Special Guest Post by TJ Hemphill

Whenever I think of my first days at Wayne State University, I think of a young black boy sitting in the midst of a sea of white faces with straight hair and pink blemishes. The English class was now in full session and so was the total confusion of my mind at the end of the day. The class was already immersed in Greek Mythology with the likes of King Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, Achilles, and many other legendary characters I had never heard of or seen the likes. Could it be that somehow school mysteriously began two weeks before, and I simply and innocently had the wrong date in mind? On the contrary, it was an awakening that the education I received in high school was far inferior to the didactic offerings of my white peers from the suburbs.

The class was already immersed in Greek Mythology with the likes of King Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, Achilles, and many other legendary characters I had never heard of or seen the likes. Could it be that somehow school mysteriously began two weeks before, and I simply and innocently had the wrong date in mind? On the contrary, it was an awakening that the education I received in high school was far inferior to the didactic offerings of my white peers from the suburbs.

As one of two black athletes coming to the university’s basketball team, we were heavily encouraged to major in physical education, not that there was anything inherently wrong with the profession of calisthenics and nutrition. However, after a hard practice, while sitting in the locker room, a discussion broke out about careers. It wasn’t long before I wanted to retreat to another part of the room after hearing how everyone else was on their way to becoming doctors, lawyers, engineers, architects, financial money managers, and other well-paying and distinguished professions. I was told that my friend and I would have many classes taught by the coaches who would help us to remain academically eligible. We did and we graduated and became gym teachers.

It was a pleasure, as God would have it, to teach underprivileged children from Detroit’s east side where I grew up and received my insipid education. My children learned every collegiate word I could hurl at them. Although many went on to college and do well after they graduated, the great majority of them were still caught in the trap of an insidious and hopeless abyss filled with the dangerous tendrils of negative stereotypes. Ignominious and odious rhetoric, coupled with the acrid denigration of our race, which unfortunately continues today, especially when we hear our black president being called stupid and incompetent, was well-entrenched in the hallways of every young black mind. Thus began a race to a finish line that for most would not be celebrated with an effervescent victory speech.

While teaching my class recently, I told my 8th graders of my time as a commodities broker. Gold and silver were reaching all-time highs and the company needed new brokers in the worst way. With a successful telephone interview, I was invited to come in and meet with the managers. Already caught off guard by the color of my skin, much to their surprise, my blackness for the moment, was overshadowed by my articulate and timely answers to their questions.

I was hired immediately. The problem they had was my first name. Tyrone, at least in their opinion, was a black name. They decided that my initials (TJ) would be better for my clients to receive.

I understood. I was black and the people who would send me hundreds of thousands of dollars were white. I was shocked to the core when my first client wired me $30,000. Imagine that, someone sending me thirty grand without ever seeing my face. All they had was my voice on the phone and my company’s brochure. I immediately knew this was a very different world that I had never lived in before.

I asked my class, “Why would whites not send money to a black man?” The answers were not surprising. “Because they think we’re stupid!” “They think you’re going to steal the money.” “We won’t know what to do with the money.” “We’ll spend it on drugs and in the clubs.”

On and on they went; one negative answer after another. I asked them another question. “If you believe this is what they think, then why do you spend half the class period talking and playing?” The silence was deafening and strange. The message had been received. Maybe, just maybe we’re on our way.

Make no mistake, our schools in the inner cities of America have to be better equipped, and better managed with perspicacious, dedicated minds. We have to do a better job at blending our communities with parents committed to their children’s success. Our suburban counterparts in juxtaposition must do a better job in disposing of the racial presumptions that have so powerfully inhibited so many young minds from ultimately enjoying the diversities that make up our world.
I believe every child should experience success every day they come to school no matter how small. It builds confidence and hope. Every new word taught becomes a powerful tool that can unlock a world of progress and exponentially move our children to the very zenith of their dreams.