Since the soft launch of my memoir, Triumphant Warrior, in my hometown of Wilmington, I have been overwhelmed by the positive feedback I have received from local educators and former Williston Senior High classmates like Diane Emerson.
Diane once lived on the front row of Jervay Projects just across Dawson Street from Dew Drop Inn, a local hang-out for Wilmington’s most “aspiring pimps, players and pushers had obtained their kick-ass diplomas there. It was where dope addicts went to get their fixes and potheads went to cop a nickel bag.”
Kojo Nantambu, no stranger to how the streets can wreck the aimless, asked me if given the chance I would go to college. I said sure, and he said, “Go home and pack your bags. We are going to Raleigh and Shaw University tonight.” I did exactly what Kojo told me to do. I went home, packed a duffel bag full of clothes, and rode off to Raleigh in Kojo’s ‘67 Dodge Rambler. Like Diane, I was able to see beyond the "now' in which I then lived. Life in and around Jervay was environment in which mere survival is worthy of praise. A place where praise is seldom looked upon as being sincere.
I have never expected praise for doing what I believe is a natural instinct. Nor have I ever wanted to be looked upon as a victim. As we approach Mother's Day, I should mention how I have long been inspired by the courage of the mothers who survived the Middle Passage, after giving birth to their young, in the bowels of slave ships. Like those mothers, people like Diane were determined that it would be themselves, and not their environment, that would determine their destiny.
Up until recently I shunned praise. Who can you trust? Praise can be the voice of friendship but it can also be the language of the insincere, the fair-weather friend. Additionally, it didn't quite seem fair to be praised for just surviving when other classmates were being praised for their accomplishments. So, I developed a way to measure when it was okay to accept praise. For me, that development has come only in the past few years - - now that I am being praised for being a man of triumph, an overcomer, a writer, an author, the founder of a social justice organization - instead of a victim.
The praise from Diane means the most to me because is deeply rooted in a story that we both share. That story hit home a few years ago when I read her doctoral dissertation. It was only then that I came to realization that we had both accomplished things that are often praised in society. We had achieved a certain level of success beyond the stereotypical expectations of folk from the inner-city.
Diane once lived on the front row of Jervay Projects just across Dawson Street from Dew Drop Inn, a local hang-out for Wilmington’s most “aspiring pimps, players and pushers had obtained their kick-ass diplomas there. It was where dope addicts went to get their fixes and potheads went to cop a nickel bag.”
It has been said that living in the projects is a horrible and demeaning way of life designed to control an entire segment of society. But not everyone can be controlled. Not everyone is willing succumb to the wretched designs of the environment in which they live. Diane was such a person. Like Diane I too am a product of Jervay projects, though I was there by choice. It was the one place my mother always told me to never hangout. She had heard all the horror stories about the drugs and shootings in and around Jervay. “Nothing good can happen by you hanging out there” she said. Yet I had been hanging out in front of the Dew Drop Inn across the street from Jervay when a friend provided me a way out.
“One evening, in September 1973, my old friend, Kojo Nambtambu, walked up to me and took me aside. He asked with worry and concern playing in his eyes. “What are you doing hanging out on a street corner? You need to be in college.”
Kojo Nantambu, no stranger to how the streets can wreck the aimless, asked me if given the chance I would go to college. I said sure, and he said, “Go home and pack your bags. We are going to Raleigh and Shaw University tonight.” I did exactly what Kojo told me to do. I went home, packed a duffel bag full of clothes, and rode off to Raleigh in Kojo’s ‘67 Dodge Rambler. Like Diane, I was able to see beyond the "now' in which I then lived. Life in and around Jervay was environment in which mere survival is worthy of praise. A place where praise is seldom looked upon as being sincere.I have never expected praise for doing what I believe is a natural instinct. Nor have I ever wanted to be looked upon as a victim. As we approach Mother's Day, I should mention how I have long been inspired by the courage of the mothers who survived the Middle Passage, after giving birth to their young, in the bowels of slave ships. Like those mothers, people like Diane were determined that it would be themselves, and not their environment, that would determine their destiny.
Up until recently I shunned praise. Who can you trust? Praise can be the voice of friendship but it can also be the language of the insincere, the fair-weather friend. Additionally, it didn't quite seem fair to be praised for just surviving when other classmates were being praised for their accomplishments. So, I developed a way to measure when it was okay to accept praise. For me, that development has come only in the past few years - - now that I am being praised for being a man of triumph, an overcomer, a writer, an author, the founder of a social justice organization - instead of a victim.
What I am noticing is that I am slowly learning to accept praise. It is why when a Ph.D. from the projects reaped praise on my work I jumped for joy. She had been where I had been. Done what I had done, and understood my triumph.
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