Life back then was a warzone; eyes surveilled you at all times, so much so that I didn’t find any value in material possessions because I knew it would be taken from me. I used to think my youth would shield me from the heinous acts of those sordid individuals in my neighborhood; I quickly learned that, rather, it made me a prime target.

To be a young boy growing up in the streets of New York, one would learn quickly to analyze every possible situation and person as a potential threat and to never… EVER underestimate anyone, not even the random crackhead beggin for a dollar on the corner.

Still, I said to myself the one thing I refused to let anyone take from me during my expeditions outside of my ghetto: my Air Jordans—which, back then, I would’ve happily died for.

……

I don’t mean to be facetious when I say I would’ve died for my sneakers. They were the only thing in the world at the time that I could wholeheartedly say was fully mine, especially in a place that made so little feel like it belonged to me. Back then, as now, they were the only beautiful thing I saw in my ghetto.

Back in 2015, one of the last years of in-person sneaker raffles, Air Jordans were still in high demand. Unlike today, when Jordan Brand sales have declined due to the rise in inflation, competition among other popular sneaker brands, and the sneaker reselling business, owning a pair of Jordans back then carried significant social weight, especially in the projects.

Having the latest Air Jordans was like a cultural indoctrination of sorts for those living in the ghetto. We couldn’t imagine life without Jordans, and more importantly, they were our love language. Single mothers in every ghetto in New York would lace their children up with the latest Jordans, most times using sneakers to distract them from the things their children were lacking—absent fathers, financial hardship, or the realities of growing up in poverty. Fathers and sons would spend quality “man” time together at the sneaker store, waiting in line for the latest release. Sometimes, those moments filled the void left by absent parenting; other times, they were simply the only way a father knew how to show his son love.

Everyone knew how important it was to have a fresh pair of Jordans and the consequences that came with messing up somebody else’s Jordans.

My first pair of Jordans were the Jordan 10 ‘Bulls over Broadway’ colorway. The most beautiful sneaker I had ever seen. A vibrant red complemented by a concrete outsole with splattered dots. A very New York sneaker—a very bold sneaker, one that gave me a lot of confidence. I grew up getting picked on for wearing Jordan Flights, so with these new Jordan 10s, I was looking forward to the attention it would bring.

I remember telling my father I wanted those Jordan 10s, and to my surprise, he got them for me. At first he was hesitant to buy them. One thing my father knew that I didn’t was that Air Jordans were used in the ghetto to indicate gang affiliation. Before he handed the sneakers over, he asked me several questions: “Did anyone in the neighborhood tell you to get these?” and “This is not for a gang initiation, right?” I lived in a Blood neighborhood, so my father’s concerns were warranted.

The truth is, I had a crush on this girl in the neighborhood who had the same pair.

It was a silly crush, but it taught me about a lot more than just sneakers. As I got to know the girl more, I gauged that she was the type who brought trouble with her, trouble that I was not prepared for. She was far more experienced than me; what I mean by that is her soul carried an arousal and perversity for the ghetto. It was clear that her femininity had long escaped her, even at just 12 years old, and that she experienced things that my untouched nature couldn’t comprehend or save her from.

She belonged to a different life. Still, I would look forward to going to the park and running into her. My mom told me to stay away from that park and the people who lived in that ghetto because they had inherited hatred for those who lived in mine. A piece of my heart believed that she wanted to be different; the world just never let her.

……

After my first pair of Jordans, I was on a sneaker high. One pair grew into two pairs, two pairs grew into three, and suddenly I was known as a sneakerhead by everyone in my 7th grade classroom, which was my highest honor.

Anytime I managed to pull some money together, I would go to the sneaker store. Most times I would go to Foot Locker or Jimmy Jazz with my mother, but when she was at work most of the time, I would walk almost an hour from Bed-Stuy to Nostrand Ave in Crown Heights by myself and purchase sneakers from those reselling sneaker shops. Looking back on it, this was especially dangerous given this was during the time kids across the nation were getting murdered for their sneakers.

Still, I set out to get the new Jordan Metallic 5s.

On my 40-minute walk down Fulton Street, I would pass by the ghetto that my crush lived in. I was very careful in that area because many of the goons who lived there would be outside looking for their next victim. I would see them chase people on foot and on bikes as they would try to take people’s personal belongings. I tried to avoid making contact with them as much as possible. Boys and Girls High School, one of Brooklyn’s most dangerous high schools, was also in that area, making the stakes even more unnerving.

About 15 minutes down Fulton Street, I would run into Risley Dent Towers, which I recently came to know as. Back then, it looked no different than a regular project complex, and it certainly didn’t feel any different. Every time I passed by the front of the affordable housing complex, there would be several men outside on the block, and each time I passed by, I hoped I wouldn’t hear a “YURR” or someone asking me for the time.

10 minutes later, I would pass by Kingston Troop. I had a friend who lived in this ghetto, and later in life I would actually play basketball in Kingston Park, befriending a bunch of the guys from there and even attend high school in that area. Kingston Park was a huge playground full of nice trees, basketball courts, and small play areas for kids with swings and slides. The park’s amenities couldn’t distract from the area’s cynicism. Even as a child, I knew Kingston was full of spiritually abandoned men and kids.

Over the course of my life, I’ve witnessed many shootouts take place in Kingston and have known many people from the area who have either died or are imprisoned. These instances used to make me question God’s love.

If God loved all people, then why would He make us—those in the ghetto—so fearful? Why would He rob us of our humanity? I realized most of the boys, the men, I knew in Kingston weren’t necessarily bad people; they were simply afraid. Afraid of their environment maybe, but afraid of life outside it, definitely. They inherited this fear from their “big homies,” who inherited it from theirs. Men who experience this fear are the most depraved group of individuals the ghetto will ever see because they will pass on this depravity onto the next group of innocent children, causing this dismay to be generational—to be inherited so that one day the victims will become the perpetrators and the perpetrators will become the victims, and bystanders will never distinguish who or what came first.

Do I think the people from Kingston wanted my sneakers? Yeah, they wanted anything they could strip from me—anything to rob me of my dignity, to break me down so far that I could no longer see my self-worth or humanity, so that I would succumb to the same savagery that has overtaken them.

In the final 10 minutes, I reached Nostrand. I walked to the sneaker store and was greeted by a rastafarian salesman. I asked him for the Metallic 5s, and he brought them out for me. I tried them on and walked around the store for a little bit to make sure they fit. I gave the salesman about $300, and as he gave me the sneakers, the man looked at me and asked if I came to the store by myself. I replied, “Yeah.” He asked me where I lived, and I told him, and then he was concerned. He told me he didn’t like the idea of a 12-year-old boy walking through multiple projects with a pair of sneakers. He went in the back and gave me a black bag to put my sneakers in so that the sneaker box would be concealed. He told me I was a crazy kid and to be safe walking back home. His concern meant everything to me; it showed me there were still decent people in this world.

I ran home, holding my sneakers tightly to my chest. One of the most exhilarating and liberating moments of my childhood. I knew someone could have taken my sneakers that day, but honestly, I didn’t care; I loved the thrill. To possess something that was not only precious to me but desired by others felt good. My sneakers affirmed that I was still worthy of nice things in a world where my environment and everything in it told me otherwise. It affirmed that my humanity still remained intact and that my ghetto didn’t fully dehumanize me as it did others. I could still be saved.

To die for something seemingly as insignificant as a sneaker would’ve been worth it, knowing what it felt like to protect something, to be proud of something, to love something so much and to be so afraid to lose it. Remembering those feelings, even if they only lasted for a few fleeting moments of beauty, worth, and pride, meant more to me than anything, and it’s something nobody could ever take from me.

.

50 miles east of Atlanta, there is a quiet little town where people still talk to strangers in the parking lot, and where conversations stretch long after grocery bags have been loaded up into cars. At restaurants and shops, employees know you on a first-name basis and ask about your family like old friends catching up. Locals here describe the town as “pure magic.”

This precious town is Social Circle, affectionately known as “Georgia’s Greatest Little Town,” and many residents never want it to change.

Social Circle is full of regular people who only want healthy and safe lives for their families and good education for their children. Here, many people take pride in the small things in life, like the delight of running into a familiar face at a local coffee shop or eating at their favorite diner.

Social Circle is unlike most small towns; its residents are deeply protective of the rhythms and traditions that give their community a sense of peace. The city has accomplished what few small towns have: it has challenged the federal government—and prevailed.

On Feb 3, the Department of Homeland Security threatened the peace of Social Circle residents with a $129 million purchase of a vacant, 1-million-square-foot warehouse with the intention of turning the property into an 8,500-bed mega facility.

The city of Social Circle fought tirelessly against the federal government for months and finally, on June 18, the City of Social Circle received a notification from Congressman Mike Collins that the DHS is no longer pursuing an ICE detention facility.

While this victory was quite unexpected, it was nonetheless deeply appreciated; For many residents, the proposed immigrant detention center threatened the character of the community. Among Republican voters, a deeper concern has arisen as the failed detention center has caused Republicans to lose favor with President Donald Trump’s administration and its handling of the situation.

Staunch Republicans are speaking out. Paul Andrew Aday, 74, a Republican for over half a century, says the detention center has left him frustrated and blindsided by the party he’s supported for nearly five decades.

“This was not a good move either from the President and or any of his administration,” he said. “This was slipped in; nobody knew it was coming, so no, I did not like the way it was handled at all.”

Social Circle and Walton County are deeply conservative areas where Republicans typically dominate local and national elections. In 2024, 73% of voters in Walton County backed Trump, while only 27% backed Kamala Harris.

The AJC spoke to 15 people in Social Circle. 10 of them were Republicans. Out of the 10, only three were in favor of the detention facility, while the remaining seven were opposed to the facility for various reasons.

The city of Social Circle filed a federal lawsuit in May, claiming that the federal government failed to perform required reviews of the project’s environmental impacts and its effects on the health and safety of town residents.

This came after several protests from residents, advocacy groups and public outcry from Social Circle officials.

Concerned citizens urged the government to rethink the project as it would affect the city’s infrastructure grid, specifically water supply for residents and risk of sewage overflows.

“All morality aside, all politics aside, it’s basic math,” said 55-year-old Social Circle resident Michael Smith. “You can’t have a town of 5,400 people that all of a sudden is supposed to house 8,500 beds, probably 1,000 guards.”

Because of the clear infrastructure concerns, Smith, like many of Social Circle’s conservative residents, was concerned these issues would lead to the threat of higher taxes.

“If there is no solution for the water, it’s going to cost me money, and my taxes are going to go up, and I can’t have that,” he added.

Smith also felt the detention center would cause his children to become dehumanized.

“I think it will desensitize them to people’s humanity…,” he said. “When you see something that’s shocking, it just becomes less shocking when people tell you it’s normal and you see it as normal every day,” Smith said.

Smith said he’s been trying to survive in Social Circle. As one of the only African American families on his block, he feels the pressure and fear of being a minority in the largely white town. He said he keeps his head down and does his best to blend in but the weight of the proposed detention center was something he could not ignore.

His biggest nightmare was seeing “Social Circle become the next Auschwitz.” The town that he has grown to love, and fought hard to find his place in, was about to be the center of imprisoning, hurting and deporting bodies.

Many conservatives in Social Circle said they were actually not against immigration at all, as long as it’s done legally. They felt the money used by the government should be used to help people instead of detaining them.

“We could spend that same amount of money and provide a path for people to get citizenship than you just simply warehouse them, and there’s no productivity there,” Aday said.

The “One Big Beautiful Bill Act” signed into law by President Trump this past July gave Immigration and Customs Enforcement $45 billion to expand its immigration detention system, making ICE the highest-funded law enforcement agency in the country.

This was a component of Trump’s immigration policy to strengthen the border by continuing construction of the border wall, hiring more ICE officers and border patrol agents and increasing the number of deportations.

“I think we should do it with compassion,” said Mike Sievers, 53, a 3-year resident. Sievers, who has lived in Social Circle for 3 years with his Puerto Rican wife and two kids, but has been commuting from Snellville for the last 7 years, thinks the Republican Party has been treating immigration matters without empathy. “Yeah, we most certainly want to have the right people coming over and do it the right way, but do I want to see kids deported and see one parent deported when they’re married? No.”

Sievers supports legal immigration and agrees that people who come illegally should face consequences, but worries about the damage it will continue to cause people in the community.

He shared a story about one of his wife’s students whose father was deported and sent back to Mexico, a situation that caused grief to his wife and the child. “We don’t want to see that,” he said.

The detention center sits less than 1,000 feet from a residential subdivision and less than a mile from an elementary school.

Sievers is a registered Republican, but said he can be courted by Democrats. He voted for Barack Obama back in the 2012 presidential election. Sievers’ support for Trump has slightly decreased, but he hopes to see a different approach from politicians who align with the values of Social Circle.

“Whether it be a Democrat or a Republican, we got to get back together as being Americans. I’ll even take a step further… We’re humans. Let’s get along.”

Social Circle's origins began taking shape in 1826 under the direction of John P. Blackmon and Augustine B. Pope, who laid out the city’s groundwork. They developed the city’s first post office.

The city received its incorporation in 1832 and attracted new settlers. By 1836, the town got its first grocery store.

The most transformative moment came in 1845, when the Georgia Railroad reached the community. The rail line made Social Circle the county’s first rail center and accelerated its growth.

From the city’s beginnings, Social Circle was developed around crossroads, mail, and business, strengthening the community’s reputation for hospitality and neighborliness.

Legend says an early settler was blown away by the friendliness of the city, calling it “a social circle.” These feelings exist today with people like Sievers, who cherish them dearly.

Still, many long‑time Social Circle residents say the detention center will ruin the integrity of the community, and with it, their trust in Trump and the Republican Party has begun to erode.

“I’m kind of sad, because I’ve been Republican all my life, as were my parents, and I don’t like what Trump is saying to want these things, because we were never told about it,” said Lindsey Fisher, a 27-year resident of Social Circle. “I never heard anything about it until it was said this was happening.”

Many residents in Social Circle say they were not consulted about having the detention center. According to the lawsuit, the DHS and ICE were criticized for their lack of transparency with the community regarding the facility.

Fisher loves Social Circle for its peace and intimacy. She fears that undocumented immigrants could put the community at risk and blames Trump for putting residents in harm’s way.

“We voted for Trump, we’re all Trump people out here for the most part, and trust him not to put this nonsense in. There’s too much nonsense in the world. We don’t want it in our faces, she said. “This is not Social Circle.”

Fisher said she wrote to the White House, telling the president about her grievances with the detention center. She said it “was worth a try,” but is still left with disappointment.

“This is not my envision of social circle, because at my age I’m not moving, I’m gonna be here until I’m dead,” she said.

“If I want to go have more fun, I’ll go somewhere else. I’ll go to Covington, I’ll go to Conyers, but that’s not me. Social Circle is me, and I want it to stay the same.

1365 East Hightower Trail has been a symbol of family, laughter, and togetherness for over a century. Even though the facility is no longer being built, a cold, blue-and-white mega-facility designed to lock people in cages sits there, haunting the town and reminding it of what it was once supposed to be.

KNICKS IN 4

KNICKS IN 4

KNICKS IN 4

KNICKS IN 4

Let’s not act surprised; we already knew how this story would end after watching the NBA Cup.

The Spurs’ season is over.

I was hoping—praying even—that the Spurs were going to get the job done last night and close out Game 2, so that I didn’t have to buy an expensive flight to New York, but it’s clear now that this series will most likely end in a sweep.

Which means now I need to buy a flight for Wednesday’s home game.

I’m not looking forward to how much that is going to cost.

I won’t make this a long-winded post, but Game 2 confirmed a few things we already knew about both teams.

These Finals have proved that the NBA Cup wasn’t some sham. The Spurs are a great team, and I think they are the only team uniquely designed to beat OKC, but they aren’t built to eclipse the Knicks.

And that’s okay.

Whether you love or hate the Knicks, their 13-game winning streak is proof that this is one of the greatest teams in basketball history, period.

The Knicks are the second-best playoff team since the 2017 Warriors, who won 15 straight games with five All-Stars on their roster, including Prime Kevin Durant.

I dare say to you that Jalen Brunson is playing at a 2016 Steph Curry level.

Brunson and KAT need to receive their flowers from all you naysayers out there, who continue to discredit or doubt the Knicks as a championship-caliber team.

Putting their NBA Cup victory aside, the Knicks have always had their way with the Spurs. In their two-game regular-season matchups, the Knicks shot better from the field than the Spurs, but lost by just 2 points in their first encounter.

During that game, Brunson and KAT combined for 49 points with a combined 15-for-34 from the field on 44.1% shooting.

Stephon Castle and Dylan Harper combined for a unimpressive total of 7 points. Without Justin Champagnie’s career shooting night with 36 points, going 11/17 from 3-point range, the Spurs don’t win.

Wemby scored 31 points with nearly 10 of them off free throws. He had a hard time finding open looks with Mikal and KAT all over his body.

During the second regular-season matchup, the Knicks blew them out disrespectfully by 25 points in March.

In every matchup, we see that Wemby CAN’T guard KAT. This is one of the reasons the Spurs continue to suffer.

Wemby hasn’t played against a big man with that much size and speed in this entire playoffs. Unlike players like Chet, who spends more time trying to match up against Wemby defensively instead of actually scoring, KAT beats Wemby off the dribble every time and finishes at the rim.

Chet’s performance against Wemby in the ECF

• May 18, 2026 (Game 1): 8 points

• May 20, 2026 (Game 2): 13 points

• May 22, 2026 (Game 3): 14 points

• May 24, 2026 (Game 4): 10 points

• May 26, 2026 (Game 5): 16 points

• May 28, 2026 (Game 6): 10 points

• May 30, 2026 (Game 7): 4 points

If Wemby manages to catch up to KAT in the low post, Towns can counter him by putting a body on him, easily moving him out of the way. He is also a sniper from 3, making him a triple threat that Wemby hasn’t seen much of in these playoffs.

Did we forget Wemby that skated through the playoffs facing players like Rudy Gobert and Robert Williams……..

I know people like to troll Towns about his behavior off the court, but don’t think for a second he’s trash. He’s far from it. Bodega Kat is a top 5 big in the league, and many people overlook that he was the first overall pick in 2015. He’s a major reason we’re in this position, especially when Brunson had a slow start in Game 1.

KAT's performance against Wemby in the Finals

• June 3, 2026 (Game 1): 18 points

• June 5, 2026 (Game 2): 21 points

I will give the Spurs credit. Dylan Harper is a total stud. He has been playing his role well. Harper has been the only consistent guard who has played well on both sides. He dropped 16 points in Game 1 and 15 in Game 2.

Unfortunately for him, his teammate De'Aaron Fox forgot how to play basketball in Game 1, only dropping 7 points. Castle had a slow start but is averaging good numbers around 15 ppg. The truth is, these three young guards are inexperienced and immature. Castle’s last performance, where he turned the ball over with Wemby, was the icing on the cake.

This is one of those examples where championship and playoff experience trumps talent (not to say the Spurs are more talented than the Knicks). This young core does have a lot of promise, but this may not be their time.

Harper, Fox, and Castle do a great job at making it hard for Brunson, but it doesn’t get them far. Brunson has won two NCAA championships, and he’s had to pick up for Luka when he was injured. He has proved that he doesn’t shy away from big moments.

Brunson has averaged 25 points per game throughout the playoffs and is averaging 5 assists and 4 rebounds in the Finals.

Wemby is talented. He’s an alien. He’s a hard worker. But this is his welcome to the league moment. He was hungry to beat OKC, but the Knicks are not OKC.

The Knicks have a history of playing in the Finals. Bridges and Shamet have both played in the Finals with Phoenix, Clarkson has played in the Finals with LeBron, OG Anunoby is an NBA champion, and Josh Hart is a college champion.

The Knicks are battle-tested.

I’ll catch you all at the Garden for Game 3. Trump will be there with the Secret Service lol.

My Mayor is Muslim, my bagel is Jewish, my Christian’s Dior… Knicks in 4!

If you’re from New York and are rooting against the Knicks, you will be dealt with.

And remember, it’s New York or Nowhere!

Aboogie said, “Don’t be all up on my French toast when that butter comes.”

Fortunately for us, the butter has arrived.

The New York Knicks are going to the NBA Finals for the first time in 27 years after SWEEPING the Cleveland Cavaliers. We will face the Spurs on June 3, the same team we played the last time we were in the Finals. We also beat them in the NBA Cup earlier this season.

We should’ve been here last year, but I won’t go into specifics about the Pacers or any of that in this post. This is about the cultural impact this win has on the city and its people.

Business first, on behalf of native New Yorkers, if you weren’t supporting the Knicks this year, please don’t jump on the bandwagon now.

The only people allowed to celebrate this accomplishment are native New Yorkers, immigrants who spent their formative years here, transplants who spent at least 10 years in the city, and Knicks fans who can prove they’ve been supporting the team for at least five years.

I’m only kind of joking. Regardless of what bucket you occupy, you have probably noticed that New York is experiencing something special right now.

The city is completely ecstatic. If you looked up at the sky a few days ago, you probably saw orange and blue lights beaming from the top of the Empire State Building, with screaming Knicks fans below it, parading the streets with brooms, belts, Hennessy bottles, and Knicks flags all the way from Fort Greene in Brooklyn to Cantina in Harlem.

One can only imagine what the streets will look like after winning a championship. Knicks fans will burn the city to the ground. The NYPD is already trying everything in its power to contain fans, but let’s be real—there’s nothing they can do.

Hell, city officials had to cancel the watch parties outside MSG.

The moment is too big.

Even Donald Trump told reporters he plans to attend an NBA Finals game in support of the Knicks. He would be the first sitting president to attend an NBA Finals game.

Out of all the crazy things he’s done and said as president, this is the one thing I can get behind. Who could blame him for wanting to skip his White House duties to watch Brunson win his first championship?

For those who aren’t from New York, let me try to explain the magnitude of this moment.

The Mecca of Basketball Deserved Better

When I was a child, I could still vividly recall watching my first-ever Knicks game with my father and older sister. I was too young to appreciate the greatness before my eyes—a classic matchup between Melo and prime D-Rose.

Although the Knicks were barely decent during the Melo era—only winning a single playoff series during his entire seven-year stint with the team—the city still had a sense of pride. Being a Knicks fan during that era meant something very different than what it is now.

Win or lose, people were riding for the Knicks. After Melo was traded, we were in a period of purgatory as a franchise. No star to follow, no storyline to believe in, no future to look forward to—just utter disappointment. This especially hurt the city because of how important basketball is for sports fans.

New York City is dubbed the “Mecca of Basketball,” and rightfully so. Not only is MSG the greatest basketball stage in the world with the greatest fans, but many basketball legends have either played for New York or hail from here.

The city is most known for its rich streetball culture, with parks like Rucker, Gersh, West 4th, Dyckman, and “The Cage,” where basketball is played on a whole different level. In these parks are some of the most famous coaches and personalities in AAU or organized basketball. These parks were the only places where hood legends and professional NBA players put it all out on the floor, playing the game in its purest form.

You’ll never find another city where a player can pull up from half court, drain a three, and have the entire crowd rush the court. KD did exactly that in Rucker Park during the lockout in 2011.

New Yorkers know we have something special, but when the whole world looks at your city as the basketball capital and your team hasn’t been relevant in over 50 years, you feel embarrassed.

It was hard all these years to confidently claim being the Mecca, when every week you sit and watch Langston Galloway, Kadeem Allen, and Sasha Vujacic attempt to win a basketball game.

This period in time completely demoralized fans.

The New York State of Mind

To understand New York sports fans as a whole, you first have to understand the psyche of New Yorkers. While it is true our ego is unmatched and that we are some of the most delusional, shit-talking individuals you will ever meet, even our confidence has its limits.

New Yorkers don’t believe in blind loyalty. I think most people believe New Yorkers will always support their city, and that’s a misconception. New York is full of haters who would rather show love to an outsider than to their own hometown figures. There are people right now that I grew up with who refuse to support or give the Knicks credit.

We don’t only do this with basketball—we treat music, fashion, and other forms of culture this way. You only get support by proving what you say, or get written off. There are no exceptions. In this city, everything is about earning your stripes. The Knicks never earned their stripes. New York is one of the few cities where fans feel no shame switching teams or following multiple stars at once.

For example, if you’re from Minnesota, you’re usually locked into the Timberwolves or Lynx. In New York, if you talk to somebody today, they might tell you they are a Nuggets fan.

I remember in middle school, I couldn’t find a single Knicks fan in sight. Everyone was either a die-hard LeBron, Kobe, or Westbrook fan or supported teams like the Bulls, Heat, Warriors, Cavs, or Lakers. The Knicks were never in the conversation.

There was a point in time when the Knicks were generating real buzz during the Kyrie Irving and KD sweepstakes in 2019. Many fans believed MSG would finally land the two superstars and usher in a new era of Knicks basketball. Instead, both chose the mediocre Nets over the legendary Garden, leaving Knicks fans with yet another offseason of disappointment.

Overall, as kids, we were never taught to love the Knicks, and they never earned our love. New York fans are already some of the most critical people out there, and with so many great teams and players out there, the Knicks never had anything appealing for younger audiences to invest in.

The Knicks contributed to New York’s rebirth

The pandemic ruined New York, probably more than any other city in the world. New York experienced over 20,000 COVID-19 confirmed deaths alone. The city had a lot of murders and crime. People within the city lost nearly 1 million jobs. Broadway shut down, the NBA was suspended, Times Square became a ghost town, and I never went back to 11th grade.

The city lost its normalcy. We lost our way of life, and in a world where everything we fundamentally knew was robbed from us, there was nothing left to ground us.

The trains were empty. The basketball hoops were taken down from the parks. Schools closed. Delis closed their doors. The city that never sleeps suddenly felt frozen in time.

I can’t explain the feeling, but New York had this dark energy surrounding it. With the political and racial unrest during the Trump administration and George Floyd’s death nationwide, New York specifically felt like it lost its morality.

Basketball kept a lot of people grounded. But there was barely any access to it. I remember people sneaking into parks in Brooklyn through gates that still had hoops just to get runs in. Those runs kept hope alive, but the city was still missing something.

After the bubble, New York City felt like it was coming back to life. Stores started reopening, the vaccine was saving lives, school was back in session, and the Knicks made the playoffs for the first time since 2013. In the 2020–2021 season, Julius Randle was half man, half amazing, carrying the Knicks on his back.

A little personal lore—I was featured in The New York Times in 2021, and my editor told me my chances of actually getting published were about the same as the Knicks making the playoffs. And as you know, the rest was history. So I’ve been forever tethered to the Knicks in a way I didn’t plan.

For the first time, the city had something to look forward to, something to believe in. New York wasn’t so dark anymore. It wasn’t God-forsaken—and while that might sound dramatic, it was real. We were no longer the underdogs; we weren’t “trash,” we were building something. We had our pride back. We were New York again. Even when we lost, we kept our dignity. All of these internet platforms, like Sidetalk NYC, were byproducts of this new rebirth taking place in New York.

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And the hunger for basketball that had been bottled up for so long was finally being fulfilled. Even though Randle isn’t with us in the Finals now, he helped lay the foundation for what we have today.

Attack on Wemby

I won’t make this section long at all. I want people to know it’s New York against the world. We really believe this. Wemby is talented. I like him very much and hope that he will win many championships in his career—but not this year. What we’ve built in New York over the last five years is special. We have heart, toughness, friendship, discipline, and skill.

Twenty-seven years ago, we were in the Finals, and 27 years later, we’re back, and this time we have Brunson. I want the world to know we know we’ve been counted out. We’ve heard the noise. But we’re locked in—and we’re here to stay.

More Finals commentary to come.

Go Knicks.
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I’ve suffered with survivor’s remorse for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was always aware that my path was different than most of the people I grew up with. I felt in a small way that my destiny was indeed greater than I could understand. I identified that I was intelligent that most kids around me and that my introspection of the world around me was something most kids didn’t have in their tool box.

While I felt all these affirming feelings about myself, I could not fully understand them or allow myself to embrace them because my environment was overwhelmingly unforgiving to those who were different. Different meant anyone who deviated from the traditional “hood nigga” archetype — someone who saw beauty outside of the struggle.

There is beauty in the struggle but the misconception many of us had was that beauty is the struggle. Growing up, struggle was a standard to uphold, a badge of honor even. It was the constant norm that I witnessed from my family, friends, and the people in my neighborhood.

Growing up in the projects, not having a father, losing loved ones, failing out of school, joining gangs, addicted to drugs and dying from it, working five jobs, not having a job at all, incarceration, police harassment, and having children young were all woven into what we considered normal. So when you met someone untouched by any of it, it felt almost taboo.

My family and the families around me were heavily destroyed by drugs, poverty, and jail. The people who lived in my neighborhood were in a constant state of warfare who had pain written on their hearts and used all sorts of violence to overcompensate for their fragility.

My peers and I were caught in the crosshairs. Some of us were already indoctrinated, following in the footsteps of family names, others conformed out of the fear of the unforgiveness of the neighborhood and then the rest were those who either loved the violence and made a name for themselves in it and those who kept their distance and learned to co-exist with it. None of the groups ever found a way to avoid the effects of the neighborhood and as a result everyone involved has carried some form of PTSD from what they have survived.

Survivors remorse looks like seeing everything around you fucked up and the little voice in your mind telling you “How dare you have the audacity to strive for anything better.”

On my way to and from school, I would often have a book in my hand or a pencil and paper, and I would get strange looks from parents, older kids, and my peers as if I had done something offensively wrong. I went to charter school, so my mother made sure my uniform was always kept, shirt tucked in, tie on straight, laces tied. I untucked my shirt, and loosened my tie because I wanted to conform. And then it became me. Followed by everything else.

I attended Excellence Boys charter school. Initially, I loved school for many reasons, but the reason that relates to the matter is that Excellence was located down Patchen Ave but next to Macon and MacDonough side streets. On those streets, lived Black families who lived in nice Brownstones. Those families reminded me of the Huxtables from the Cosby Show or the Banks family from The Fresh Prince.

A neighborhood that I once considered to be my dream utopia, a safe place where my mind would run off too desperately trying to drag my body along became a place I resented. I chose solidarity with those who shared my struggle over freedom and for a while it was hard for me to reconcile those feelings.

Getting accepted into Stanford was one of the first real experiences I can point to when I realized my survivor’s guilt had reached a critical point. I was excited that I had gotten into such a prestigious university, and at the time I think Stanford was ranked #2 in the world with an acceptance rate of 4%. There was nothing more validating than being told that you were gifted and an anomaly and then getting into one of the most renowned and exclusive schools in the world.

My first instinct was to keep it a secret. I didn’t want to tell anyone, not my teachers, not my friends, not even my family. I knew what would happen the minute this information was revealed. My mother would have a heart attack and start crying at the thought of me going to the west coast, my teachers would pressure me into going to Stanford and then my friends and loved ones who I grew up with would be proud of me until they weren’t.

In the neighborhood we grew up crabs in a barrel. We were all scared of success no matter if it came from ourselves or each other. There was a comfort in holding ourselves back from success. It was safe to never try because then you never failed and more importantly you never succeeded which was more intimidating than failure.

I remember one time I purposely failed my grade-wide spelling bee because I didn’t want to compete in the school wide contest. I was scared of the opportunity, I was scared to shine. I was capable and knew the word but I self–sabotaged. Sometimes you didn’t even have to self–sabatoge because those closest to you would screw you over.

I once watched one of my friends steal money from me and then help me find it. This wasn’t the first time that he wronged but I was still his friend after, because that’s just how we grew up. We all experienced hardship and struggle, so some people did messed-up things to those they called friends or even loved, and people just looked the other way.Doesn’t mean it was right, but it was our reality.

Stanford was my opportunity to break free from my reality, but all I did was spend time self-sabotaging, convincing myself I didn’t belong or didn’t deserve this chance. I couldn’t see the great educational opportunities or the study abroad experiences or the chance at meeting people from all over the world or even the safety of strolling through campus without having to watch my back.

I thought about leaving my mom and brother behind, I thought about leaving my friends. I thought about all those who would resent me for leaving. It was a scary and uncomfortable thing to think about. After all, why should I be the one to leave this hell hole.

The opposite side to survivors’ remorse is the feeling of measuring your worth by other people’s expectations. Somehow when you’re chosen or told constantly that you’re gifted you start marrying yourself to someone else’s expectations. The biggest burden of that is you never want to let anyone down. So you do everything right now because you necessarily want to but because someone told you this is what worthy looked like. The line between what you actually want and what was told you should want becomes murky. So a byproduct of survivors remorse is the guilt and anxiety of always performing at a high level with the fear of failing to live up to people’s expectations.

At Morehouse I always worked as hard as possible. I was heavily involved on campus not because I necessarily wanted to prove anything to anybody but initially I just wanted to gain more experiences under my belt to find my passions.

In my pursuit of finding myself and trying new things, my friends from New York who followed me to college — along with the ones I met at school — started calling me “Mr. Morehouse.” This wasn’t in a flattering way but a patronizing one. Somehow trying to achieve was seen as a bad thing, and they looked down upon me for showing up confidently and trying to help others. This surprised me given the fact that it was coming from people who had access to the same level of privilege as me. I wasn’t the exception — I was supposed to be the rule. If we were all expected to acheive success in this way why was it any different when I did it.

In Coach Carter, Timo famously talks about our deepest fear. As I get older, that line means more and more. I sit today anxious about all that the future holds. There’s opportunities that have come my way that scare and frighten me because it requires me to leave home and I fear that one day one of these opportunities will cause me to leave permanently. And it was never about leaving, but about the burden of leaving behind those who couldn’t come with me — those who would never get to see what I see, those who had chosen complacency and mediocrity, or who had buried themselves in the fear of their own movement.

As I move, I am still in constant flight or fight, knowing that with each step there will be expectations that I may or may not live up to and that there will be someone new who may or may not feel a way because of my steps. Still I move, one foot in front of the other because it’s all I know how to do.

JAY Z: SUCCESSS

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Turning 23 feels surreal. Part of me is excited to look forward to all the adventures and achievements that await, while another part is reminiscent of the long journey that it took to get here. Still, I try to appreciate where I am currently, all in the same breath.

A few days ago, my mother told me she was thinking about when she had me and how long and unpredictable the journey has been from the days when it was just me and her living in a shelter in Jamaica, Queens, not knowing what the world may hold. It was always me and her against the world. Through all the ups and downs, my mother always found comfort in knowing her baby boy would always be by her side. I guess that peace of mind is no longer there. She looked at me and told me I had changed—that I was no longer the same boy she remembered.

Every time I came home during college breaks—from Atlanta or even from my school trips at NYU—she saw it a little more clearly. She would see a young man who seemed farther and farther away from the little boy she once knew.

My father also called me that same week, randomly, while he was on the bus. I was confused about why he called me; he seemed rather distracted. He asked me a bunch of questions he had already asked me maybe a few hours ago.

He later told me he saw a family on the bus, which reminded him of how my brother and I would ride the bus all over Manhattan on trips to the Upper West Side when we were young. So he called, maybe to hear my voice again.

I often think about the good times of my youth, when I was naive about the way the world worked, but my mother’s words always weigh heavier on me. Sometimes I look in the mirror and try to find the little boy I used to be, sometimes I see him, and other times he’s a little bit trapped beneath whoever this is that I have become.

Funny story. Yesterday, I walked into Tecovas doing last-minute birthday shopping for an outfit. Now I don’t know the first thing about boots; all my life, I have been a Jordan Brand kind of guy. For 15 minutes, I was looking at women’s boots. I couldn’t tell the difference between anything in the store until a kind saleswoman rescued me from my confusion.

I told her I was looking for a nice pair of boots that would go with my everyday clothes. I didn’t want to walk out looking like a cowboy. She helped me find a black pair and suggested I try them on to get a better feel for the shoe. Her proposition startled something inside of me. For whatever reason I was very apprehensive about putting those boots on my feet. While I was in the store, I was on the phone with my old next-door neighbor Andy who is like my big brother and my unofficial stylist. He was coaching me through my whole shopping experience.

I finally mustered the confidence and slowly took off my Air Jordan Flu Games, slipping on the boots. Instantly I fell in love with them from the look to the fit. Still, I was unsure if I should get them. I was still conflicted about getting them, but Andy reassured me and told me it was a good purchase, not only because of how fashionable the boots were, but because they fit the direction my life was heading.

One thing that always stood out was that whenever I asked Andy for fashion advice, he’d tell me to dress up—he always envisioned me living an elevated life. One that was more sophisticated than the projects, or my neighborhood. One that wasn’t married to the streets or a fast lifestyle. He would tell me that I wasn’t a Breevort kid anymore; I was a young professional, a writer, a grad student with a 4.0 GPA and now a 23-year-old man. Life became serious, and the truth was, I’ve always taken life a bit more seriously than those around me. I needed to embrace that for what it was.

Even some of my prophytes scold me for not being serious enough, and although I hate it, I know it comes with the territory. They would always reinforce that I couldn’t look or act the same as others. That the path to success was a lonely one, and if I wasn’t ready to endure it, I should step off and join the road paved with mediocrity and comfort. It felt good to have people in my life who really held me in such a high regard—I really came from a rough place where nobody expected anything of me and I never really expected much of myself neither. The feelings of inadequacy motivated me far more than greatness ever did because I coudln’t live with people patronizing me.

Still whatever my motivation was I became worthy of all these different ooportunities, feelings, and expectations which caused me to grapple with a reality I never prepared for. Life became a constant battle between who I’ve become and the version of myself that I once believed I would be.

Up to this point, institutions like Kappa and Morehouse have significantly indoctrinated me. When I think back to the boot purchase, I don’t think I could have made a decision like that had it not been for the proximity and education I have gained from spaces like Morehouse or Kappa. But this moral dilemma is greater than appearance and materialism; my overall psyche has changed. Maybe that’s a part of growing up. The life you once knew becomes a distant memory and you have to adjust with the new one you have adopted. Maybe this is what manhood looks and feels like. But the truth is, there are times when I look back and wonder if I traded in the memories and love of my old life for a navy-blue suit and a maroon tie and all the glory opportunities and privilege that came with the upper echelon lifestyle of a Morehouse.

Still, I ponder whether change is good, or if my change will lead to my betterment. I know I have many friends and family who don’t understand me, refuse me and will never bring themselves to undertand me. And who am I to blame them, sometimes I still don’t understand myself either.

I will say, I know it hurts some people to know I am never going to be the person they once knew, but it hurts me that they’ve never tried to become different people. Even though I’ve gained so much knowledge about the world, I still don’t really understand any of it fully and if I failed in my efforts, then it was a loss worth having. I credit this insanity to my own hubris or curiosity, but I enjoy it—and maybe that’s the irony of life.

I can share three important lessons I’ve learned up to this point.

1. Death is permanent, so choose to love unapologetically. My uncle died about a year ago now, it's crazy to say, and I miss that guy every day. There is not a moment that I don’t think about him. Every time I pass a school, I think about when he would buy my brother and I icies from the ice cream lady. Whenever I go to Popeyes, I think about the time we brought him chicken and biscuits when visiting him at that rehab center. That man loved himself some fried chicken even though his number 1 enemy was cholesterol. I loved him a lot, and probably more than he knew, and I should’ve told him that more.

I recently lost a man who I consider to be a grandfather to me. His name was Gilbert Coleman Wilkins and he was like a father to me. There was no man wiser or kinder than he was. He believed in me more than any person in the world and always knew that I would become somebody. He always prayed over me and asked God to bless me and I never got the chance to say goodbye to him. It’s my biggest regret.

Missing these two men has pushed me to move past my pride and my hurt and repair relationships with the people I want to build with. They’ve also taught me not to take life for granted and to make sure the people who are still here feel loved. So if you’re reading this, go give someone a hug.

2. The curious man never dies; in fact, he lives a new life every day. I have learned this, in part, through my fraternity, but being curious about the people who came before you is an important tool—especially for young people. Older people carry so much wisdom, and by talking to them, you glimpse the past and, through their lessons and life experiences, can prevent yourself from making many mistakes.

Everyone has something to offer, and being close-minded will keep you locked away from different worlds. Having conversations with people allows you to bridge your own life with someone else’s entirely different life. As a journalist, I talk to people every day—one day I might be discussing kidney failure, the next, religion and pastors, and another day, an apprenticeship program in the middle of Maine. The point is, every person I speak to, every book I open, every movie I watch leads me to a new question, which in turn opens the door to new revelations about life. These revelations help me understand both the world and myself.

The man who has no questions, or lacks curiosity, will die in a way—because he will believe he has mastered life and that there is nothing left to live for. Habitual living leads to stagnation, and the man who stops being curious will wither, because life no longer has anything to offer him.

3. Pay it forward. Life is not mine to own or gatekeep—just like knowledge, understanding, and truth. Institutions like Morehouse, Kappa, or Excellence Boys Charter School existed long before me and will continue long after I’m gone. I appreciate them for what they’ve instilled in me, but they are not my servants, and I’m not their master. They are avenues for me to learn, to develop, and to use what I’ve learned to ensure that other young Black and Brown kids can reach the same places—or, if they don’t, to impact them in the same ways I was impacted.

I see older people who refuse to let young people like myself take control, and I get it. It’s hard to entrust something special to someone without vetting if they’re worthy or responsible enough for it but life is all about seasons. Once a place has been good to you, you move on and pour into the next generation so that they can thrive too.

Life is all about collectivism. If you live and die as an individual, a community can’t be created or loved—because, after all, it takes a village to raise a boy. I would be nothing without those who took a chance on the younger version of myself, empowering me to not be scared of the world. So I will continue to achieve and thrive, so that others can continue to follow in the footsteps of great men.

As I reflect on my time at NYU, I can’t help but smile as I think about all the new friends, professors, and experiences I’ve had. I can confidently say that in the past four months, I’ve grown tremendously as a writer, and my perspective on life has evolved. I would’ve never guessed that I’d enjoy this season of my life this much, but then again, great things usually come in places we least expect.

At NYU, my world opened in ways I could not have planned for; the environment felt familiar in some regards, and entirely new in others. My cohort was small but diverse, made up of students from other HBCUs such as Hampton University and Xavier University, alongside students from universities across Ohio and Pennsylvania. It was also nice to attend school with my Morehouse brother and classmate, Colin. Over time, my classmates would not only provide support and grounding, but they’d teach me new things about the world.

In the first month of school, I voyaged on the poor man’s cruise from Manhattan to Staten Island, reporting on the mayoral election with two of my classmates, Chloe and Autumn. My professor thought it would be hilarious to send me there after I insisted I would never set foot on the island. Like most true New Yorkers, I had never met anyone who had visited Staten Island, let alone lived there. The journey felt like I was discovering the eighth wonder of the world.

Visiting Staten Island felt strange; somehow, I felt that I had turned the clock back a few decades and found myself in the 1920s. The neighborhoods were very suburban; on most streets, there were big family homes with front and back yards, and cars parked in driveways. I noticed the area wasn’t as diverse as the other boroughs. The island is split between the north shore and the south shore, and the closer I got south, the richer and whiter things got. The Island was also quiet; there wasn’t much foot traffic outside of the Staten Island Mall and the ferry port. The only sense of familiarity came from the buses, trains, and delis, which echoed Brooklyn and the rest of the boroughs.

The people on the island, however, told a different story. Their overzealous blue-collar identity came with a pronounced patriotism for both their borough and country, unlike anything I had seen before. I witnessed this pride firsthand while reporting at a Republican rally, where I encountered many MAGA supporters. At the rally, some attendees mistook my peers and me for reporters from the Staten Island Advance and began venting about how much they hated the paper, accusing it of spreading fake news. Their disdain extended beyond the press to condemning Democratic figures, like Zohran Mamdani, Andrew Cuomo, and Barack Obama.

I didn’t take the anger of some attendees personally, nor did I reject anyone for their conservative views. I spoke with those willing to talk and smiled at those who dismissed me. Among the attendees were key political figures: U.S. Representative Nicole Malliotakis, Councilman John Shae, and mayoral candidate Curtis Sliwa, all of whom we interviewed for our articles. Earlier that day, I had the chance to speak with Sliwa more intimately; he coincidentally shared my bus ride to the rally. We talked at length about his platform and plans for NYC, and he turned out to be far more charismatic than I had expected. I appreciated his Canarsie energy.

Although it was a nerve-racking experience, attending the rally gave me access to a world that felt entirely foreign. Staten Island alone had unsettled my sense of New York, but the Republican rally pushed that unease even further.

The truth was, I was worlds away from the boy I once was on Patchen Avenue. The version of New York I had grown up knowing was just a small snapshot of the bigger picture. It was hard to accept that my city never really looked or sounded like me. It didn’t share my ideologies. My identity didn’t command attention in the way that I thought; I was simply one man drowning in a wide sea of unfamiliar ideologies and perspectives.

The truth was unsettling, but deep down, I knew it had always been the reality. This honesty almost kept me from applying to NYU. Grad school was an uncomfortable idea to wrap my head around. It seemed drastically different from Brooklyn or Morehouse. When I first got the call from my program director, David Dent, I remember being filled with anxiety because, in my mind, that phone call made NYU and its new world one step closer to being real.

Dent was enthusiastic about my potential, calling me a perfect fit for his program. His energy was comforting, and it was also nice that he, too, is a Morehouse Man, so that made our conversation easier. After our call, I was excited to meet him, and I looked forward to visiting the campus.

Still, I wasn’t certain if graduate school would be the right fit for me, let alone journalism. I knew I had always wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t have the confidence or the courage to accept my destiny. I used to think that after graduation, I might become a teacher or a consultant or pursue law school, all things that sounded good at the time but held no real importance to me.

I was lost during my senior year. I grew complacent in the comfort and security that Morehouse brought me. I could not imagine a world outside of it. Morehouse was present and consuming, while NYU felt distant—almost abstract—a future that existed without urgency. At the time, I did not feel ready to let go of a place that had held me so completely.

I simply wanted to enjoy the four years of labor I had invested on campus. I had poured myself into Morehouse, involving myself in everything from student government and the campus newspaper to study abroad, alumni volunteering, and joining a fraternity. Each role felt like a thread binding me tighter to the institution.

What made leaving so difficult was the tranquility I had become accustomed to. Strolling across the vibrant campus in the Atlanta sun, passing by Graves Hall or the Martin Luther King Jr. International Chapel, felt liberating. There was a peace in those walks, a stillness that allowed me to breathe and reflect. It was hard to trade that serenity for the loud, chaotic streets and crowded subway rides I have been forced to readapt to on my commute between home and school.

I always viewed Morehouse as the Motherland: the home that birthed a better version of myself. It was my Black utopia that allowed me to exist among other Black people who looked like me and shared my experiences, while also engaging with members of the diaspora whose cultures stretched far beyond my own, both domestically and abroad. The Motherland refined me culturally, socially, and academically. It taught me the importance of appearance, literacy, travel, and balance. All things that have allowed me to grow.

The version of myself who grew up in the hood, conditioned to limitation, survival, and ignorance, needed the Motherland. I needed a space where I could make mistakes without being defined by them, where I was given grace to find myself.

At the Motherland, we were expected to become men with disciplined minds, committed to lives of leadership and service. This sense of social responsibility and moral expectation was woven into a knot that bound every student together, regardless of academic department, fraternity, sports team, or personal passion. As Morehouse Men, we took an oath to uphold these values wherever God might send us. This invisible thread revealed itself in every corner of campus, a daily reminder of something that I rarely felt at NYU. Something I missed so bad.

In graduate school, students were simply expected to enter the workforce and change the world through their actions and work. While I appreciated this philosophy, adjusting to a new school culture was challenging.

The distance between the Motherland and my new reality became clear again during my cohort retreat to Martha’s Vineyard. I was excited for the retreat because I knew the experience would bring my classmates closer, and it did. I learned that my classmate Tori’s first love was iced coffee, and her arch-nemesis was the bathroom, proof that her greatest love and greatest enemy were the same. Bella and Autumn both had the gift of gab; without their talkativeness, the trip would have been filled with far more awkward silences. Chloe’s music choices were…. interesting, Colin was a Hall of Fame-level troll, and Leah, small as she is, had an impressively short fuse.

We stayed at Professor Dent’s vacation home, cooked meals together, wandered through gift shops, and spent time at different beaches on the island. In between the laughter and late nights, we participated in bonding activities, including writing pieces about one another, which fostered real camaraderie.

Every day was filled with joy, but one night on the beach, while my professor, his son, Colin, and I waited for the girls to join us, we noticed a group of white men staring at us oddly. We didn’t think much of it and began eating the crab dip we had received for free from the Lobster Shack earlier. Then Professor Dent, a wine enthusiast, realized he didn’t have a bottle opener and politely asked the men if anyone had one.

As their kids played in the sand and their wives chatted, the men became facetious and condescending. They pointed at our crab dip. “Hey, I think that’s our crab dip… we forgot to take it.” Then one added, “They give it to you for free, right?” Professor Dent offered them some, but they refused. “It’s okay, you can have it,” they said, their tone thick with mockery. Their laughter grew louder and more obnoxious. The looks they gave my professor implied we didn’t belong. They even made snide remarks: “Are you lost?” and “What part of the island are you from?” They eventually handed my professor the bottle opener, flaunting their premium wine and subtly criticizing his.

When they learned we were from New York City and that Professor Dent taught at NYU, their disbelief turned to mockery. “They still teach that kind of stuff, isn’t it all online anyway?” My anger grew. Back in the Motherland, I had heard that the world could be cruel and unfair—but I was naive. I never thought this behavior would occur in the vineyard. I thought everyone here was equal, entitled to the same rights and privileges–shared luxuries and status, blind to race or class.

It hurt to realize that this was not the truth. I didn’t know whether it was racial or economic, discrimination or humiliation. To know that this ugliness existed beyond my neighborhood—even in the prettiest places—was jarring. I felt that no matter how successful I became, whether I owned a home on the Vineyard, worked at a premier institution, or achieved major success in my field, there would always be people ready to mock or dismiss my worth. I sat on the beach, stunned and hurt, drowning my frustration in silence.

My professor pulled Colin and me aside and reminded us that, as Morehouse Men, we have a responsibility to be better and to carry the Morehouse spirit wherever we go. Naysayers will always exist, but we show them the truth of who we are through our humanity and empathy.

In that moment, I realized I never needed to fear leaving the Motherland; my community would always be a part of me. The sadness and frustration the three of us shared were proof that the Morehouse spirit transcends all boundaries. For the rest of my life, I would carry a burden: to go high when others go low, but also to understand that this world, and everything in it, was rightfully mine. Life will never look or feel like Morehouse again, but I deserve to live in every facet available to me. NYU was mine, a key to a bigger, greater world, and understanding that made all the difference.

I looked back on my orientation week when Professor Dent tasked my class to walk through Washington Square Park to talk to parkgoers about the mayoral election (he was in love with this damn election). It was the first day of grad school, and without warning, we were already being thrown into the deep end. I was still trying to remember everybody’s name.

As I walked through the park and spoke with people, it became clear that I was no longer just Elijah, a kid from Brooklyn. I was a reporter now, a professional representing everyone in the community: the brothers playing chess who greeted me with a “Peace, God,” the self-proclaimed raccoon man with a stick-on raccoon tail dangling as he rummaged through the trash, and, off to the side, the wacky bird whisperer who laid out a hundred breadcrumbs as if they were religious offerings to his feathered disciples. As strange as these people were, once they knew I was a reporter, they trusted me to tell their stories.

NYU has been nothing like I imagined—strange, chaotic, overwhelming—but it has also been exhilarating, eye-opening, and transformative. I never expected to find joy and growth in this season of my life. But here I am, standing in a world that looks nothing like the Motherland I knew, yet full of opportunities I never dared imagine.

I may still have an Op-Ed to finish and more challenges to face, but I’ve learned not only the power of persistence but also the depth of my own resilience. NYU is mine, and the world beyond the Motherland is mine too—and I plan to claim it, one story at a time

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