I love being Black, and there’s never been a moment in my life where I felt otherwise. I’m proud to be Black. I’m proud of who I am, proud of my dark skin and my curly hair. I love that my people are strong, vibrant, diverse, beautiful, and cultural tastemakers. I’m proud of where I come from—two generations of young, single mothers from Jamaica who made it out of the island’s ghettos, despite the odds. I love that my Black experience which was engulfed by diverse struggles, trauma, and chaos made me who I am today—because today, I consider it a blessing. It feels odd to say this, especially considering the distinct memories I have from my childhood that have imprinted their seal on my character. But it’s an uncomfortable truth I’ve come to accept, and that’s why I call my experience heavenly chaos.

In reading this piece, I truly hope I say something that thoroughly unsettles you. I hope that something from this page lives eternally in your mind when you think about Black lives, experiences, ideas, and conflicts, because the Black experience is diverse, distinct, and dynamic. It can never truly be understood if not lived. This isn’t to say that not being Black disqualifies you from speaking on or critiquing perspectives related to Black issues; however, I am saying that if you rely on data or the depictions of Black people in certain communities, as opposed to understanding the socio-economic determinants that influence their lives, then you’ve failed to adequately assess Black issues. My hope is that this peephole I provide into my Black experience opens your eyes and allows you to see what it’s like living in some low-income and predominantly Black neighbourhoods. I hope it allows you to see how the environment can breed a fighter whose life starts and ends with costly mistakes that have extreme consequences. And I hope that this piece reveals how negative reinforcements of Black people fuel discriminatory laws and policing practices. This is my Black experience.

In my early years as a child, I lived in an apartment complex in a low-income community in Mississauga filled with minorities—many of whom came from Caribbean countries like my mother. Being there, I saw and experienced a lot; but at a young age I learned valuable lessons that continue to influence how I maneuver through social spaces and understand some of the most pressing issues facing the Black community.

On weekends we often spent our free time visiting friends and family who lived by Jane and Finch and Scarborough—communities where Blacks lived in clusters. In those days, I recall our long journeys on the bus and the long distances we would walk because of inadequate public transit in these communities. I also recall going out with my mother and brother to the store, the barbershop, or hair salon—me holding one hand, him holding the other—and seeing teenage or young Black males on the corners ‘hustling’ or hanging out. At the time, I never knew what they were doing, but damn, I sure did admire them. I admired their swagger—the loose fittingness of their clothes, the way they cuffed their jeans around their sneakers, and the way their chains would pendulum as they walked down the block. I admired how their jeans sagged and how they seemed to have full autonomy over their lives, not subjecting themselves to the structures of what society deemed an ‘appropriate’ or a normal work day. I was in awe quite frankly. Hypnotized by what I perceived it to be, not realizing what it actually was. I was hypnotized by their style and seamlessness of their lifestyle, but my mother, sensing my infatuation, would jolt me and proceed to sternly tell my brother and I some version of, “I don’t ever want to see you two be like these guys on the corner, stay in school and don’t get yourself in trouble,” except in Jamaican dialect. She never explained what we were seeing to us; the goal was to protect us from it. But being surrounded by it, it didn’t take very long for us to discover what was happening and be naïvely intrigued.

“Stay in school, I don’t ever want to see you guys on the corner.” I’m sure many Black men have gotten some variation of this talk at some point in their lives. But why? Why is it necessary to be told this? Why was she so forcefully telling us this at a young age? The reality is that our intrigue with the lifestyle and our perception of what was ‘cool’ would have very easily been our—and is for many other Black men—root of destruction. It’s the quintessence of “headed no where, fast.” But more importantly, in some abstract form these teenagers and young men were possible future manifestations of ourselves, meaning she realized that these people on the corner are indicative of what could be; of what we could be. 

This command to stay in school and not be like the guys on the corners wasn’t a denunciation of the individuals on the corner themselves; in actuality, it was a denunciation of the lifestyle of these individuals, primarily because of its consequences which, coming from Jamaica and knowing people in this life, she—and in the future we—understood all too well. What are these consequences? Death, prison, a lifetime of watching your back, and limited legal opportunities if you decide to become legit later in life. Knowing this, she would strategically walk with us by the libraries at times and point out how there were no Black children in there studying—suggesting that when we were old enough to go out, that is one of the places she expected us to be at. At the time I never understood it; it came across as harsh and strict. But as I got older it became clear what she was trying to help us avoid.

The push to be more than what the environment made of you, and what societal perceptions depicted us as, and forecasted us to be, was balanced out with pragmatic life lessons for the future and the present. We were taught to be strong and never make excuses. We were taught to never feel sorry for ourselves because someone always has it worse. We were taught to keep pushing regardless of the circumstances, and to never think that we were incapable of doing something, and being so, aim high, and work harder than everyone else—especially our white peers. 

We were also taught to defend each other; if one of us was fighting, well, the other better fight too; and if someone hits you, well, you better hit them back harder. Some may have a problem with these messages, but she was teaching us how to survive. How? Overall, the luxury to walk or move freely through social spaces without being tested, bullied, or worse, at some point, wasn’t a reality where we lived at the time. You had to understand how to move, what to say, who to acknowledge, who not to look at, and how to stand up for yourself. Without this knowledge of how to survive, the chances of becoming a victim are heightened. Here, the question becomes, why is this? Why must people, especially Black people in these communities, learn these lessons at a young age? The answer, in part, lies in the economic state of many residents in these communities. Without meaningful employment, without an education, and without positive social bonds, some of these communities foster a vile mentality where the life mantra becomes “by any means necessary.” Any. Stealing, robbing, drug dealing, and more; and unfortunately, you could be on the receiving end of any of these at any time. This then becomes the world in which you must maneuver, and if you’re not consistently fighting to get out, the end result is being sucked in to something you know you should have avoided. For this reason, many parents give their children a hobby to focus on to stay out of trouble or occupy their time so they’re not on the streets. For us, it was sports; but beyond this my grandmother played a crucial role, swooping in and insisting we attended church with her anytime she was going. “Idle hands,” is what she would always say—suggesting an abundance of free time led to mischievous behaviour, which where we lived at the time, could have been very dangerous.

For those that do anything to survive and operate through the belief of “by any means necessary,” repercussions are expected. I know this. I’ve seen it in the projects and hoods of Canada and the US. I’ve experienced it both directly and indirectly. And although this was the lifestyle I fought hard to avoid because of the repercussions, others around me weren’t as blessed or lucky. And it deeply troubles me. It that one of my brothers were murdered. It troubles that not long after my uncle was murdered. It vexes my soul that here at age 26, the amount of people in just my family who have lost their lives to the streets stands at four. I often find myself questioning how could this be? Why is this life? For this reason, there lives the belief among Black men in many of these communities that it’s a blessing to see, or live past, 21; blessed to barely see adulthood. Imagine that. But these repercussions also have led many I know to be jailed or imprisoned.

In conversations with them they always told their children and I to avoid this life and keep good company, because if we followed their path, then they failed. They knew the repercussions of their actions, but in many ways, some of these people had no choice. Arguably, the life chose them, and they had to become the person they did to survive. It was never to be ‘cool.’ But beyond surviving it was to provide and ensure that their children didn’t have to walk the same path they did.

I want to make it clear that in telling these stories the intention isn’t to generalize all low-income and predominantly Black communities as dangerous and filled with violent people. That’s certainly far from the truth. I also don’t want to convey my experiences as difficult, especially considering that many of those who grew up in the streets or are still active participants have far more extreme stories and experiences than I do. But in terms of the general perception of these communities, in my upbringing a point of emphasis was that the overwhelming majority of people in these communities are good people, and even those considered to be bad often become so out of their immediate, social circumstances. The importance of these points shouldn’t be understated; and I emphasize this because my family was both sides of this coin, and many Black families are as well. In saying this, unfortunately, my experience is not a unique one. But I consider it more unfortunate that many demonize these communities and write Black people off. There exists this tendency to essentialize Black people as vicious, violent, and aggressive people which provides an erroneous justification for some to despise and fear an entire race. But this fear and vilification is misdirected. Any person who is nurtured to adopt this nuanced form of survival of the fittest—which interestingly Cornel West calls “survival of the slickish”—leading them to do anything to provide, is dangerous. What does this mean? Well, it means that what you actually fear is poverty. Yet, there’s an apprehension and lack of effort to effectively address poverty due to a clear affinity towards policing.