I’m still speaking regularly and any and all book purchases help me with the cost of staying on the road and sharing these stories with campuses and communities throughout the US (so feel free to buy multiple copies and pass this onto your friends).
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Not a Hero

More often than not, upon hearing about our how we walked the East Coast to raise awareness about sexual violence, people really begin to pile on the compliments of astounding proportion. In one instance I was even compared to the likes of Mahatma Gandhi. Of course I find this comparison utterly absurd and would never hold my three month walk in comparison to a man who dedicated his life to non-violently fighting against British colonialism, but I do find it increasingly remarkable to witness how we have become embodiments of iconic figures for so many folks both on the journey and back home. It’s as if the big social justice dreams of various supporters were lived vicariously through us.

While I am continuously flattered and ever grateful for the support, I do however issue a word of caution for anyone who wishes to place our accomplishments above their earthly reality and human abilities. Furthermore, it is of my opinion that people should never place their role models on too high a pedestal for the fear that they may be tricked into thinking that they could never reach such heights themselves. When people become too entangled with distorted images of the messengers they lose sight of the message itself. Instead, people should use the energy generated by positive folks seeking to do positive things in an effort to create social change in their own communities. Everyone has the ability to evoke social change, but first one must clear their mind of idolized imagery that places other people’s accomplishments out of reach. If we can stay focused on the message and not the people who carry that message, then we can truly begin to create our ideal communities. It is here that I think of the conscious momentum toward change that ordinary folks can partake in as everyday activism.

This next story is aimed at debunking any myth of my own sainthood as well as providing people with an alternative set of standards for defining what should be categorized as heroic.

Like any “well-adjusted” American male, I too give in to selfish temptation and enjoy my moments in the spotlight; feeling as if the world owes me something because of my great success without reflecting on any of the privileges and blessings afforded to me by the dominant culture that may have made it possible for me to succeed. Or at the very least, I sometimes don’t recognize that dominant culture has made it nearly impossible for me to fail too miserably. Walking the East Coast was just one of those moments where I felt as if I had gotten everything right. I had put myself in a position of moral and ethical concern too great to be criticized by the vast majority of the criticizing public. In all honesty, who is going to disagree with us? Sexual violence is an issue that most everyone easily agrees on; the overwhelming opinion being that sexual violence is wrong. And because everyone agrees that it’s wrong, it’s hard to criticize a few college students who are walking the East Coast to raise awareness about it. In fact, the only flak we ever really received about the walk was in our methodological approach of walking on foot. We never got flak about the seriousness of the issue itself. Unfortunately, it was in these moments of overconfidence and “could do no wrong” attitude when I lost the most sight of what I was and who I was walking for.

If you one day decide to walk the Atlantic coast of Florida – or even just drive all 400 miles of it – you may become well informed as to how the highways and byways hug the coast never more than a few feet from the ocean. The smooth coastlines allow for this and I would guess that it is precisely this type of geographical perfection that makes traveling Highway 1 so appealing to bikers: both bikers with pedals and bikers with motors – we saw plenty of both. This pattern of smooth pavement with the coast in sight stays fairly much in place until the last 100 miles when the roads begin to travel more inland due to a rougher coastline. It was when we retreated inland on Highway 1 that I visibly noticed the staggering class change. Condos became trailers and fine dining became the greasy spoon. It does not surprise me that we still segregate ourselves along class-lines socially (how often do we talk to our friends who usually look like us about where we shop and how much our material goods cost?), but it does trouble me that the lines of real estate, class, and race are actually increasing their visibility.

Real estate is so blatant with its distaste for the poor that we have become desensitized to the absurd acts of discrimination. Neighbors are now living behind gated walls and people are only afforded the opportunity to find friends of a different class if they retreat online to a social network that most likely lists inaccurate information about a person in the first place. We can barely even borrow a cup of sugar from someone across the street because to get across the street and into a different neighborhood requires a picture ID and a security guard frisk. To some this may sound exaggerated, but I would challenge you to think about the last time you walked through a community that was visibly different from your own. And if you have, what did you honestly assume about the folks who lived there? During a time when not everyone had their own car, at least people were forced to walk through different parts of town and experience, if even for only a traveling moment, a different way of living. Now people can speed through these areas and in some cases can avoid them all together thanks to interstates. Poverty is easy to miss if you’re never forced to live it or to look at it.

We stumbled upon one of these lesser known towns in Northern Florida. Being a few miles from the coast, I could see and smell and touch its unwantedness by tourists. I knew these people because their town was a lot like the town I was born in. The highway scrapped across the top of dirty gas stations – the only businesses that outsiders would touch on their way to more affluent people and things.

By the time we reached this town, we had a fairly set pattern as to how we liked to approach the day. We would be out of bed at sunrise (“bed” was quite a fluent concept by now), walking by 7:00 am, and trying to cover eight to ten miles before taking our first big break for lunch. After lunch and the occasional siesta, taken in the cool grass under the big palm leaves, we would walk six to seven more miles before dinner at roughly 5:00 pm. After dinner we would finish up the remaining three to four miles before looking for a place to bed down. When we reached this particular town on this particular day, it was 5:00 pm and time for dinner.

We approached the South end of town – the same end that we approached in every town – and quickly spotted one of those greasy spoons I mentioned earlier. Set just in front a trailer park, it blended into its landscape beautifully like a camouflaged G.I. sifting undetectably through the jungles of Vietnam. I entered slowly because I couldn’t be bothered with rushing while I was admiring the plethora of lawn ornaments. Over-sized amphibians, wire flamingo sculptures, and vintage diner posters sucked you into the atmosphere. Now, when it comes to vintage posters on the outside of an old establishment like this, I often wonder if they were recently put up in the spirit of vintage decorating, or if they had in fact been there since the creation of the poster and management just forgot to take them down once they were outdated. Either way, the place had an inviting feel. Throwing our bags off to the side of the main entrance, which was a custom that many restaurants let us do and we were thankful for, we were seated by a very pleasant waitress. “I saw y’all walking this morning on my way to work,” she said in a very tender and welcoming voice. “That must have been about 15 miles back.” “Yeah, that was us.” I tried to imitate her pleasantness. “We’ve been walking for a couple of weeks now all the way from Miami. We’re walking to raise awareness about sexual violence.” With a warm smile, the waitress poured us some much needed water and retreated to the kitchen allowing us time to go over the menu.

As a way to conserve money and not over-indulge, the three of us often ordered just two meals and ate, what I like to call, “family style.” The constant reaching over one another and passing plates around the table does something to bring a group of folks closer together. I suppose it helped us break out of the individualized identity that comes with the labeling of “my fork,” “my spoon,” “my beef,” “my broccoli.” It’s amazing how the quiet act of eating from one another’s plate allows you to enter into one another’s life on a more personal level. Having collectively decided on our order, Kate retreated to the restroom to wash up. The task of washing up in a restaurant restroom usually took about fifteen minutes and until this trip I had never literally washed my arms up to my elbows nor had I engaged in the act of washing my face and drenching myself in sunscreen just before eating at a public establishment. By now it was something I did on a frequent basis. It had become, as they say, habit forming.

When Kate was gone, the waitress returned with two pitchers of water and that same warm smile. She flipped open her order booklet and pulled a pencil from behind her ear.

Rebecca smiled at her, glancing back and forth from the menu, and said, “Well have the chicken dinner and a turkey sandwich. And I know it says you charge extra for splitting up meals, but we were wondering if you could waive that?” “No problem. What are you all doing again?” “We’re walking to raise awareness about sexual violence.”

I watched as those words enter into the waitress’ soul and her mood became calmer than it had already been – more somber. Her voice lowered to just above a whisper and I knew what I was about to hear before the first words even emptied over her thin, red lips. Then she began. “I’m not originally from here. In fact, I’ve only been here a few months.” She sighed and collected herself. Rebecca and I briefly stole a look at one another. “Yeah, back in Montana, my 14 year old daughter was raped two years ago. I put her into counseling, but it wasn’t working so finally one day we packed up and moved out here so she could be in a better space mentally.”

With that, she raised her head and a slight smile came across her face, her eyes piercing through to my heart. Then she nodded and returned to the kitchen. It was in this moment that the walk for me was forever changed. I was less than three weeks in and already I had found myself realigning my priorities. Through ten months of planning, the three of us struggled both internally and externally with issues regarding how to get this walk going for us. People would join our cause determined to walk with us and then bail unsympathetic to the fact that their abandonment had cost us time and money. Yes, we traveled around central Michigan looking for supporters. Yes, we invested our own time and money into propagating our “adventure of a lifetime.” And, yes, I was set in knowing that this walk was to going to change the way people think about the issue of sexual violence.

However, the unconnected hands of financial and media support are trivial if they are tainted by uncompassionate advocates who parade their social issues around as if they are somehow in ownership over the struggle that so many marginalized and forgotten people deal with on a daily basis. But with that waitress’s nod, all of my priorities for this walk changed and I was reminded why I had begun advocating against sexual violence in the first place. With that nod, the waitress reminded me of who I was really trying to gain the support of. I was walking to gain the support of survivors. With that nod, I was reminded that while our faces may be plastered in newspapers and on the nightly news for the “heroic” task set before us, we were not heroes and it was not our faces that represented the issue of sexual violence. If we need to have heroes, then the heroes should be the everyday faces of those affected by sexual violence. The faces of our neighbors, our friends, and our loved ones who have been rendered faceless and their voices rendered voiceless and yet despite the overwhelmingly emotionless shrug of society’s indifference they continue to survive. These invisible attributes are what represent the issue.

This single mom packed up the last 40 years of her life’s work and moved from one coast to another where she knew no one only to find herself living in a trailer park and waitressing at a greasy diner so that her little girl could have a chance at reclaiming the peace of mind that was violently taken from her. She was a hero.

By comparison, the three of us were concerned and responsible college students who wanted to do what we could to help bring attention to the issue of sexual violence. And what we did was important. Yet the journey we freely chose to embark on is far different than what may be coercively or forcefully chosen for someone else. Sure it can be said that we unselfishly gave up three months of our early 20s to do something admirable. To some extent, I would agree. But what we – and I mean all advocates – often lose sight of is that for every piece of hell we hear about on our journeys as advocates, others live this struggle everyday. This is not to discount survivors of sexual violence who are also advocates, but it is to say that although we gave up three months, this waitress had to alter her entire life. There are choices in advocacy work.

Additionally, and as a point of perspective, we should be mindful in not confusing her actions as something unique. As remarkable as her move was, I quickly discovered through more and more interactions with everyday folks along the way that heroic feats like this were a common thread that weave together the stories of people affected by sexual violence. What’s heartbreaking is that this waitress’ story wasn’t extraordinary. What’s heartbreaking is that this waitress’ story is all too ordinary.

Kate returned from the restroom and it was obvious that the mood of table had changed. Respecting the privacy of the waitress, Rebecca and I never told Kate what had happened. And being the understanding and respectful person she is, Kate never asked. When our meal was over, we kindly asked the waitress for our check. However, instead of presenting us a bill, she presented us with $15. “I told the others what ya’ll were doing and we pulled some money together. It ain’t much, but it’s all we got.”

Aware of the visibly desperate financial conditions of the area, we politely tried to decline, but the waitresses would have no word of it. They wouldn’t let us pay our bill nor would they accept our smart-ass attempt at leaving a $15 tip. Walking out the door to be greeted by the setting sun, the circumstances that unfolded at the diner that evening are what I thought about the rest of the night, the rest of the trip, and what I continue to think about today. What we did when we walked the East Coast of America was important, creative, unique, and possibly a little crazy, but by no means was it heroic or worthy of iconic praise. To this day it remains important that we continue to spread the word and educate others about the social injustice of sexual violence through our daily choices, but anything I do can never be categorized as something more important than what countless others do for the cause everyday. Nor can it be categorized as anything more important than what you can choose to do for the cause today.

Please embrace the message tighter than you embrace the messenger. And in that process of advocacy, never forget that we need to mindfully navigate the terrain of speaking with people who have been deemed too culturally unimportant to make a ripple in the consciousness of humanity. We must be careful to never speak for them. Finally, we should remember that the true heroes in the fight against sexual violence are like the waitress we met in Northern Florida. They are people who are willing to give up their lives in order to help people they love through the everyday struggle. No, we’re not heroes for walking. The three of us are just fortunate in different ways for being blessed with the opportunity of having been touched by the lives of heroes.

Hey folks

My brother from another mother just wrote a piece on gender violence as “rumor.” I thought it was rather thought provoking so decided to make this week’s blog post an op-ed. The author’s name is Bryant CroSs. Check him out via Facebook.

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I’ve been hesitant to write this because of the backlash it might ensue. Therefore, let me be explicitly clear and say that in NO WAY am I advocating nor believe that the Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity Inc. promotes or supports violence towards women. I also feel this way towards Essence fashion models and I purposefully tagged men affiliated with these organizations in this writing whom I respect personally and know that they take a stand against violence towards women such as I do.