This is an opinion column.
I wonder how they are. The men—Black men. The boys. The fathers. The sons. The women, too,
I wonder how they’ve all fared since that historic day a quarter-century ago when hundreds of thousands of us gathered in a sunny autumn Monday in Washington, D.C.—stretching between the U.S. Capitol and Washington monument—and vowed to do more, to do better.
To do more for each other. To do more with each other.
To do better for ourselves, for our families, for our women, for our children.
There may not have been a million of us at the Million Man March on October 16, 1995, but we felt a million strong. We felt different.
Our usual nods were bolder on the Amtrak train headed south that morning from New York. Even more so as we converged on the Metro in the nation’s capital and made our way to the site of the march.
I didn’t know just how many Black men would be there, but I was going to be among them. Not as a journalist—although I roamed through the throng shooting photographs as if I was Gordon Parks. (Ironically, since this was eons before selfies, there’s not a single photo of me among the more than a hundred I shot. Sigh.) But as a Black man, a Black father with a 17-month-old son.
A Black man with hope. That we could—and must—do more. That we could—and must—be better.
The message
The event was organized by Min. Louis Farrakhan, the leader of the Nation of Islam, and NAACP Executive Director Dr. Benjamin Chavis, and it drew Black men from every sector—from every neighborhood, every faith. From every precipice on the mountain Black men have climbed for centuries.
Their message: get more politically involved and take more responsibility. For yourself. For your brother. For your family. For us.
Birmingham native Bobby Tate could not make it to Washington, D.C. He was in the Navy, stationed in San Diego. He watched it, though, recalling it now, 25 years later, as “a powerful moment.”
Tate, now 46, grew up in Collegeville, in the public housing community on the city’s north side, raised, along with two brothers, by a single mother. “Mom did the best she could,” he recalls.
He remembers the community as a village where he “felt safe” walking next door or around the corner to borrow something mother needed. He wasn’t oblivious, though, to the gun violence, to the domestic violence committed by “small pockets” in the community.
“It wasn’t all bad,” he says. “We took care of each other.”
Straddling two worlds
Tate was inspired by some older men in his neighborhood and at school. “Professional Black men,” he says. “I was really inspired by those guys.”
The young boy who straddled disparate worlds was molded by each. “The bad and the good influenced me,” he says. “I promised myself certain things I would never expose to my family. Certain elements.”
Tate served in the Gulf War and traveled the globe before returning to Birmingham after being honorably discharged in 1998. He’s a realtor and has owned several other enterprises.
A few weeks ago he was perusing social media and came across an Instagram post from @blackmenswear featuring a group of Black men in suits striding in cadence down the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art to the song Higher by DJ Khaled, featuring Nipsy Hustle and John Legend.
“They were sharp and cascading down the steps,” Tate recalls. “It gave me chills.”
He reposted it, saying it would be cool to re-create something similar in Birmingham. Cousins prodded and prodded him to do it, so he reached out to Birmingham comedian and activist Jermaine (Funny) Johnson, whom he’d gotten to know on social media and for-real socially watching football games with friends.
“He told me it would be powerful, but what’s the message?” Tate says. “He was right. At first, I just thought of the visual, but we needed to have something to feed men while there. We began bouncing ideas, then God took hold and it took off.”
On Sunday, October 25, a hundred Birmingham Black men gathered to "show our narrative" and "unity. "We want to do for ourselves," said co-organizer Bobby Tate. "We need that."
The gathering
Last Sunday almost 100 Black men—in suits—strode through historic Kelly Ingram Park. They posed on the steps of 16th Street Baptist Church and on the stage at the park and heard messages similar to those expressed in Washington, D.C. a quarter-century ago.
“Unity, supporting each other, and group economics,” Tate says. “Supporting Black businesses. Doing a lot of things for ourselves. We’re tired of waiting for someone else. It was long overdue, time to come off the sidelines, and show us in a different light, collectively.”
Tate is well aware that, like in the Collegeville of his youth, there is still gun violence, still domestic violence, which unfairly taints the Black community. Taints and overshadows the “village mentality” still striving to exist in Black neighborhoods.
Wearing suits wasn’t simply to be stylish, but to convey the kind of professionalism that once inspired the organizer.
“Seeing brothers in suits being articulate and taking care of selves was something I didn’t realize I needed to see, but it affected me,” Tate says. “We didn’t want the first time brothers see each other in suits to be in a casket. Being in a suit sends a message: You automatically think business. We wanted this to be a business meeting.”
Tate also wanted attendees to represent the full spectrum of faiths among Black men. He reached out to friends among the Black Hebrew Israelites in the city but knew no one from the Nation of Islam.
Around noon on the day of the gathering, Tate was leaving a walk-through at the park when he noticed a gentleman sitting on a motorcycle in a bow tie.
“You from the nation,” Tate asked.
“Yes,” the gentleman said. “I don’t normally listen to the radio but I happened to be scanning and heard Black men were meeting at the park. A few other Muslim brothers are coming, too.”
“Brother,” Tate responded, “that’s nothing but God. I wanted the Nation here but didn’t know anyone.”
“Yes,” the man said, “that’s God.”
Event organizers Terry Mills, Bbby Tate and Jermaine (Funnymaine) Johnson
Unaware of anniversary
The two men talked for a few minutes. He gentleman shared that the day was very close—almost to the day--to the 25th anniversary of the Million Man March.
“I said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’” Tate recalls. “I didn’t know. That blew me away.”
Tate is committed to ensuring the day was more than a cool photo and empowering words—to working so Black men won’t have to march 25 years from now to remind each other to do more for each other, with each other. To do better.
“I had a brother reach out to me to help with truancy,” he said. “That is where my heart’s at. The same guys I looked up to, who were my escape, I want young guys to look up to us and want to be us. I want them to see something beyond their circumstances.”
Though it is too early to share many other details, Tate said: “We’ve got a lot of exciting ideas for 2021. This is not a one and done. We’re not asking nobody for nothing. We want to do for ourselves. We need that.”
The pledge
On that day a quarter-century ago, the men on the mall recited this pledge:
I PLEDGE that from this day forward I will strive to love my brother as I love myself. I, from this day forward, will strive to improve myself spiritually, morally, mentally, socially, politically, and economically for the benefit of myself, my family, and my people. I pledge that I will strive to build businesses, build houses, build hospitals, build factories, and enter into international trade for the good of myself, my family, and my people.
I pledge that from this day forward I will never raise my hand with a knife or a gun to beat, cut, or shoot any member of my family or any human being except in self-defense. I pledge from this day forward I will never abuse my wife by striking her, disrespecting her, for she is the mother of my children and the producer of my future. I pledge that from this day forward I will never engage in the abuse of children, little boys, or little girls for sexual gratification. For I will let them grow in peace to be strong men and women for the future of our people.
I will never again use the “b word” to describe any female. But particularly my own Black sister. I pledge from this day forward that I will not poison my body with drugs or that which is destructive to my health and my well-being.
I pledge from this day forward I will support Black newspapers, Black radio, Black television. I will support Black artists who clean up their acts to show respect for themselves and respect for their people and respect for the ears of the human family. I will do all of this, so help me God.
Some of us who were there that morning strived to fulfill the pledge; many of us fell short. So it bears repeating—alas, a quarter-century later.
We can—and must—do better.
"We don't want the first time brothers see each other in suits to be in a casket," says organizer Bobby Tate. "We've got guys making a difference here nd there but when we come together as a collective it's power."
Unafraid to start uncomfortable conversations, Roy is a voice for what’s right and wrong in Birmingham, Alabama (and beyond). His column appears in The Birmingham News and AL.com, as well as in the Huntsville Times, the Mobile Register. Reach him at rjohnson@al.com and follow him at twitter.com/roysj
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