The Black “Zombie” Athlete

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The Black athlete soldier, unlike his counterpart, mirrors his urban brother.  He, the Black male, yearns redemption through athletic.  His scarred palms, paint his predicament exactly: athletic drugs and fascination, do not exist.  His dreams die before sunrise.  The Black athlete lives and die repeatedly believing, “What If”?  redemptive imagination, no longer running hot, the dark clouds, strangle his oxygen.  His brief thoughts, sunken tightly in a bent brow, says, I am not this cause.  I am not this monster, although, one cannot read or think critically. My blame, lay among others, the others that paved my path to illiteracy.  The Black athlete is not alone in this exploration, yet, his urban warrior yearns his deliverance.  Coaches, teachers, and the hood drove darkness together, never checking the revere mirror. Not engaging the speeding car, analysts predicted dark clouds ahead, you may want to get off the road, and wait this out.  Fuck no, wait what out, its just rain, The Black athlete, arrogant and gloomy, presses the gas.

The invisible storm stirs, The Black athlete’ hell predicted, flushing poorly constructed thoughts is not a savior.  No more cheers, his alter ego, transform him into the urban or rural warrior, his dark skin cursed. The powerful strut, his athletic chest sunken, the invisibleness apparent.  Not yet to the Black Athlete…he doesn’t give a shit.  No acadphotoemic institution provided, “no, you can’t play ball, you cannot think and read critically”.  Nonetheless, he storms into the abyss, thinking to describe his death.  He stumbles breathing, as the dark smoke, strangles his Black ass to invented death.

His coded pillow, signal terror, and an unimaginable fate, the tears begin again, and again.  What community or society permits such an academic holocaust?  The Black Athlete’ salvation is imaginary, intoxicated dreams, yet, nightmares. He silently sings, his voice sickens the authentic student, she realizes he’s on academic death row.  His death secured, “take it like a man, and go back where you came from”. From where, shall I venture, for whom shall hear my sorrows?  To the whore’ blossom shall grant redemption, heroin numb feelings, I’m slowing into my place…everything fine now..I’ll sleep a bit. When the sky bleeds sunlight my spirit will awake. I’ll be different, momma, I’ll be nice…I’m scared momma: I don’t know how to read and write.  What will they do to me?

What will they do to me?

Boy stop your crying..you only got three years to serve.  Your sister say hey,  she miss you. Your son ask about you every day, I didn’t want to bring him, I don’t want him to see you like this.  What you reading in here…son you have to read, that’s only way you get somewhere.  How’s your cousin doing, what cellblock is he in…don’t they fight over there a lot.   Yea, momma, it’s lots of violence in here, the slightest thing can blow up..I wish, I would have listened and learn reading and writing.  None of that boy, you in here now so think about getting out.  There are no jobs out there…just don’t give up son.  Don’t die alive in prison.  I’m praying every day momma, every day.

The Invisible Dragon

 

Doctoral Journey: My Big Question?

Inblac boy 1980, I walked on to play football at Eastern Illinois University (EIU).  I was the first in my family’s history to attend higher education. However, I hated my experiences at Eastern and developed a stinging anger about postsecondary institutions.  I was overwhelmed, I lacked so much and quickly suffered psychologically, socially, and academically.   When I prepared to leave Eastern in 1984, I felt like an academic holocaust victim and carried scars for the next 25 years.

In essence, I learned nothing, absolutely nothing.  I learned nothing about life, academics, social skills, nothing.  It was not just  EIU but various factors (i.e., poverty, malcontent) contributed to my nasty adventure.  Because it was all about football, the learning environment for me appeared as some sort of movie set.  In it I was the comedian’ set up man.  Seriously, I lacked everything you could imagine to navigate a predominantly all-white institution.  I was a clown crying days and nights. And another thing, it wasn’t my side of town for a circus.

In 2009, I returned to a predominantly all-white postsecondary institution again.  Losing the comic setup guy’s role, I wanted to get the college thing right this time. I began this new journey because of my self-beliefs.  You see back at Eastern my confidence (i.e., academics) was shot to hell.  I had no sincere beliefs I could learn, none.  Add to that, I lacked any sociocultural connections with family members or peers who attended higher education.  Thus, I was alone, silent on an island, crying like hell.

Although my mother’s verbal persuasion did its best, I needed ‘most knowledgeable others’ in so many areas (e.g., academically, socially, and emotionally).  But no one came, so, I cried myself to sleep for four years at EIU.  Northern Illinois University (NIU) racial landscape is similar to Eastern 30 years ago.  There are mostly white students accompanied by mostly white faculty and staff.  Conversely, it can also be hostile at times for non-white students and faculty.  I however am not a teenager as in 1980; consequently, I possess the confidence and abilities to achieve a specific task (e.g., my dissertation).

Northern Illinois University

downloadI have met tremendous professors and students while at NIU.  Caucasians, African-Americans, Native Americans, Chicano Americans, Asian, and Eastern Europeans.  The dam list can go on forever.  But, the most delightful part was these individuals dispensed their knowledge for the sake of my learning and development.  This NIU journey filled with numerous sociocultural tenets convinced me I was not alone, not this time.  Also, I learned more importantly without outsiders’ support you’re doomed or as Mick would say, ‘You’re F^%$ked’.

I’ve had great relationships with many individuals, but also some poor ones as well.  I want to say this before I forget, one problem that sticks with me is deciding my doctoral topic.  I have changed it several times for numerous reasons. Yet, after speaking with Mick and Sue yesterday, I’m convinced that I’ve made the wrong decision in not studying my passion (e.g., football and academic literacy).  These two women illustrated as many have in the past, the doc journey must be about passion.

Put another way, it must be like something stuck in the crack of your behind you can’t reach.  I mean its eating at you this f*&king problem….you just gotta dig up in your crack regardless of who’s looking.  I HAVE TO GET THIS OUT!!!  Yet, I’m delaying digging in my crack because I’ve made decisions based on outside influences.  Thus, the itch isn’t real because I’m faking perhaps.   I feel like I’m at Eastern Illinois again in the 80’s lacking the self-determination to follow my passion (e.g., student-athletes and literacy).

My ideal doctoral topic?: I believe you know by now (Student-athletes’ literacy development) at the secondary and postsecondary level.  I have a special place for this population, oh by the way, I can read and write for hours on this content.  I’ve yet to come across an article that made me dazed or confused.  Really, I can read about it in my sleep, while jogging, and inside the grip of a Great White Shark. Well, maybe a little over the top with the comment.

Working with other athletic social advocates we can begin to help students-athletes put academics first and sports second.  This can occur, because as we know the argument is becoming public (i.e., Northwestern).  The status quo for student-athletes is changing, I have a chance to present scholarship that hopefully would advance the movement.

My Big Question:  Why Fake A Doctoral Passion?

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