Against the odds
Even as they thrive, successful black men feel the burden of grim
statistics and the pain of peers' hopeless lives
Richard LaBennett, 23, of Cary, readies himself for a meeting for his
Web design company on a weekend morning. He is also a software
engineer for Lenovo International.
Staff Photo by Corey Lowenstein
Kelly Starling Lyons, Correspondent
It blasted through cyberspace, commanding attention from barbershops
to board rooms. A March 20 New York Times article, "Plight Deepens
for Black Men, Studies Warn," revealed poor African-American men face
a reality more dire than some experts thought. Think soaring
unemployment, incarceration and dropout rates. The findings, drawn
from several university studies, were brutal.
By 2004, 72 percent of black male high school dropouts in their 20s
were jobless. When high school graduates were included, half in their
20s were without work. By their mid-30s, six in 10 black men who had
dropped out of school spent time in prison. Poor black men, the
article said, are falling further behind while other groups are
gaining.
Some decried the front-page story for spreading negative stereotypes
about African-American men and focusing on the problems while
offering few solutions. Others said the national spotlight offered a
way to stoke calls for action. But perhaps more quietly, successful
black men may have faced questions of their own:
How do they navigate life when friends or family may be faltering?
How do they raise sons in the face of negative images of black men?
How do those who grow up in poor neighborhoods turn things around?
Here are the stories of three men whose lives provide some answers.
Young, gifted and black
Richard LaBennett saw the whirl of flashing lights. He pulled over on
a downtown Raleigh street and waited for the officer to come.
LaBennett, who was driving a sedan with tinted windows, was told he
was stopped for having an expired tag. Then, the cop said he smelled
drugs. Before long, two police cars joined him. One officer unleashed
a dog that sniffed around LaBennett's car. Nothing.
"When I started talking, he heard I wasn't some ignorant guy and he
changed his demeanor," LaBennett says. "But by then it was too late."
LaBennett is a 23-year-old software engineer for Lenovo, where he
leads a team of five. He owns a Web design business and rental
property. But just like that, assumptions are made, he says.
"Being young and black, those are the things I run into," says
LaBennett, who lives in Cary. "I'm challenged a lot. So I put myself
in a more mature crowd, always try to stay on top of my game."
LaBennett grew up in Indiana, the child of an engineer dad and a
professor mom. His parents gave him leeway, but he also had
structure. LaBennett had to read for an hour every day, help tend
vegetables in the garden and attend church on Sundays. Good grades
won him cash. He attended camps in the summer and took the SAT in
seventh grade. For LaBennett, being good wasn't enough. He had to be
the best.
"As one of few black kids there, if you fall short, that's what
people will focus on," he says.
But he knows he has had a more privileged upbringing than some. The
differences stood out in his high school where some classmates
challenged his blackness because of the way he talked, in the homes
of peers that lacked the luxuries his had. LaBennett felt the
disparity when he visited family in towns where the dreams of some
young people are limited to their surroundings.
"I have cousins who are younger than me and have two or three kids,"
he says. "Living is getting a job and saving up enough to buy a nice
car and pay the rent. That's what it means to make it."
LaBennett and his friends talk often about the sober statistics about
young black men.
"There are two arguments," he says. "One is that it's how society is
set up. A lot of our youth grow up with the wrong idea of what's good
and bad. When they run into trouble, they're sent to jail. There's
nothing to really turn them around so it becomes a cycle."
"The other is that we don't take initiative as a people to educate
and go back into our communities to help."
He uses the numbers as motivation.
"I don't get down about it," says LaBennett, a graduate of N.C. A&T
State University. "I can do much more by putting a positive spin on
things."
LaBennett plans to one day educate people on financial literacy and
teach them how they can set themselves on the right path. In the
meantime, he works through his fraternity, Alpha Phi Alpha, to uplift
everyone he can.
Father to son
When his son Chad landed a second speeding ticket, Dr. Moses Watson
III said all bets were off. Though he and his wife had just bought
Chad a neon blue PT Cruiser to take to college, he told his son he'd
have to earn the right to drive it again.
Watson assigned him an essay that explored family history and the
results and consequences of speeding. Chad also had to earn good
grades.
When his first semester marks fell short, Watson kept the car at home
again. His son tried to negotiate with him. No deal. Watson wouldn't
budge.
That wasn't the first time he and Chad squared off. Another time the
issue was wearing droopy pants. Watson vetoed that too.
He said his three children have enough friends at school. He doesn't
care about being popular. Instead Watson works to instill lessons
that will keep them from making mistakes that can crush their future,
landing in a system that can be tough on black men, he says.
Watson is happy he can provide a comfortable life for his daughter
and two sons. But that also brings challenges.
"Once you get out of mama and daddy's house, life is cruel," says
Watson, a 42-year-old dentist who practices in Raleigh and his
hometown of Laurinburg.
The toughest part of being a dad, he says, is the uncertainty. Are
you doing the right thing? How will your decisions affect them in the
future?
"I just pray that I'm doing what's best," he says.
He has good children, Watson said. But young people today are exposed
to so much more -- explicit language, sexual content, violence --
than in his era.
"I grew up scared of jail, scared of my mama," he says. "Kids today
aren't afraid of anything."
Watson learned a lot from his father who was a hardworking truck
driver. He saw his dad open a trucking company, a gas station and a
convenience store. The father was too kind-hearted to stay in
business for long, Watson says. But the model of working for
yourself, taking care of your family stayed with him.
Watson tempers lessons for his children with fun. He takes them ice
skating, roller skating. He and younger son, Jacob, belong to a
father and son book club at Richard B. Harrison Library.
He and his wife, Pam, give their children the tools to make good
decisions. But they also make sure to watch for signs of trouble, he
says.
Years ago, Chad attended a rural elementary school that didn't push
or encourage him. His self-esteem plunged. Watson and his wife bought
positive-thinking tapes that they played for Chad while he slept.
"After a while, he'd go in and play them himself," Watson says.
Chad's spirit rebounded. His grades stabilized. But Watson took the
extra step of moving his family to Cary, which offered more
opportunities and better schools, even though that meant a 90-minute
commute to his job.
That Chad turned around wasn't coincidence.
"If we wouldn't have worked with Chad, he would have ended up like so
many kids who just wander through life," Watson says.
"If we would have allowed it, that's what would have happened."
A different path
In the East Flatbush neighborhood in New York City where Tyronne
James grew up, teen pregnancy, gangs and drug-dealing pocked his
world. He saw little of his dad. His mom was there but faced
struggles of her own.
His grandma made sure he and his older sister had the necessities --
a home, food to eat. She even scrimped to enroll him in a private
music school. There, he took vocal and piano lessons that opened his
mind to another life. His musical talent and his academic ability
helped him escape from the pressures of poverty that derail some
young, black men.
James attended Manhattan's Talent Unlimited High School. But he also
had to start working as a baker to help his grandma and support
himself. Some days, his lack of money overwhelmed him. They lived
paycheck to paycheck with no cash for extras. Sometimes even buying
food was a struggle.
"It just basically felt like we were down and out and never
succeeded," he says.
There were times when he was tempted to do whatever it would take to
turn things around, he says. But he thought about his grandma's
lessons, recalled inspiring trips like the tour he took as a member
of the chorus in the British Rock Symphony to 35 states and reflected
on his faith. He chose a different path.
James focused instead on excelling in his advanced placement classes,
hanging out with friends who coached and encouraged one another. His
senior year, he was accepted to N.C. Central University. He thrived
academically and socially. But even there, money woes threatened to
pull him down.
While James [ a 2003 initiate of Gamma Beta Chapter of Alpha Phi
Alpha ] received some scholarships and financial aid, it was never
enough to cover all of the costs.
"I was almost sent home all eight semesters I was here," he said.
James persevered and graduated magna cum laude from NCCU in December.
He was the first in his family to earn a college degree. Now, James,
who is 23 and lives in Durham, is program coordinator for the James
H. Ammons African-American Male Leadership Academy. He helps young
black men who are performing below their potential.
"I don't know who's responsible for presenting that the only way out
is to sell drugs, play basketball or be a musician," James
says. "People need to hear that you can make it by education."
He watches changes in his students unfold. Some arrive as gang
members with little care about grades. Weeks in, spirits lift and F's
turn to A's.
"I see their bright eyes and eagerness to excel," he says. "For many,
college isn't an option before the program. Now, it's something they
know they can accomplish."
James sees himself in the young men he helps. Many came up in grandma-
headed homes or live in rough neighborhoods. James wants them to know
they can succeed despite those obstacles.
If he made it out, so can they, he says.
Correspondent Kelly Starling Lyons can be reached at
email@kellystarlinglyons.com.
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