, there was a feeling of investment and engagement. I was also a father to a young girl and her brothers, and I wanted a better society for them. Civic engagement, particularly voting, is a great vehicle to attain those goals.
This interview is Part 1 of an occasional series by The Common Ground Initiative called “Avoiding Prison or an Early Death,” where I will write about my experiences growing up as at-risk youth in Brooklyn, New York, and how decades later, in a different state, communities are facing these same issues.
To kick off the series, I looked at an effective organization in Manchester, MYTURN.
MYTURN gives at-risk and disadvantaged youth the chance to focus on their goals and succeed in life. It provides mentorship and safe spaces for these young men and women to gain the skills and knowledge critical to becoming upwardly mobile members of society. I spoke with MY TURN’s executive director, Allison Joseph, for The Common Ground Initiative’s podcast in August.
I was 12 years old when I saw my first dead body. “Calvin” wasn’t much older than me, and he lay there with two bullet wounds through his head that slightly protruded from the other side. I can only remember trying to avoid that fate, even though sometimes it felt inevitable. The more gun violence and death I saw and heard about, the more numb I became to it. At that age, in that environment, you don’t appreciate life and death.
When it comes to trailblazing Latinas in New Hampshire, Daniela Allee is one who’s on the rise. Through NHPR, she helps get Spanish news to the communities of the Granite State. She has a pulse on the Latino communities in the state, keeping in touch through apps, events and in-person reporting. A resident of New Hampshire for five years, Allee brings a breath of fresh air to the regular status-quo.
Take a stroll around Manchester, and you’ll likely pass by some beautiful Hispanic restaurants and shops. Once those smells and flavors pass my nose, my mouth waters instantaneously. I see hard-working people, and whether American-born or newly arrived, they’re strong in their cultures, music, foods and dance. This adds to the diversity of New Hampshire, and I think it should be a welcomed addition. Sometimes, American citizens forget that somewhere in their history, their ancestors had a similar story of coming to America and carving out a path for themselves.
Conversing with someone who’s distraught about being on the verge of homelessness is deep water to tread. Speaking with people who happen to be already homeless can be just as overwhelming. I’ve talked with once prideful people who are so insecure about their hygiene, attire and overall situation that they avoid eye contact. Problems like these are intensified tenfold when children are involved.
Schonna Green has just celebrated one year as Manchester’s first director of homeless initiatives. During that short time, she facilitated a plan for more affordable housing and created a coalition of business owners, faith leaders, politicians and other community stakeholders. Through it all, Green has made her mark as a Black woman making real changes in New Hampshire. Here,Granite State News Collaborative columnist Anthony Payton interviews Green about what makes a successful troubleshooter. (Answers have been lightly edited for length and clarity).
Anthony Payton, joined by his son and co-founder of Black Lives Matter Manchester Tyrell Whitted and Chief Diversity Officer at Franklin Pierce University Pierre Morten, discuss the effects race and masculinity had on them growing up, as well as the progress they’ve made individually and as a community.
I grew up in a very hyper-masculine community back in the early ’80s. To deviate from the norm of masculinity was frowned upon and dangerous. It was so bad that roving bands of young teenagers would go on missions to pummel any male they deemed gay or effeminate. The media wasn’t much help. We were knee-deep into the AIDS epidemic, and politicians, the medical establishments, and churches labeled gay men a national threat. The fear-mongering was out in the open, and it wasn’t cloaked or implicit. Lesbians were also under siege, but the anger directed at gay men seemed like night and day by comparison.
There’s more than what meets the eyes regarding Black hair. It’s an expression, it’s pride, and it’s a showing of our culture. Most of us aren’t born with the silky texture that blows in the wind like those shampoo commercials on television. What we have, we wear with pride; through it, we display the heritage and roots we were born with.
It was about seven years ago when Deta and Nancy Wilms, of Wentworth, adopted 7-year-old Tavari. During their first phone conversation – well before the adoption was finalized – Tavari, who is Black, had two pressing questions to ask of her soon-to-be mothers.
“One of her first questions was: What’s your color?” said Deta, who, along with her wife, is white. “And then she asked: ‘Can you take care of my hair?’ And I said: ‘sure.’”
As we step foot into this new year and I continue crafting my goals for the year, I decided to reach back to a few young men from my past to get an update on where they are in life. I wanted to see if there was any advice that I could offer to them, or possibly have an exchange of ideas that could benefit us all. It turns out that they were doing well, but that wasn’t the case for some of the younger generation.
Around 2 years ago, on December 10th, 2019, I exited a federal prison where I had spent the last 6-½ years. I met my brother, Chris, in the Port Authority Bus terminal in NYC. He handed me a cell phone preloaded with important numbers, pictures, and some cash. I boarded the bus headed to Boston, eventually landing in New Hampshire. During that bus ride, I watched videos of my father who died while I was in prison interacting with my daughter who was born while I was in prison. I took deep breaths, laughed, cried, and absorbed everything.
Imagine walking into a secured prison yard. One so secured with the walls so high that when you look up, all you see is the sky. You go back to your cell. It’s so loud and the potential for violence so ripe, you’re always on high alert. It’s easy to succumb to that culture. How do you cope? How do you pass the time in a place like that?
