...And you thought YOU could make a difference?

How would you feel if you found out that President Obama's daughters were not only unaware of the meaning of the word "leadership," but had never even seen the word? What if Frederick Douglass' five children had never heard the word "sacrifice?" What if Booker T. Washington's three children had never understood the meaning of the word "labor?" What if Malcolm X's six children weren't aware of the word "pride?"

Hard to imagine, isn't it? That's exactly why I scoffed when my white, New England-raised Teach for America English advisor told our group to be prepared to define and explain the word "prejudice" during an initial reading with our 99% all-black summer school students from across inner-city Atlanta. How dare she suggest that these students, raised in the heart of the South, could be ignorant to the word "prejudice?" As the one of the only black educators in the room, I merely shook my head and kept my comments to myself, chalking up her words to naivete.


That was until I met *Ashton. At 4-foot-7 with a voice squeakier than a Chipette, she was the first person I sat down to read with when I met my class of forty; forty tenth through twelfth-graders from across Atlanta who had failed to pass ninth-grade English. Forty students that included some with criminal records and an expecting mother. Ashton seemed to provide a stark contrast from the group because of her sweet, child-like innocence. A student at Coretta Scott King High School, an all-girls leadership academy in Atlanta, Ashton was like a breath of fresh air.


But, it wasn't until she began to read me the selected passage that I realized reading and writing were just the  tip of the iceberg in terms of the issues I would face while teaching summer school. Hunched over the paper in deep concentration, Ashton read each word carefully while following along with her index finger. It wasn't until we got to the word I was waiting for that she began to stutter.


"Prrr - pree - preeej..." I was watching incredulously as Ashton began to sink deeper and deeper, like she was being swallowed by quicksand. Let her sound it out, I thought. Just wait, she'll get it.


After what felt like a long, laborious 35 seconds, Ashton finally glanced up at me, her eyes pleading with me to give her my hand to pull her out. "Prejudice," I said finally, searching her big, brown eyes for a hint of recognition. My heart sank to the soles of my feet as she crinkled her brows in confusion.


"Preh-juh-diss?" she sounded out cautiously, looking back at the page.


"Prejudice," I repeated. "You know what prejudice is..." I paused. "Right?"


She looked back up at me and smiled sheepishly, shaking her head.


"But you've heard the word," I nodded encouragingly. She shook her head and shrugged.


My heart pounded as she waited for me to explain. She's got to be kidding me, I thought. But as I looked back at Ashton, I knew that there was nothing funny happening right now. Finally, I cleared my throat. "Prejudice is when someone forms a negative opinion about someone else without a logical reason." She nodded slowly. I continued, "For example, someone could be prejudiced against you because you're black," I said.


She nodded and continued reading. And though I, too, was staring down at the words on the page, all I could see was a mountain I was no longer sure I was prepared or equipped to climb.


I wish I could say that Ashton was the only student to whom I had to teach the word "prejudice" that day; but there were several others - all carrying the names of Coretta Scott King, Frederick Douglass, Dorothy Height, Booker T. Washington and George Washington Carver High School on their backs. The irony left me dazed and discouraged by the time I left school that day; where had the disconnect occurred? As I stood in front of my class that first day, I sadly watched as students cursed each other out, fixed the bandannas in their sagging back pockets and threw reading and writing assignments on the floor as a sign of defiance.


All of a sudden, I was Hilary Swank standing in a classroom to which I couldn't relate. I was Sandra Bullock watching a black boy with so much potential throw it away because he couldn't see past his immediate circle of influence. I was Emma Stone trying to save a group of disenfranchised black females through an overly-simplified solution to an overly-complex issue. With the exception of my skin tone and my educational background (having gone to both an HBHS and an HBCU), I was now the women I had scoffed at, resented and rebuked: the white savior who had thought that "making a difference" could happen in an hour and thirty minutes of reel time.


On my second day of teaching, one of my pregnant girls asked me why I cared so much about them raising their hands. After giving an impassioned speech about the importance of being respectful, college-ready and blah, blah, blah; she interrupted me. Just that quick, I was suddenly Whoopi Goldberg from Sister Act II, standing for the first time in front of a class of rowdy inner-city high school students who couldn't give a damn about me, respect or college.


"Let me tell you something, right quick," she interrupted, popping her gum and putting her hands on her eight-months large stomach.


Looking around at her classmates with a smirk, she finally met my surprised eyes. "Welcome to the A, Baby Girl, because we don't follow directions here; so, you might as well quit now."


In the midst of all the cat-calling, jeers and cheers; something in me snapped. No longer sure if I was the newest guest on the television show What Would You Do, a sudden star in the latest 'save the poor black children' movie or simply unprepared to deal with something I naively thought would be easy; I was now hysterical. I laughed...laughed...then laughed some more, until the entire class was looking at me with a mix of fear and confusion. Standing up slowly from the edge of the teacher's desk, I walked to the front of the room, shoulders still shaking with silent laughter. Turning around, I looked my baby mama right in the eye and said, "Now, let me tell all of you something."


All forty eyes were trained on me as I held eye contact with my very own 'Rita Louise Watson.' "If you think I came all the way to 'the A' to babysit you, watch you disrespect me, each other and fail this class again; it's gonna be a longgggg summer...baby girl." I laughed again and began writing on the board. "Listen up," I said loudly, smiling to myself.


"If you wanna be somebody, if you wanna go somewhere, you better wake up and pay attention," I turned around to face the class. "Because this is your moment."


And, with the pressure of Coretta, Martin, Malcolm, Dorothy, Frederick, George, Booker and Barack watching, it's my moment too.


"No you won't be name'n no buildings after me / to go down dilapidated / No you won't be name'n no buildings after me / My name will be mistated, surely." - E. Badu (A.D. 2000)

Smile because she lived...

I didn't anticipate being as affected as I was by Dr. Davy's passing. I had known about her battle with leukemia for awhile now, and sometimes even heard her speak openly about death. But as I read the news on Twitter, I immediately felt a lump grow in my throat as my eyes welled up. I had just seen her two weeks earlier when she gently teased me for being one of the last seniors on-campus, days after graduation.

"I never thought you'd be the one," she smirked.

"What do you mean?" I asked, as I plopped down in the chair diagonal from her desk. It was Thursday, four days after we had crossed the stage at Commencement.

"The one that would have trouble letting go," she said. "There's one every year. But I never would've guessed it'd be you."

I never would've guessed it either; but the fact of the matter is that I wasn't quite ready to let go. I wasn't ready to turn the page on what has been one of the most life-changing chapters of my life. Wasn't ready to say goodbye to the characters that have had more of an impact on my life and who I am than I gave them credit for.

Dr. Freddye T. Davy was one of those people. In a word, Dr. Davy was a BOSS. An original gangsta. An O.G. - yeah, I said it. She kept her pimp hand strong and her words even stronger. She didn't waste her breath and definitely never wasted her time. Many didn't realize that Dr. Davy has been sick for awhile now; you never would've guessed it by looking at her. She rarely missed a day of work and refused to slow down no matter how much her health deteriorated. She often said she was working on borrowed time; time I'd like to think she borrowed to see my class off into the world. I think that's what caused the tears to fall. It wasn't sadness; it was more like overwhelming gratitude.

Throughout college I've lost so many mentors and leaders as they transitioned to new chapters in their lives. First, Dean Tony Brown, the journalism legend whose leadership at the Scripps Howard School is the very reason I chose Hampton University. Then, Professor Martha Wilson - the first teacher at Hampton who truly invested in me. Then it was Opel Jones, the director of the Leadership Institute. Dr. Taylor of the Honors College and Leadership Institute left soon after. Mr. Dillard, director of University choirs passed away unexpectedly last year. During my tenure at Hampton, I experienced three different school deans, two different Leadership Institute directors and two different mentors in the Honors College. Dr. Davy, however, made it known that she wasn't leaving until she was good and ready. After spending a few days in the hospital last week, she checked out after ignoring the concerns of her doctor. She allegedly told the hospital staff that she refused to lay in a hospital waiting to die. The next day she returned to work. Just days later, I was told that she bid the Honors College staff farewell for the day with one casual phrase that I'm sure the secretary will never forget: "See ya when I see ya."

Words can't describe what Dr. Davy meant to me. If you had talked to me just a year ago, I would've told you that Dr. Davy had a personal vendetta against me. She would barely let me get a word out before challenging my thinking, my word choice and even the way I carried myself. There were times when I would go weeks hiding from her to avoid her critical gaze (though it was difficult because I lived in the same building as her office). Now, I'm thankful that she cared enough to give me the tough love that she did. I'm grateful to be one of the few whose names she remembered. And while I'm glad I was able to thank her face-to-face for everything she taught me a few weeks ago, as well as see her celebrated when the Honors College was renamed in honor of her just months ago, I felt inclined to create a post sharing the invaluable wisdom that she bestowed upon me during my tenure at Hampton.

Dr. Davy has taught thousands of students during her lifetime, but here are some of the valuable words of wisdom that I gained from her. I like to call them...


The Davy-isms:

• Think before you speak. Forget "um" and "like," Dr. Davy would barely let me get a word out before calling me out for saying "basically" or "you know." She taught me to mean what I say and say what I mean. There's nothing wrong with pausing to collect your thoughts and, in most cases, it makes people pay more attention to what you're saying when you do take your time. There's nothing wrong with slowing down and paying attention to what you're saying and how you're saying it.

• Pay your dues, then get paid to pursue your passion. Dr. Davy used to say that my generation was too caught up on following our passions. The fact of the matter is, in her opinion, that dropping everything to follow your passion is not only misguided, but stupid as well. "At 22-years old, what are you sure about?" She asked me one day. Before I could answer, she cut in. "All you know is that you want to be able to feed yourself and be financially independent. Pursue something that will help you to do that and along the way, you'll find your passion and have the ability to pursue it without losing everything." According to Dr. Davy, she didn't find her passion until after years of school, teaching and random jobs here and there. It wasn't until later in life that she began doing what she was truly passionate about - on her own terms. Dr. Davy often didn't come in to work until after 11 a.m. She had earned that privilege because her dues were paid.

• Love what you do and you'll never work a day in your life. Dr. Davy was passionate about the Honors College. She lived and breathed it, investing everything she had in each student she had. It was often that I would see the light on in her office as late as 11 p.m. She loved the work she was doing and I truly believe that that's why she was able to stay with us as long as she did.

• It's not who you know, it's who knows you. 

• Don't ask people what they can do for you; tell people what you need from them. [WARNING: The power of this technique is semi-dangerous if used correctly. Not for the ill-willed or weak at heart]. I like to call this one "The Davy." I often witnessed it when she would call students and faculty into her office, or even when she would reach out to alumni. It's a technique that I marveled at and, to this day, have practiced using it for my own purposes. The results have been surreal. Dr. Davy had a way of getting what she needed from you by phrasing a question in the form of a statement. For example, instead of asking someone, "Can you help me build an ark later? There going to be a flood;" Dr. Davy would say: "I'm going to have you get started on this ark I'm building. There's going to be a flood and there's no time to waste." If you practice this technique enough, you'll never have to worry about rallying support or getting things done.

• Common sense ain't that common. Too often we question what we already know to be true. It's often about what we should or shouldn't do in a situation. We try to safeguard our actions by seeking validation from others instead of trusting our gut or intuition. Thinking before you ask questions and trusting your instincts will get you much further than adopting a CYA mentality all the time. Too often it's better to ask forgiveness than ask permission.

• Waiting for the spanking hurts worse than the spanking itself. So get it over with! If you did something wrong, own up to it and own up to it quickly. The faster you take responsibility for what you did, the faster you deal with the consequences. Also, being honest and accountable often will get you more respect than waiting to confess and playing the blame game.

The lessons I've learned from Dr. Davy are boundless. Our loss was Heaven's gain and I will forever be grateful for the lessons (though tough) that I gained from her. She was truly a gem and I'm glad to have another angel added to my flock. I will continue to honor her memory by living her wisdom and sharing it with others. Dr. Davy lived. She really, really lived. And I'm grateful.

Rest in peace.

What are some Davy-isms that you learned from her? Celebrate her life by commenting and sharing what she taught you.

2012...or 1912?

2012: The Year the Pot Finally Boiled Over 
2012: The Year America's Caged Monster Finally Broke Free
2012: The Year the Country's Dirty Little Secret Went Viral
2012: The Year a Dark Past Emerged From The Shadows
2012: The Year We Realized We Were Never Really "Free."

I've been daydreaming about future headlines for awhile now. With so much going on in the news, I can't help but think that it's time.

It's that realization moment when it becomes apparent that what happens next is up to you. Up to me. At 22-years old, I'm the same age as most of the Freedom Riders (pictured above) who left college to risk their lives on a journey through the deep South to challenge Jim Crow. I'm the same age as many of the protestors who marched in strength and solitude for Emmett Till. As I prepare to leave college and embark on a life that will be guided solely by my own decisions, I've come to the realization that the Special Prosecutor's announcement is a direct challenge at me, my peers and our future children.

In just four months since the start of the new year, the black community has already suffered the loss of too many as a result of bigotry and racism. Trayvon Martin was killed in cold blood 43 days ago; his murderer is still not in custody. On March 24, 19-year old college student, Kendrec McDade, was shot and killed after being wrongfully suspected of having a weapon. Four days ago, Howard Morgan was sentenced to 40 years in prison after being shot 28 times by police officers while he was working as an off-duty police officer. This past weekend, innocent black pedestrians in Tulsa, Oklahoma were gunned down by two racist white men.

Is this 2012 or 1912? As we continue forward toward this year's presidential election, I can't help but wonder about what else the year has in store and how my generation will respond. The Black Panther party has already reorganized into a more modern, yet just as radical version. Racial tension is at an all-time high right now, and I know that if something doesn't happen soon these rallies could quickly turn into riots. But would you riot?

Mark my words: The events of this year could forever be recorded in history as a turning point for this country and its continued struggle with its dark past. The headline may even look similar to what I imagined above. But how will our response fit into that story? How will our generation be described? What will you tell your grandchildren when they ask you about it?

It's not just time; it's our time. I think it's time to stand up and regroup. What happens next is up to us.

Get Over It: Why Black People Need to Lighten Up

Face it – black people like chicken.

It can be baked, barbequed, broiled, slow roasted, kabob’d or grilled; but let's be honest, you like it best when it’s fried. There’s nothing like the crispy, juicy, down home comfort of a crunchy, perfectly-spiced chicken breast. Your mama made it, her mama made it, her mama’s mama made it and her mama’s mama’s mama probably made it on somebody’s plantation. Fried chicken runs as deep as the blood, sweat and tears of our ancestors and is an undeniably integral part of our culture as black Americans. We cook it, we eat it, we talk about it and if you look anything like Mary J. Blige, you’re mostly likely singing about it too (see video on right).

Too much? Well, if you didn’t even kind-of smile at that last paragraph I have two words for you: LIGHTEN UP! It’s time for us to start treating silly generalizations as what they are – silly generalizations. It’s like the black community is in a permanently crouched position – waiting, carefully watching for someone to slip up and do or say anything seemingly offensive that we can rant about. From racist bumper stickers, to ignorant tweets to stereotype-charged advertising, we’ve slowly become the that was racist-patrol. We have to understand that most generalizations are based in some sort of fact and laugh about it. We also have to understand that people tend to hate and fear what they don't understand. Most importantly, we, as a community, have to realize that our constant defensiveness is what gives blatant ignorance its power.

In regards to Mary J. Blige, the 'queen of ghetto love' recently decided to partner with Burger King to promote their new crispy chicken wrap. In a voice filled with the soul we all know and love, she sang “crispy chicken, fresh lettuce, three cheeses, ranch dressing, wrapped up in a tasty flour tortilla!” like the rent was past due. I’ll be the first to admit it – when I saw the commercial, I couldn’t help but bob my head and snap to the catchy beat. When the commercial was over, I laughed and shook my head. In no way did I feel that Mary J. Blige making a personal decision to sing about fried chicken had tarnished my brand. Matter of fact, the tune has been stuck in my head ever since. Nevertheless, Burger King pulled the commercial after backlash from viewers who said the commercial was racist.

The truth is, to be a famous and successful black American is to carry the weight of the black community on one’s shoulders. We automatically realize the fact that there may not be many in our position and that the image we project to the general population may be one of the only positive impressions of blacks to which they’re exposed. We realize that how we speak, behave and react is being judged at all times by our paler counterparts and we respond accordingly.

But is it fair? Is it fair to me that the silly decisions Mary J. Blige makes for her brand could affect how people view me? Is it fair to aspiring black actresses that they could be discounted in regards to larger lead roles because of the roles that actresses like Gabourey Sidibe, Octavia Spencer, Viola Davis and even the late Hattie McDaniel have chosen to take? Is it fair that young black boys like Trayvon Martin have to fear for their lives because of young thugs who share nothing but a similar complexion?

No. It’s not fair. And while some may argue that life isn’t fair and “it is what it is,” I decided long ago that wasn't going to own y'all's “raggedy shit” (credit to Raven). I’ve got enough of my own to deal with. Yes, I’m black. No, I don’t like fried chicken. Yes, I’m black. No, I'm not plotting to attack you because I’m wearing a hoodie. Yes, I’m black. No, my first language is not “Ebonics.” I’m not a dropout, I don’t aspire to be the next Nicki Minaj and I am not illiterate (my excellent reading comprehension actually made it clear to me that both Rue and Thresh were black prior to viewing The Hunger Games on opening night - but that’s another conversation).

There comes a time when you have to be able to laugh at yourself and more importantly, laugh at other people. Don’t own those generalizations. Realizing that your success is not based on someone else’s decisions and choosing to be your own unique brand is the first step to fighting stereotypes.

- Jess