Don McPherson 3/20/22 Don McPherson 3/20/22

Aspirational Masculinity

By Don McPherson

At the heart of every great sports story is an unrelenting strive for excellence. Winning is only one outcome in the process; the manifestation of countless and invaluable lessons learned and applied along the way. This is why athletes and sports inspire us and are called upon by every sector of our society, from corporate board rooms to social justice movements; to instill a determination imbued with the hopeful exuberance of youthful dreams, unleashing the part of the human spirit that boldly aspires towards excellence.

For nearly a half century I have lived in that spirit. As a young boy, I was inspired by great athletes – not just from afar as a fan but also by a deep understanding of what was required to reach that greatness; the life encompassing attention to detail, indispensable hard work and most importantly, the humble positivity that filled me with the belief that I am not only capable of excellence but am worthy of it.

When I retired from professional football, I found myself using the platform of sports in the most unlikely of places; at the heart of the work to end all forms of men’s violence against women. Using the platform and appeal of sports in gender violence prevention at times seemed paradoxical but was consistent with the indomitable spirit of sport. What was not initially evident was which transferrable skills would apply and how.

I was joining two conversations of which I had no previous knowledge simultaneously; the disturbing ubiquity of men’s violence against women and the deafening silence of men about it. In a perverse way, the systemic impact of patriarchy and sexism on women and the subsequent violence enacted upon their lives was easier to “see” and understand than the intellectual deconstruction of masculinity that had positively and invisibly served me throughout my life – that is, in fact, the core of my privilege as a man. I later came to understand that what my mentor and colleague Jackson Katz helped me to see is that I had to recognize a privilege I didn’t know I had to address a problem I didn’t know was mine. This was not exactly how I thought I’d be leveraging my lifetime in sports.

The dilemma of masculinity

As I became entrenched in the work, I quickly found myself at the intersection of lionized masculinity and vilified patriarchy. I was a former professional athlete pulling the curtain back, exposing the myths and performance of masculinity that not only harmed women’s lives but kept boys and men in service to one of the most harmful aspects of male identity – silence. The obstinance of patriarchy that understands and promotes masculinity as inflexible and non-negotiable protects and advances a form of masculinity that is crippling men because in silence there is no growth. There is no work toward greatness and no aspiration or feelings of worthiness.

I’ve witnessed this lack of progress and growth for nearly three decades in conversations with men about all forms of men’s violence against women. As the topic grew through high profile cases in prominent sectors of society (sports, entertainment, politics, and higher education) I began to see there was little we were giving men to replace the comfort of their silence. I also realized that while being ever vigilant to honor, respect and serve survivors I was more accountable to women who were not in the room, than to the men who were during discussions of “prevention.” Even in the face of privileged silence or adamant arguments in defense of violent masculinity as a noble, necessary, and chivalrous responsibility, not much was being offered to men other than the indictment of their silence and the conclusion that their identity needs to be redefined or dismantled entirely.

To be clear, the need to engage men did not come from a place of wanting more for men, rather, it came from the need for less violence and oppression from men. Moreover, men’s silence has done little to provide a more positive alternative narrative. This failure on the part of men to engage fully and honestly, with accountability for the silence and subsequent behaviors that are allowed to exist in the void, has resulted in a society uneasy but comfortable with the term “toxic masculinity” which conflates the toxicity of men’s behavior that harms women, with being male.

The toxicity of “toxic masculinity”

Before “toxic” was used to describe relationships or men it was most commonly used to describe hazardous waste so harmful to the environment and public health that it must be disposed of differently and separately from garbage. That approach is in response to the many ways toxic waste seeped so deep into our ecosystems that the sludge crept into our homes and threatened the beauty and safety of the world we inhabit.

The current generation of adolescent boys have, in large part, regularly heard the word masculinity associated with the prefix “toxic.” Perhaps, this should have been anticipated since the only reason we have been examining masculinity with any real purpose is because of the harm done to women’s lives, families, and communities in the world we inhabit. And, like toxic waste, we must recognize it and name it to remove it and, reclaim and restore the beauty of the nature it destroyed.

To be sure, I, along with all those working to end men’s violence and oppression of women, remain steadfastly focused and invested in eliminating the harmful elements of patriarchy, but there is more to the story that we need to be telling our boys and nurturing them to transcend. More than naming the harm, we need to instill the belief that our boys are capable and worthy of excellence. We need to give them the detailed language and tools to incorporate into the hard work we require of them. We must be intentional and deliberate with how we inspire them to be aspirational about themselves.

Aspirational Masculinity

The process of teaching and instilling attention to detail and, the hard work that is required in sports and all other areas where excellence is a desired outcome must also be applied to how we consider what we want for boys and men. We don’t coach sports to “not lose” or win by a point – we coach excellence in the sport. Likewise, in the classroom we teach excellence in academic disciplines that inspires innovation and ingenuity – not the lack of failure or just a passing grade. In the arts, music and theater the human experience is most often aspirational, and that expression is rooted in the humble belief that we are all capable of and, most importantly, worthy of that to which we aspire.

Aspirational Masculinity is the philosophical approach to engaging men in a positive and deliberate examination of male identity and the relationships and behaviors of and between men. It is focused on fostering a broader understanding of being male that includes empathy, vulnerability, and emotional honesty around critical issues impacting relationships, sexual behavior, and personal growth.

“We must teach young people what they can become, not what they should avoid.” More than 30 years ago my mentor Warren Breining said this to me. That is the striving for excellence that undergirds what I want FOR boys and men; that they live their authentic and whole selves; capable and worthy.

Aspirational Masculinity

Don McPherson is the author of You Throw Like a Girl: The Blind Spot of Masculinity, chronicling more than thirty-eight years, using sports to address social issues and focused on a quarter century of work on gender violence and aspirational masculinity. His programs have reached more than one million, throughout North America. A member of the College Football Hall of Fame, McPherson was a highly decorated All-American quarterback at Syracuse University

Don McPherson 9/17/20 Don McPherson 9/17/20

The Strength of Vulnerability

By Don McPherson

‘Hey Dad, who are these guys?’

It was a long-handwritten list on a notepad sitting atop the clutter on my desk that caught the eye of my fourteen-year old daughter. Thirty-three former teammates and other players I knew from my days in college and professional football. All of them dead before their 50th birthday.

I am rarely at a loss for words, however, at that moment I did not know how to tell her that it was a list of dead friends. More troubling than that macabre explanation was telling her why I was keeping the list. Next to each name were letters; “b” and “w” for black and white, other initials for position played and whether they were “c” or “p” (college or pro players). Then there was “s” for suicide. There were six “s’s.” I couldn’t tell her that when I learned about one of the guys who committed suicide, I was sitting in my car outside of her elementary school and became panic-stricken, with an irrational but real fear to have her in the car with me. It was easy to identify the physical pains and scars of playing the game but understanding the emotional toll was less tangible and that’s what made it so frightening.

Recently, Dallas Cowboys Quarterback Dak Prescott publicly disclosed the depression and anxiety he experienced in the early days of the pandemic and, the emotional devastation following his brother’s death by suicide. I only heard about his disclosure after sports commentator Skip Bayless admonished his speaking publicly, saying he had “no sympathy” for Prescott because he is the leader of young men; suggesting his personal “issues” be kept silent in deference to that role. Many were grateful for the quick and unequivocal rebuke from his co-host and NFL Hall-of-Famer Shannon Sharpe, who only just defended Prescott’s disclosure but praised his courage.

I am grateful for Dak Prescott. As a professional football player, he thrives in the unforgiving and hyper-masculine environment that is as rigid as it is critical. He knew the likes of Bayless would frame his truth as a weakness. But his disclosure was a demonstration of tremendous strength and remarkable honesty of his vulnerable humanity.

In his push back to Bayless, Sharpe recognized the novelty of Prescott’s honesty and that it would not have been as well received when he played in the 1990’s. I agree. Most of the 33 men on my list played in the 1990’s and I write about them in my book:

“Whether their deaths were self-inflicted or caused by some other ailment or life decision, they were all warriors—men who disregarded their physical and emotional well-being to play a game that required they push harder, feel less, and ignore all that distracted them from the pursuit of the game, including themselves. In the end, they were made vulnerable by the very thing that made them warriors . . . and I was no different.

I was no different. And that is partly why I kept the list and moreover, why I am grateful for Prescott’s honesty.

The subtitle of my book is “The Blind Spot of Masculinity.” The blind spot is that which many men don’t see because we are busy living the narrowness of masculinity that lends to our success. Men like Bayless profit from the machine-like ways that athletes routinely show up and perform in a time frame that fits a seasonal calendar and three-hour television time slot with near robotic accountability to the business. Bayless, adhering to a brand of “tough-guy” masculinity while simultaneously critiquing and perpetuating the myth of masculinity, was playing a role, dramatic antagonist to the warrior athlete. He stated, ‘…if you reveal publicly, any little weakness it can effect your team’s ability to believe in you.’

I hope young football players will learn that being an athlete and vulnerable human being are not mutually exclusive. I hope Prescott’s leadership frees boys from the dogma of “tough-guy” rhetoric that asks them to advance the performance and lie of masculinity at the expense of themselves.

The National Football Foundation proudly states as part of its mission, is to “build leaders through football.” Dak Prescott’s leadership embodies that precisely. While he was simply speaking his truth, his example reaches far beyond the game. At a time of tremendous uncertainty and pain due to the COVID-19 pandemic, raging fires incinerating western states and the scourge of racism and violence throughout our society, anxiety and depression are more certain for most of us than if another football game is played. The example of Prescott’s story is not just that things are going to be okay but that right now, all is not okay…and that is okay too.

The reason I kept the “list” was not just in remembrance of friends lost but as a reminder of all those who suffer in lonely silence; incapable or afraid to say, “I’m hurting and I need help.” And my hope that when they are inspired to do so, their voice is heard, respected and met with support and love.

Don McPherson 8/11/20 Don McPherson 8/11/20

A Fall Without Football

By Don McPherson

Is America ready for a fall without football? If not, what does that tell us about the assumptions of altruism learned through sports and our sports-obsessed nation?

The end of my professional football career was one of the most profound moments of my life. Like many people experience at the end of their careers or with the loss of a job, I was faced with attempts to salvage remnants of my identity without the game. Who was I without football?

That moment felt like being dropped off a cliff. My world changed rapidly and the thing that gave me purpose, supported my attitudes and decisions and justified my lifestyle was gone. Without football the calendar had less meaning, many “friendships” faded away and, business affiliations and opportunities were forced into re-evaluation. What made this moment uniquely profound was the backdrop of the assumptions of altruism and transferrable skills that had longed been preached as the redeemable payoff for sports participation – the feigned justification for our sports obsessed culture.

When I retired from football in 1994, admittedly I was conflicted about the place that sports had led me and left me in life. I was raised on the (assumed) altruism but lived through the period when business and the economic impact of sports changed its function and influence in American society. From youth sports to higher education, professional sports to the global Olympic movement, I witnessed, first hand the evolution of sports into an entity unrecognizable from the lofty nostalgia upon which we originally assigned virtue and altruism. In 1994, I searched desperately for that grounding; the place where sports represented the best of our humanity and the platform from which I could engage more complex and urgent social issues.

Twenty-six years later I wonder if sports have advanced an altruistic spirit commensurate with the billions of dollars we have collectively shed upon it. Or are we left with the divisive selfishness of the “I win-you die” paradigm that has characterized the way in which we identify with and, consume sports.

The business of sports exploits and promotes our divisions. Playfully, we call them rivalries and while they can be fun, they are hardly rooted in any discernible history but rather taught and passed down through generations and propagandized as true cultural identity. If you grew up in the Bronx, you don’t know why you hate the Fenway, you just do. In rural Alabama it’s hard to explain why a state trooper poison generations-old trees on a rival college campus; trees that were mere symbols of community pride. College football rivalries in other parts of the country have names like “Good Ole Fashion Hate” (Georgia vs. Georgia Tech) and the “Holy War” (Brigham Young vs. Utah). These traditions make us cheer louder during the game but what is their residual impact when the game is over? Do we come together in communal appreciation for the purity of competition and athleticism or do we retreat with petulant bombast in victory or retributive cries of “next year!”?

Who are we as Americans without our delineating affiliations, that are often justified by and highlighted through sports? Have we invested so much in the doctrine of “us versus them” that it has permeated other aspects in our society?

When COVID-19 was realized as a foreboding threat to the United States, our president declared himself a “wartime” president and many on both sides of the political divide adopted the “war against COVID” rhetoric. I was immediately reminded of the hyperbolic and useless proclamations of war against social issues of our own making that required truthful introspection and comprehensive strategies to address but, instead we created amorphous “wars” that seem to have no distinct adversary; like the “war on drugs” or, the “war on terrorism;” waged against a behavior or concept with no identifiable enemy and therefore no real strategy or metric to determine victory. But the rhetoric fits our seemingly rote response to dissonance or conflict; that we must be aligned against “the other;” it is less about who (or what) that is and more about national solidarity.

However, this pandemic does not require that we rally against an enemy, but that we work together to eliminate a virus that lives among us.

What this moment needs is a rallying cry for LOVE; that we put aside our differences for a universal outcome. We must be for something greater than the prevention of a disease but for the advancement of our existence. That may sound extreme but when faced with a once-in-a-century pandemic, we must acknowledge the particular gravity of this threat that requires a proportional response.

In so many ways COVID has already revealed many of our national vulnerabilities, exposing healthcare disparities along racial and socio-economic divides and, the tenuous and fragile economic lives of millions of Americans families. The environment has also worked to bring rise to racial tensions that have simmered for too long in our nation and brought them to an unceasing boil.

The revelation of our social ills, no matter how grotesque or depraved, typically hold our attention for a news cycle. Since young children were slaughtered at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012, we’ve done little more than train our teachers and children how to respond to an inevitable “active shooter” in their school. Predictable and preventable school shootings occurred weekly, until March 2020 when COVID arrived and shut down our schools. Shootings have stopped but that’s because teachers and students face a more lasting and deadly proposition – the physical nature of “schooling” – children in a classroom.

In normal times we reflexively turn to sports to restore a sense of normalcy, foregoing the hard conversations and decisions and, ignoring what our social ills say about the fabric of our society. In fact, we use the theater of sports to satiate our want to move on; a moment of silence for victims or brief cessation of the “I win-you die” rhetoric in media and fan behavior. Military “fly-overs” and American flags that cover a entire football field are tacit but blunt reminders that our strength and unity are forged by displays of grandeur and threat towards another, not love for one another.

We are all vulnerable to COVID and our strength and only defense against it is the unanimity of our behavior.

I have always believed in the transferrable skills learned through sports, however, only if we are deliberately taught how certain habits and skills are applied outside of sports. Among those transferrable qualities I value most is the concept of “team;” individuals working together for a common purpose; a concept that is not revealed until it is truly tested.

We are at that moment of reckoning of what sports have taught us about the concept of team and other redeemable qualities of sports, as we are forced to live without the spectacle and distraction. We have preached to our children that sports are about sacrifice and community, citing sportsmanship and “giving back” as the hallmarks of a great (unselfish) athlete. We have grown a billion-dollar industry around college sports that insists the athletes are amateur “student-athletes.” And, since I began playing football at the age of ten, I cannot remember taking the field without saying the Lord’s Prayer followed by standing in reverence for our national anthem with my hand over my heart.

In truth, the promulgation of sports in American culture has NOT prepared us for this moment; the assumed altruism and patriotism has taught us to love America but not Americans and, has left us with few examples of how to truly love our neighbor especially those who do not worship, love, vote, live or look like ourselves. We have turned universal public health strategies into tools of tribalism. Our rhetoric and behavior make us more vulnerable to a virus that thrives on our inability to be united against it.

Perhaps a fall without football is exactly what we need as a nation. My hope is that we live up to the altruistic rhetoric and find our faith, community and family as the strength and unifying force this crisis requires. And, that we summon from within ourselves the ability to come together at a time when healing, reconciliation and love are needed more than ever. As someone who loves the game, I hope that a fall without football is one reason we get there.

Don McPherson is the author of You Throw Like a Girl: The Blind Spot of Masculinity, chronicling more than thirty-five years, using sports to address social issues and focused on a quarter century of work on gender violence and aspirational masculinity. His programs have reached more than one million, throughout North America. A member of the College Football Hall of Fame, McPherson was a highly decorated All-American quarterback at Syracuse University.

Don McPherson 6/28/20 Don McPherson 6/28/20

White Voices Matter

By Don McPherson

I am a black man.

For a quarter century I have been working to end all forms of men’s violence against women; the categories of which can be delineated to sexual, domestic and countless other ways in which the force of patriarchy violently oppresses the lives and experiences of women. I do this work, not as a perpetrator or survivor but generally as a man in recognition that the privileged silence of men is at the root of the problem. In 2019 I published “You Throw Like a Girl: The Blind Spot of Masculinity” which chronicles my experiences and work on race and gender issues over the past four decades. The first chapter is titled Black Man with Privilege. I am a proud black man, but my privileged silence is a problem!

In 1987 I placed second in the voting for the most popular and prestigious award in American culture – the Heisman Trophy, given to the nation’s best college football player. If I won, I would have been the first black quarterback in the (then) 52-year history of the award. As one of the most decorated and celebrated college athletes in America, I was poised for a career in the National Football League (NFL). However, prior the NFL Draft of 1988, at the height of my power, popularity and privilege, I sent a letter to the general managers of each of the 28 NFL teams, respectfully requesting they NOT draft me if they did not intend for me to play quarterback for their team. I was not making a socio-political statement however, in the supposed and often romanticized meritocracy of sport, the reality was that I was not a quarterback but a “black quarterback.” And my blackness superseded my talent and credentials as the unquestioned best quarterback in college football earning the right to pursue that endeavor professionally. Nevertheless, NFL teams had little interest in the best quarterback in college football leading or representing their team. The letter was all I could do to personally protest the racism that underlined the disinterest, protect my integrity and, ultimately the integrity of the game I loved.

My professional football career spanned seven seasons and was as inconsequential as my opportunity to “play” quarterback; a footnote in the history of the sport of black quarterbacks who excelled in college but didn’t “fit” in the NFL. Despite my silent protestation, my story and that of many other “black quarterbacks” of that era did little to change the issues of racism that remain an undercurrent in the most popular sports league in the world.

After retirement from football in 1994, I joined the staff of Northeastern University’s Center for the Study of Sport in Society and its founder, social justice pioneer, Richard Lapchick. What was most notable about Lapchick to me and the world was that he is a white man who very directly and unapologetically names the racism and systems of oppression historically levied by white people. It was not my plight as a “black quarterback” that drew me to Lapchick but his example of a white man using his privilege, status and voice to address issues he could have otherwise abstained without scrutiny of his silence.

When I arrived at the Center in 1994, I met Jackson Katz renowned scholar for his work on masculinity and its direct links to all forms of men’s violence against women. These were two issues that were as prevalent in my life as “race” but for which I had no language, inclination or incentive to address. My ignorance and accordant silence made me complicit in a (misogynistic) culture that was painfully more prevalent, hostile and indifferent than the (racist) one that wanted to deny my opportunity to be a quarterback. Katz not only educated me not the gravity of the issue of men’s violence against women, he revealed the privilege I had as a man to ignore it. He simultaneously made me realize, I had to use a privilege I did not know I had to address an issue I did not know was mine.

As a once iconic symbol of privileged and powerful masculinity as an accomplished athlete, I use that platform to challenge men to eradicate sexism and misogyny, the foundations of men’s violence against women. The oppression of and, violence committed against women is learned behavior, normalized and excused in our patriarchal society that historically has not held men to account or actively involve them as part of the solution. This has taken my work far beyond sport and into every crevice of American culture identifying the unchallenged power and influence of patriarchy and, the ubiquitous ways in which boys and men are socialized to view girls and women as “less than.”

When I watched the murder of George Floyd by a white police officer, beyond feelings of anger and despair, I thought of my father. I am the son of a cop; more specifically an internal affairs detective who served New York City from the early 1960’s to the late 1980’s. The most profound lesson I learned from him was not that there are “bad cops” but, that if any institution or society is to function with credibility and integrity, especially in regard to justice and social order, accountability must come from within. It takes more than the oppressed speaking truth to power through protest and testimony but, that the stakeholders of power and privilege be truthful and just in how society functions and served.

Though I reflexively deny the uniqueness of the post-football career path, choosing to address issues of gender as opposed to race, the work is perpetually challenged by the acute examination of the culture in which I was raised as a boy that, I would otherwise benefit from with my silence. The significance of that perspective was not just learned behavior that I received from my father but a purpose and critical strategy for social change exemplified by Richard Lapchick.

One of the questions I hear most often regarding my work is ‘what do my “football” teammates and friends think about my current work and identifying as a feminist?’ The question is a clear indication of the assumption that my work is a forthright betrayal of the (privilege and silent) hyper-masculine culture of sport, heaped with obstinate masculinity. The question also suggests the precarious level of risk to my status among my most valued peers; “my people,” “my tribe,” “my boys,” “my inner-circle.”

The greatest risk is in my silence.

Sexism is my issue to eradicate because my silence enables its force. Therefore, not only is it my responsibility to confront the issue but my voice is authentic and necessary to break the silence that endorses the problem. My silence not only enables the status quo and (theoretically) puts women at risk but my silence allows it to be done in my name and that diminishes my very existence, identity and integrity; If my privilege comes from the oppression of women then it is not truly mine and would necessarily require force to maintain; that forced is the systemic application of misogyny and sexism within a patriarchal culture. My silence co-signs the force and enables a culture in which its normalized.

The role of white people to confront racism is no different morally and in practice. Racism is my problem but not my issue to eradicate. My voice is insufficient to influence the behavior of those who knowingly or unwittingly benefit from it or, whose privileged renders them incapable to recognize it. Moreover, the complexities and ubiquitous nature of racism in our culture provides a barrier that makes the choice of inaction a cultural norm.

When George Floyd lay on the ground, the knee of white police officer literally pressing the life out of him, for many black people it was not a moment in time but a timeless moment. In the days preceding we learned of Breonna Taylor’s murder in her home and watched the lynching of Amhaud Abrey in broad daylight as he was simply out for a run in Brunswick, Georgia. When I heard “Brunswick, Georgia” it may as well have been my hometown on Long Island, New York. In fact, one of my dearest friends Jeff Mangram, a college teammate and four-year starting cornerback at Syracuse University who holds a Ph.D. from Syracuse and is a full-time tenured Professor in the School of Education is from Brunswick, Georgia.

No matter how credible, cogent or urgent our pleas, underscored by our academic credentials or other successes attained by “playing by the rules” our voices are often minimized as anomalous examples that allow white people to feel comfortable with black people who seemingly transcend the wretchedness of systemic racism. Even in the meritocracy of sports and education, our voices are not only insufficient they are drowned out by years of our own crying out and minimized by our association with white privilege.

Thirty-two years ago, when I wrote the letter informing NFL team to ignore me in the draft I risked the opportunity to play quarterback. Times have changed and that opportunity is afforded black quarterbacks quite readily. Some may consider that progress, to which I would agree in minor terms. When Colin Kaepernick silently protested, he was ostracized by the league indicating that the commodification of black men had grown acceptance but only if we remain obedient to the white culture we entertain.

When several NFL players passionately responded to the murder of George Floyd by a white police officer, it was the comments of one white man, Roger Goodell that mattered most. And, not just because he is Commissioner of the league but, because he is white! He echoed the sentiment of many white people in the moment acknowledging that which their privilege has allowed them to ignore. What was most important about Goodell’s comments was not that he admits the league was wrong but the tacit acknowledgment that they heard but ignored. What was most profound about this is that what Colin Kaepernick was trying to do with his peaceful, silent protest was protect George Floyd.

Kaepernick didn’t need to know George Floyd to express his love and concern, no matter the risk to his privilege. Likewise, white people need not know a black person or have one in their life to demonstrate the humanity of love. Moreover, “hearing” Kaepernick and the pain of black people will not explain nor rid the world of systemic racism and the violence used to maintain it. This is what white people must DO and, act upon what you already know. You don’t need to sit back and listen to us, you need to talk to “your people” “your tribe” “your inner-circle,” even at the risk of the privilege your silence protects.

But, if you insist on listening, hear this. Stop saying you don’t see color…please SEE ME! If you have never said that to a white person that you are ONLY seeing color. Moreover, if you say that to me you are telling me you have a diminished attitude about the color of my skin and there is something inherently wrong with it. It’s also like when a friend does something, and you excuse it by saying “I didn’t see that.” Blackness does not need white permission to exist and be valued.

Finally, when Jackson Katz introduce the “bystander model” to sexual violence prevention programming in 1993, it was done so to change longitudinal trends in behavior. It was not meant to stop an incident or crime in progress but to create an environment where men can confront each other and the dogma of masculinity that influences behavior and, do so in the absence of women and the urgency of a pending assault. It was this approach that intrigued me most and led to the sustainability of my lifelong learning, growth and work in this field for more than a quarter century. My goal is the impact on future generations of men, liberated from the narrowness of masculinity that not just ends sexism and the subsequent violence against but allows them greater freedom and lifelong benefits of living in their wholeness.

This moment is not simply about white people preventing the next murder of black man by police but the realization that change begins with how you we raise your children and what you want for them. That means the sacrifices you make for them are not just matters of time or finance but of long-held ideologies of silence and convenience that will leave them bearing the responsibility of the violence and pain of racism previous generations chose to ignore.