First Person: January 24, 1996

Million Man March

The great rally of African-American males forged a new vision of community
BY MELVIN MC CRAY '74

Before taking part in the Million Man March last October 16, I had never seen a million people, I had never prayed with a million people, I had never attempted to change the course of history with a million people. I climbed a scaffold near the base of one of six giant video screens on the Washington Mall and looked upon an ocean of black faces. As far as my eyes could see were black men from every walk of life: the rich and the poor, the old and the young, the strong and the infirm, the proud and the humbled, the Christian and the Muslim-all standing together, calling out for a new day. From the loudspeakers a voice boomed across the mall: "We ask that you at this time accept greetings from all our brothers and sisters from around the globe. We have been in touch via satellite and telecommunications with brothers and sisters from Africa, and they send their greetings. They are watching you right now in the South Pacific; they're watching you in the Caribbean; they're watching you in Europe. A black boy in Rome, Italy, is turning on his television and looking at you." A tremendous roar went up from the crowd. My body trembled, and I grabbed the scaffolding to steady myself. I shook my head and thought, My God, could this be?
It had been a year since Minister Louis Farrakhan had called for a million black men to come to Washington to show unity and atone for past transgressions against our families, communities, and God. He asked black men to work toward the spiritual, social, economic, and political betterment of the nation's 33 million African-Americans. I began seriously thinking about participating in the march a month before. Although agreeing with Farrakhan's vision, I had trouble with his idea of atonement, which implied making amends for past transgressions. As a devoted father and husband, I took care of my family, and as a concerned member of my community, I donated time and money to the people and organizations in my Brooklyn neighborhood. As far as I was concerned, I had nothing to atone
for. When I expressed these thoughts to Bob Law, the march's New York City coordinator, he said, "You as an individual may have nothing to atone for, but we as black men, collectively, have to take responsibility for the dire
state of the black community."
I would continue to wrestle with my misgivings, but I set them aside for the time being. The march's purposes were so important that I had to take part in it.
Farrakhan's call touched a nerve for several reasons. One had to do with self-image. All black men know we are lumped together in the minds of most white Americans. No matter what station a black man reaches in life, when walking down the street he is more likely to be seen as a mugger, rapist, burglar, or murderer than as the law-abiding citizen that the great majority of us are. This distorted view, which results from demonizing by the media and political establishment, is devastating to the psyches of black men. I dress well and have a mild demeanor. Yet too many times when approaching white women on the sidewalk, I have watched them clutch their purses and jewelry. On other occasions, white men and women have crossed the street rather than walk past me-a pariah in my own country. Such is the reality for black men in America. The Million Man March would be an opportunity to present the true image of black men to ourselves, the rest of the nation, and the world.
Another reason for answering Farrakhan's call had to do with the economic and social state of many African-Americans, for whom the rates of incarceration, disease, substance abuse, homicide, unemployment, and homelessness are staggering. Without fundamental change, a large segment of the black community is headed for annihilation. The salvation of African-Americans won't come from the government, the private sector, or the current black leadership, but from actions we take. The Million Man March would be a step toward saving ourselves.
At 6 a.m. on the day of the march, I arrived in Washington with five companions, including my friend Carlton Brown '73 and his 14-year-old son. The morning was cool and damp, the sky pitch black. We fell in with a phalanx of black men from Chicago. "Six abreast, six abreast!" the marshals yelled. We passed a black police officer. "Are you proud today, brother?" I asked. "Sure am," he smiled. "Mighty proud." I recalled the words uttered that weekend by Ben Chavis, one of the organizers: "Come Monday, there's gonna be a black sunrise over Washington."
Reaching the mall at 6:15, we noticed the huge video screens spaced at intervals between the Capitol and the Washington Monument, but at that early hour the mall had few marchers. We walked to the stage on the Capitol
steps and found five thousand men in front of the podium. Many had camped out overnight. The first rays of light reflected off the Capitol dome as an imam chanted the traditional Islamic prayer that begins, "Allah au Akbar.
Allah au Akbar." God is great. God is Great. Black men of many faiths bowed their heads. Next, a Christian minister led the group in a soul-stirring prayer in the finest southern Baptist tradition. "We are here to ask God's forgiveness," he intoned, reminding us of the religious theme that would be
repeated throughout the day.
By eight o'clock the mall was one-quarter full, and expectations were running high that we would reach a million strong before the end of the day. Shortly before eleven, Chavis strode to the microphone and announced that the goal had been attained. The thunderous roar that greeted the news confirmed the size of the crowd. From that point on, we all seemed to share a sense of jubilation, and I felt almost literally ecstatic. We stood shoulder to shoulder-one million men, mostly strangers to each other-sharing feelings of love, respect, solidarity, and unity of purpose. We talked, listened, laughed, and hugged. We held hands and prayed, and some wept openly. In this great collective healing, I thought of the question posed by the black poet Langston Hughes, "What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore and then run? Millions of black males had seen their dreams deferred. Now we were taking a stand-for our women, our children, ourselves.
Someone started chanting, "We are here! We are here!" Before long tens, thousands, then hundreds of thousands joined in. We waved our clinched fists with every word. The chant, hypnotic and soul-stirring, echoed off buildings, reaffirming our presence and resilience through three centuries of slavery and second-class citizenship. We shouted with pride and hope: "We! . . . Are! . . . Here!" Here to make a difference.
Among the many speakers that day, one of the most memorable was 12-year-old Ayende Jean-Baptiste, the son of my classmate Lionel Jean-Baptiste '74. Ayende is a brilliant young orator who six years ago recited Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "Drum Major for Justice" speech on the Oprah Winfrey show. At the podium he spoke with a vision and a presence beyond his years. "Go back to your families," he exhorted, "to raise and teach your children. Go back and organize throughout this nation to bring about a better day for our people. Our enemies can destroy us one by one, but no one can stop one million men organized and committed."
Louis Farrakhan's two-and-half-hour speech addressed a wide range of subjects-religious, political, social, and economic-and included sections devoted to numerology, Egyptology, free masonry, biblical history, and politics. The crowd was diverse, and Farrakhan seemed to have something for everyone. He told of the mall's significance as the location of 18th-century slave auctions, endorsed a prison outreach program, and asked for 25,000 men to adopt 25,000 black children. He announced the creation of
a national economic-development fund, to be paid for by black Americans and earmarked for black organizations.
Then Farrakhan led the million men assembled in a series of pledges that reaffirmed the sacred duties of a father, husband, and brother: "I pledge . . . to improve myself spiritually, morally, mentally, socially, politically, and economically for the benefit of myself, my family, and my people. . . . to build businesses, build houses, build hospitals, build factories, and enter into international trade for the good of myself, my family, and my people. . . . I will do all of this so help me God."

There's no doubt that the march's unprecedented show of solidarity and collective responsibility profoundly affected black men. We will see what impact it has over the long haul, but I believe it has already resulted in a shift away from the attitude of "my family and I struggling for survival and prosperity" to one of "my community and I struggling." I sense greater camaraderie among black men. Although I've lived in New York City since age five and am conditioned to looking at strangers with a certain detachment, I now feel more connected to black men I see on the streets. I am willing to talk to them, and I view our destiny collectively.
The march prompted me to rejoin the NAACP after a hiatus of several years. I was pleased to learn that membership in this oldest of civil-rights organizations, despite recent well-publicized problems, has boomed since the march. In keeping with a goal of the march to register the eight million eligible blacks currently off the voting rolls, I've become involved in a voter-registration drive.
Fellow alumnus Carlton Brown believes the march has had "a perceivable impact on how people feel about their empowerment." It has opened up a dialogue between him and teenagers in his Brooklyn neighborhood. "I've been trying to talk to those kids for years," he says. "I was shocked when they approached me and wanted to talk about the Million Man March and about their future."
Brown, a principal in a Harlem-based development firm, has established a scholarship fund to benefit students in the low-income neighborhoods where he builds houses. The fund was started with a $10,000 donation from his company, and he hopes to convince new homeowners to donate to it. "Would I have started this scholarship drive if I hadn't gone on the march?" he asks. "Probably not."
The Million Man March was worthwhile if its only benefit had been to make us feel better about ourselves for a few hours. But it holds the promise of much more.

Melvin McCray '74 is an editor for ABC-TV News.



paw@princeton.edu