I watched a short clip recently that lasted barely a couple of minutes, but the feeling it left with me lasted much longer. On that stage were three legendary Black entertainers, each powerful enough to command an audience by himself. Yet what struck me wasn’t the music, the fame, or even the fact that three superstars were sharing a stage. What struck me was the brotherhood. They looked comfortable with each other. They laughed, performed, encouraged one another, and seemed completely free of the need to prove who was greater. Nobody appeared threatened by another man’s light. Nobody seemed desperate to steal the moment. They were simply brothers enjoying a moment together.
That little clip took me somewhere emotionally because I remembered a different kind of Black community. I remembered a time when Black people could gather around shared experiences without constantly measuring who had more, who looked better, who was more successful, or who had somehow become more important. We had problems back then, just like every generation has problems, but there was still a sense that we belonged to one another. There was still a feeling that the neighborhood was something we collectively owned, protected, raised, and defended.
What happened to that feeling? When did Black men become so uncomfortable seeing another Black man succeed? When did encouragement become competition? When did another man’s success start feeling like a personal insult? I’m not saying every Black man behaves this way because that wouldn’t be true. There are still plenty of good brothers who support one another, build businesses together, mentor young men, protect their families, and genuinely want to see other Black men win. But the larger sense of cohesion has been damaged, and pretending otherwise won’t help us repair it.
That clip reminded me that culture can either bring people together or pull them apart. Music, food, language, neighborhood traditions, celebrations, sports, church gatherings, family events, and even the simple act of sitting outside talking with your neighbors once created common ground. We didn’t have to agree on everything to know that we belonged to the same community. We could argue, disagree, laugh, fight, forgive, and still understand that tomorrow we were going to see each other again.
That’s what I miss. I miss the feeling that Black people were connected by something deeper than individual survival. I miss the idea that a Black man could see another Black man doing well and feel proud instead of threatened. I miss the neighborhood where children could play outside while adults watched from porches and windows. I miss the elders who didn’t need a title to command respect. I miss the men who understood that being strong wasn’t only about physical power. It was also about protecting the people around them, keeping their word, settling disagreements, and making sure the next generation had something better to inherit.
WE DIDN’T HAVE EVERYTHING, BUT WE HAD EACH OTHER
Let’s not romanticize the past as though everything was perfect. It wasn’t. Black communities had poverty, crime, broken families, discrimination, addiction, violence, political disagreements, and plenty of internal problems. Black men had conflicts with each other. Black women carried enormous burdens. Children experienced things they shouldn’t have experienced. There were neighborhoods that were struggling badly. So I’m not suggesting that we need to jump into some fantasy version of the past and pretend everything was wonderful.
What I’m saying is that something valuable existed alongside those problems, and we need to recognize what it was before we lose the memory of it completely. There was community. There was accountability. There was familiarity. There was a sense that somebody was watching, somebody cared, and somebody would say something if a child was going in the wrong direction.
You could have children playing football in the street, jumping rope, riding bicycles, or simply running around together, and there were adults nearby who knew exactly whose children they were. If a child became disrespectful, an elder didn’t always have to call somebody else to handle it. A word from an older person could stop that behavior immediately because children understood that elders represented something larger than themselves.
Respect for elders wasn’t viewed as weakness. It was part of the culture. Older people were living libraries. They carried stories, survival lessons, family histories, warnings, traditions, and wisdom that couldn’t be downloaded from a phone. When the elderly needed help, younger people were expected to step up. You checked on them. You carried things for them. You made sure they got home safely. You didn’t treat them like they were invisible because they were no longer young.
And the men had responsibilities that went beyond paying bills or making money. Men were expected to have some relationship with the condition of their neighborhood. You knew who lived around you. You knew which families were struggling. You knew which young boys needed guidance. You knew which man was having trouble. You didn’t necessarily like everybody, but you understood that everybody was still part of the larger community.
That’s a major difference between having neighbors and having a neighborhood.
WHEN THE NEIGHBORHOOD DISAPPEARS, COMMUNITY DISAPPEARS WITH IT
A neighborhood isn’t simply a collection of houses sitting next to one another. A neighborhood is a network of relationships. It’s people knowing one another. It’s people having some responsibility for what happens around them. It’s the understanding that the condition of the block affects the condition of the people living on the block.
We’ve lost much of that. People can live beside each other for years without knowing each other’s names. Children can grow up surrounded by adults who have no idea who they are. Elderly people can become isolated in houses surrounded by people who never check on them. Families can experience serious struggles while everyone nearby remains completely disconnected.
Technology has made this even stranger. We can communicate with thousands of people while barely knowing the person living twenty feet away. Social media has created another problem because it has turned life into a giant public scoreboard. Who has the better car? Who has the better house? Who has the better body? Who has the better relationship? Who has more followers? Who traveled somewhere exotic? Who got the promotion? Who has the bigger business? Who is wearing the most expensive clothes? Who is receiving the most attention?
When everything becomes a competition, somebody else’s success becomes a threat. That mentality is poison to community.
WHEN BROTHERHOOD BECOMES COMPETITION
There’s nothing wrong with competition when competition makes us better. Healthy competition can push people to work harder, improve their skills, become more disciplined, and reach higher levels. The problem begins when competition destroys respect.
There’s a difference between saying, “I want to reach that level too,” and saying, “I don’t want that man to have that level.” That difference matters because a healthy Black community should be able to look at a successful Black man and ask, “What can I learn from him?” A damaged community looks at that same man and asks, “Who does he think he is?”
A healthy brotherhood says, “Let me help you build,” while a damaged brotherhood says, “Let me see if I can find something wrong with what you built.” A healthy brotherhood says, “Congratulations,” while a damaged brotherhood says, “He must have had help.” That mentality has to stop.
Black men cannot rebuild anything meaningful while constantly trying to tear down the man standing next to them. You cannot build a strong community out of jealousy. You cannot create economic power while hoping another brother’s business fails. You cannot create strong families while teaching young boys that cooperation is weakness. You cannot create leadership while constantly attacking anyone who steps forward.
We have to become comfortable with each other’s success again. There’s enough room at the table. There are enough ideas, enough businesses, enough opportunities, enough communities to rebuild, enough children to mentor, and enough families to strengthen. We don’t have to fight over every piece of progress.
THE CULTURE WE CONSUME MATTERS
Culture isn’t neutral. What we repeatedly watch, listen to, celebrate, imitate, and reward eventually affects what we consider normal.
There was a time when much of the popular Black music reaching the masses could create a shared experience across age groups. You could have a young person, a parent, and an elder enjoying different parts of the same cultural landscape. The music could make people dance, laugh, think, remember, celebrate, mourn, and gather together. Music became part of the social glue.
But much of today’s commercial entertainment operates differently. The market often rewards conflict, shock, excess, violence, humiliation, sexual exploitation, materialism, and constant status competition because those things generate attention. Attention generates money, and money encourages more of the same.
That doesn’t mean every artist, every song, or every young person is part of the problem. It means we have to become mature enough to examine the larger system instead of blindly consuming whatever gets pushed in front of us. We also have to stop pretending that culture has no influence.
If you repeatedly tell a community that its people are enemies, eventually some people will begin behaving like enemies. If you repeatedly glorify disrespect, eventually disrespect becomes entertainment. If you repeatedly glorify material possessions as proof of human worth, people begin measuring themselves by possessions. If you repeatedly turn men and women against each other, eventually cooperation starts looking foolish. And if you repeatedly make Black men suspicious of one another, don’t be surprised when brotherhood becomes difficult.
OUR WOMEN PAY THE PRICE TOO
This conversation cannot stop with Black men because what happens to Black men affects Black women and children. When men become disconnected from one another, the burden doesn’t disappear. Somebody else carries it.
Women often end up carrying the emotional, financial, family, and community burdens that could have been shared more broadly. Children grow up without enough healthy male examples around them. Families become isolated. Problems that could have been handled collectively become private emergencies.
Strong Black men aren’t supposed to compete with Black women for control. Strong Black men are supposed to build alongside Black women. And strong Black women shouldn’t have to spend their lives fighting against Black men simply to feel respected.
We need each other. That doesn’t mean everyone has to be married. It doesn’t mean every man and woman must agree. It doesn’t mean we erase legitimate disagreements. It means we stop confusing disagreement with hatred.
A community can have disagreements and still have unity. A family can argue and still love each other. Two brothers can have completely different personalities and still protect each other. That’s what maturity looks like.
WE NEED TO BRING BACK THE ART OF TALKING
One of the simplest things we’ve lost is conversation. People used to sit down and talk. Men talked to men. Women talked to women. Parents talked to children. Elders talked to younger people. Neighbors talked to neighbors.
When problems happened, people had opportunities to address them before they became permanent divisions. Today, people often communicate through posts, comments, indirect messages, screenshots, public accusations, and online arguments. People can destroy relationships without ever sitting across from each other.
That’s not strength. Sometimes strength means saying, “We need to talk.” Sometimes it means saying, “You offended me.” Sometimes it means saying, “I was wrong.” Sometimes it means saying, “I don’t agree with you, but I still respect you.” And sometimes it means saying, “We need to settle this before it becomes something bigger.”
That kind of communication requires emotional maturity. It requires self-control. It requires knowing that winning an argument isn’t always more important than preserving a relationship.
WE HAVE TO TEACH YOUNG MEN SOMETHING DIFFERENT
If we want different men tomorrow, we have to raise them differently today. A young Black boy needs more than instructions about avoiding trouble. He needs examples of what healthy manhood looks like.
He needs to see men working together. He needs to see men disagreeing without destroying each other. He needs to see men helping each other financially when they can. He needs to see men building businesses together. He needs to see men mentoring younger boys. He needs to see men protecting their families. He needs to see men taking responsibility when they make mistakes.
He needs to understand that strength isn’t simply the ability to dominate someone else. Strength is also the ability to control yourself. Most importantly, he needs to see that another Black man’s success doesn’t reduce his own possibilities.
There’s enough room at the table. There are enough ideas, enough businesses, enough opportunities, enough communities to rebuild, enough children to mentor, and enough families to strengthen. We don’t have to fight over every piece of progress.
WE HAVE TO STOP WAITING FOR SOMEBODY ELSE TO SAVE THE COMMUNITY
One of the biggest mistakes we can make is believing that community restoration has to begin with some giant organization, politician, celebrity, corporation, or government program. No, it can begin with us.
It can begin with a man checking on an elderly neighbor. It can begin with a father spending more time with his son. It can begin with a brother recommending another brother for a job instead of hiding the opportunity. It can begin with someone buying from a Black-owned business because they genuinely want that business to survive. It can begin with men creating spaces where younger men can learn without being humiliated.
It can begin with people deciding that they’re not going to participate in gossip designed to destroy somebody. It can begin with us learning how to celebrate another person without asking what we’re getting in return. That’s how culture changes. It doesn’t happen overnight or through slogans. It happens through repeated behavior.
WE DON’T HAVE TO GO BACK, BUT WE CAN BRING BACK WHAT WAS GOOD
I don’t want to go backward. I want to go forward carrying the best parts of what we once had.
We can keep the technology while bringing back community. We can keep modern businesses while bringing back cooperation. We can keep individuality while bringing back responsibility. We can keep independence while bringing back interdependence. We can let young people have their own culture while teaching them that culture should strengthen them rather than destroy them.
We can disagree politically without becoming enemies. We can have different religious beliefs without treating one another like strangers. We can have different lifestyles without forgetting that we still share a larger history and a larger struggle.
That’s the balance we need. We don’t have to make everybody the same. We have to remember that being different doesn’t mean being disconnected.
THAT LITTLE CLIP WAS BIGGER THAN MUSIC
That’s why that little clip affected me so deeply. For a couple of minutes, I wasn’t simply watching three legendary Black entertainers perform. I was looking at an image of something I believe we desperately need again: men who were secure enough in themselves to stand beside another powerful man without feeling diminished.
Nobody had to destroy anybody else’s shine. Nobody had to prove superiority. Nobody had to turn the moment into a competition. They were simply together.
Sometimes the smallest images can remind you of the biggest losses. That clip reminded me of a time when Black people could share space without constantly asking who was winning. It reminded me of neighborhoods where people knew one another. It reminded me of children being watched by adults who weren’t necessarily their parents. It reminded me of elders who were respected. It reminded me of men who could disagree and still shake hands afterward. It reminded me of women who knew that the men around them were supposed to contribute to the strength of the family and the community. It reminded me of culture that could make people feel connected.
And it made me ask a painful question: What happened to us?
THE ANSWER ISN’T BLAME — THE ANSWER IS REBUILDING
We can spend forever blaming corporations, politicians, media companies, social media, entertainment industries, outside influences, historical forces, or one another. Some of those forces absolutely deserve examination, but blame alone won’t rebuild anything.
At some point, we have to look in the mirror and ask what we’re willing to change. Are we willing to encourage another Black man without secretly comparing ourselves to him? Are we willing to teach our sons how to cooperate? Are we willing to respect our elders? Are we willing to check on our neighbors? Are we willing to support businesses that are trying to build something? Are we willing to stop celebrating destructive behavior simply because it entertains us? Are we willing to have difficult conversations privately instead of turning every disagreement into public warfare? Are we willing to understand that community requires sacrifice?
Because that’s the part people don’t like to talk about. Community costs something. It costs time, patience, forgiveness, inconvenience, and humility. Sometimes you have to help somebody when you don’t get anything back. Sometimes you have to listen when you would rather talk. Sometimes you have to show up when nobody is going to applaud you. That’s what community actually means.
BROTHERHOOD HAS TO BECOME A PRACTICE AGAIN
We cannot simply say that we want brotherhood. We have to practice it.
Brotherhood means I can see another Black man succeed without feeling like I’ve lost. Brotherhood means I can correct you without humiliating you. Brotherhood means I can disagree with you without trying to destroy you. Brotherhood means I can help you without keeping a mental record of everything I’ve done for you. Brotherhood means I can celebrate you while still working on myself. And brotherhood means understanding that none of us is going to rebuild anything meaningful alone.
The community doesn’t need every man to become the same. We need men to become responsible, disciplined, emotionally mature, and committed to building. We need men to become protectors, mentors, examples, and leaders who understand that leadership isn’t about being the loudest person in the room. Leadership is about what you’re willing to carry for the people behind you.
That’s how the culture changes.
MAYBE WE’RE NOT TOO FAR GONE
I refuse to believe that we’re too far gone. I refuse to believe that Black people have completely forgotten how to love one another. I refuse to believe that Black men are incapable of supporting one another. I refuse to believe that our neighborhoods can’t become communities again. I refuse to believe that our children can’t grow up knowing their neighbors. I refuse to believe that our elders can’t once again become respected sources of wisdom.
I refuse to believe that our culture can’t produce music, art, businesses, families, traditions, and institutions that strengthen us instead of constantly dividing us. But something has to change, and that change doesn’t begin with everybody else.
It begins with me. It begins with you. It begins with the next conversation, the next handshake, the next apology, the next opportunity shared, the next young man mentored, the next elder checked on, the next neighbor helped, and the next brother encouraged. That’s how you rebuild something that has been broken for a long time.
I MISS WHAT WE HAD, BUT I BELIEVE WE CAN BUILD AGAIN
That little stage performance lasted only a couple of minutes, but it opened a much larger conversation in my mind. I saw something in those men that reminded me of something we desperately need today: confidence without arrogance, greatness without insecurity, competition without hatred, and brotherhood without jealousy. They didn’t appear to need each other to be smaller so they could feel bigger. They could stand together and allow everybody to shine.
That’s the lesson I took from it. Maybe the real question isn’t simply, “What happened to Black community?” Maybe the deeper question is, “What are we willing to do to rebuild it?” Because nostalgia alone won’t save us. Remembering the good old days feels wonderful, but memories don’t build neighborhoods. People do. Memories don’t mentor children. People do. Memories don’t protect elders. People do. Memories don’t create businesses, families, institutions, and trust. People do.
So I don’t want to simply remember what we had. I want to see us create it again in a form that fits the world we live in now. I want Black men to look at one another and stop automatically seeing competition. I want us to recognize that another brother’s success can be an invitation rather than an insult. I want us to become secure enough to say, “Brother, you’re doing well. Show me how you did it.” That one sentence could change an entire generation.
And I want our women and children to feel the difference when Black men begin reconnecting with responsibility, cooperation, and purpose. I want our young boys to grow up seeing men who aren’t constantly fighting over status. I want them to see men who know how to build. I want them to see men who can disagree without becoming enemies. I want them to see men who understand that leadership isn’t about being the loudest person in the room. Leadership is about what you’re willing to carry for the people behind you.
We don’t have to recreate the 1970s. We don’t have to pretend that the past was perfect. We don’t have to erase everything modern. But we absolutely can recover the principles that made community possible: respect, responsibility, cooperation, accountability, cultural pride, family, mentorship, generosity, and brotherhood. Those principles don’t belong to any decade. They belong to human beings who understand that nobody builds anything lasting alone.
So when I think about that little clip now, I don’t simply see three great Black entertainers sharing a stage. I see a reminder. I see a picture of what happens when men are secure enough to stand beside one another without needing to dominate one another. I see what happens when talent doesn’t require jealousy and success doesn’t require isolation. And I see a challenge sitting directly in front of us: Can we learn how to stand together again?
Because I believe we can. But we have to want it. We have to practice it. We have to teach it. And most importantly, we have to live it. The brotherhood we miss isn’t dead because the past disappeared. It’s waiting for somebody in the present to decide that it’s worth rebuilding.
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