I tore open the envelope as soon as I saw it sitting in my mailbox. After weeks of waiting, I would finally find out if a grant would help me add new programs to KOB.
Three years into this thing, I thought we had it going on. Dozens of kids were in and out of my house every single day. These young people weren’t just talking about riding with their crew or getting high anymore. They were talking about the future. Some of them even mentioned college. I had Jamal, Corey, and Tetey out performing at events in the community. I had kids dancing at basketball games.
All the partnerships I’d tried to build over the years were paying off. A police officer had donated an old van, and every chance we got, I piled those kids into the van and we took off, rolling into CeaseFire cookouts on blocks that had just experienced violence. By now, I’d loaded a couple dozen kids into buses and taken them out to Minnesota, St. Louis, and Atlanta with National Block Club University. If these kids were going to learn about the world outside of their little four-block radius, they needed to see it for themselves. I even had Public Allies in my house hosting workshops on how to organize and impact our community.
James and I had long since stopped battling about KOB. He was right by my side watching the kids on the basketball court, showing them how to fix cars, and hollering at them when they got out of line. We still didn’t have any privacy, and KOB dominated our lives around the clock, but compared to when we’d started, life was good.
I was riding high. I could see the changes in these kids from the way they looked me in the eye, from the way they talked, from their body language. But what I didn’t have—and what every grant and partner seemed to want—were concrete outcomes. Including the grant whose letter I held in my hand that day. I ripped open the envelope only to read the familiar words: “We regret to inform you . . .”
I didn’t get it. Again. My lack of outcome came back to bite me once more. At this point, I’d heard the same story so many times I didn’t even have the energy to be disappointed.
Whether I was filling out a grant application or making small talk at a nonprofit event, it all came down to numbers. They wanted results they could measure. How many kids had dropped out of gangs? How many kids stayed in school? How many shootings did we have in our neighborhood this year compared to the year before?
I didn’t know how to explain that what I was doing couldn’t be boiled down to statistics. In our neighborhood, it’s more complicated than that. It’s messy. I could mentor these kids and talk to them about dreaming for the future and staying away from gangs until I was blue in the face. But I couldn’t take them out of their home lives, their streets, or the groups of kids surrounding them. Even if they changed their minds, sometimes they were still trapped by their circumstances.
Like Corey. Corey was still a kid of the neighborhood. He was friends with boys in just about every gang in Roseland. His cousin, Malcom, and his best friend, Sean, were in rival gangs, and Corey was in the middle of all of them. Sometimes, when one of the gangs had an issue with another, they’d call Corey and expect him to ride with them—ride almost always meant a drive-by. Corey never said no. Even though he wasn’t a member, part of Corey secretly wished he were a gangster. But by now, his desire to become a singer was even stronger.
From the first time Corey belted out a melody in my living room, I knew he had something special. A talent like his shouldn’t just be spent singing Luther Vandross covers at block parties. I really believed he could make it big. I wanted it so badly for him that Corey started to want it for himself.
“You gotta get me on stage, Miss Diane,” he’d say. “I just wanna sing.”
And I did. I called in every favor I could and got him on every stage in the area. He’d sing his heart out wherever he was. His smooth R&B baritone still made me melt each time I heard it. So when I just happened to meet a music producer, I knew I had to get Corey in front of him. He wasn’t with a big label, but he had the connections to give Corey a real shot at a singing career.
“Aw, man, Miss Diane,” Corey said when I told him. He grinned and jittered like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. “Just wait till I sing for this dude. I’m gonna show him what I can do.”
I sat back and smiled as he practiced his songs over and over again in my little studio. He and Craig had written this slow jam I loved called “Please Baby Please.” He was going to sing it for the producer, along with some covers. Other kids popped their heads in, telling him a song they thought he should sing or yelling, “That sounds real good!” I closed my eyes, listening to him practice a phrase or a note until it was spot on. This boy is going places, I thought.
I figured Corey would show up early the day we had an appointment with the producer. I made sure the DeVille had plenty of gas in the tank so I didn’t have to stop on our way. I didn’t want Corey to worry about being late. I sat down in a folding chair and waited. Minutes came and went with no sign of Corey.
When our appointment was only fifteen minutes away, I got worried. It’s not like Corey not to show up, I thought. He wants this. He’s ready. He’s been practicing. The only way he wouldn’t be here is if something happened to him.
I called everybody who I thought might know where he was. Jamal. DaJuan. I was this close to calling his mom, but since I knew she had health problems, I didn’t want to worry her. Aisha eventually came home and panicked right along with me. All I could think was he was shot somewhere, lying on the ground, all alone. It was way past time for our appointment when I had to call the producer and tell him we weren’t going to make it.
Finally, when I was going crazy with worry, Aisha got ahold of Corey’s cousin, Malcom. I leaned up next to her so I could hear what he had to say. “Oh, he good, he good,” I heard Malcom say. “He’ll be over there later.”
I put my hand on my chest and heaved a big sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God,” I said, hugging Aisha.
That’s when it hit me. If Corey was alright, that meant he’d just stood up this producer. If the gangs didn’t kill Corey, I just might have to finish the job.
I was ready to pounce when Corey strolled into my house that evening like nothing had happened.
“Corey! Where have you been?” I shouted. “You had us all worried sick. Why didn’t you show up? Don’t you wanna do something with your life? Do you want to be a singer or not?”
Corey shook his head and sighed. “Miss Diane, I had to ride.”
“What?” I stared at him, blinking with disbelief. “What you mean, you had to ride?”
“Malcom’s crew is into it with that gang up the block.” Corey shrugged. “They had to ride over to Sean’s house. They said it was time to go. When they ride, I have to ride.”
I threw my hands up and walked across the living room floor. The other kids hushed their conversations as they listened. “I don’t understand. Why would you sit in the car and watch them shoot up Sean’s house? He’s your best friend.”
He shrugged again. “Yeah, but Malcom is family.”
My head ached as I listened to what this boy thought was a good reason for throwing away an opportunity and participating in a drive-by shooting all in the same afternoon. I’d spent the last three years mentoring this boy, encouraging him, and acting like some kind of agent. I’d done everything I could think of to get him straightened out. And I still couldn’t get him away from the gangs, even though he wasn’t a member.
God, what am I supposed to do? I prayed that night as I paced my bedroom floor. These kids are facing demons that I can’t beat. I’ve been fighting for three years, and it feels like I’m getting nowhere.
I was so desperate to help Corey I even picked up the phone and called his mom after all. I begged her to talk to him and let him know that he has a real talent and that what he’s trying to do is more important than these streets.
I also called the producer again. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to talk to the woman who had stood him up just a few days earlier. But I begged for another chance. Literally, I would have crawled on my hands and knees if I was in front of him. Eventually, he said, “Okay. I really want to hear this kid.”
I couldn’t wait to tell Corey he had another chance. This time the producer would come to my house.
“Don’t you screw this up,” I warned him. “You better be there fifteen minutes early. You gotta show up.”
Corey promised he would be there. Just like last time, he practiced the same songs and seemed excited to get in front of the producer.
But once again, the appointment came and went. Corey didn’t show. This producer, bless his heart, waited a solid two hours just in case Corey was running late. Finally, I looked at my watch and sighed. “I give up,” I told him.
The producer just shook his head. “Sometimes you can’t help these kids when they don’t want to help themselves,” he said. I just held my head in my hands, not sure whether I was more heartsick than I was angry.
Corey stopped by my house that evening to talk with me. This time, he said, his mom wouldn’t let him come. She was convinced I was trying to use him to get rich, he told me. He said she wanted to help him herself.
I sank into a metal folding chair. My legs wouldn’t hold me anymore. I wanted to scream or throw something. All I wanted to do was help this boy, and now even his own mama was working against me. I really am on my own, I thought. Nobody’s going to help me help him. Not even his family.
And yet, I couldn’t give up on him. Something inside me kept saying maybe next time he’ll get it. You never know what’s going to spark a change in a kid. These boys and girls had lived in these circumstances long before I invited them into my living room. Their families still live that way. Their lives weren’t going to change overnight or even in three years. I should know that better than anyone.
I thought of myself at twenty-seven years old, sitting next to my mama, sobbing. My first husband had left me, I didn’t have a job, and I had no idea how I was supposed to be the mom I needed to be for six kids. She suggested I let my auntie take the girls for a while until I got back on my feet. Let me tell you, that was a blow. But she was right. It wasn’t until I met James a few years later that my life started to change. If I hadn’t gotten it together until I was in my thirties, why would I expect these kids to turn around right away? If I wanted to help them, I had to play the long game.
So I kept trying. I kept meeting other producers, getting Corey into more rooms with important people. Sometimes he showed up. Sometimes he messed up. But I couldn’t give up on him. I could never give up on a kid.
A lot of people couldn’t understand it. I’d learned not to read the comments when a newspaper or TV station ran a story about me. Everybody said I was crazy for letting these gangbangers in my house. “I wonder what’s gonna happen when she winds up dead,” they’d say. Some people even called me wanting to know if I was some kind of gang mother.
I knew what that really meant. These people thought every black kid was a gangbanger and a thug, somebody to avoid if they saw them on the street. The do-gooders out there all claimed to want to help the inner-city, at-risk kids. But really, they only wanted to help the “good kids.” The ones who didn’t make them nervous.
If everybody could just meet these kids and talk to them, I know I could change their minds, I thought. I was out there begging anybody and everybody to volunteer, come to my house, spend some time with the kids from my neighborhood. Once, early on, a white couple who had seen me on TV sent me money and reached out to say they supported what I was doing. When they were planning to visit Chicago, the wife contacted me to say they wanted to stop by and see the kids. Finally, somebody was going to see that these kids were worth saving, that their lives mattered.
A couple days before the visit, my phone rang. It was the woman who’d sent me the donation. “What’s a good time for us to visit? You know, before dark?” she asked. “And are the police usually around?”
Whoa, hey now, I thought. This is my home. This is where I live. And you’re scared to even step foot here?
That couple never showed. No explanation. I never heard from them again.
This was constant. Every day I was out there practically begging people to help me. I needed their time, I needed their money, I needed them to just show me that they cared about these kids. I was putting myself out there like I was some kind of charity case begging for scraps. It felt humiliating, but I didn’t see any way around it. I needed help. Over and over, people would smile and nod and tell me they’d donate or that they’d stop by my house to help mentor the young boys. Most of the time they were lying. They never came through. Their lies hurt worse than a flat-out rejection. At least the people who told me no were honest.
I’m not sure what happened on the day that the burden became just too much. One minute I was sitting in the dining room, talking to James and thinking about what I’d do with the KOB kids that week. Maybe I was wishing I had volunteers to help me besides James. Maybe I was disappointed I didn’t have the money to take the kids on a little day trip that weekend. Whatever it was, my eyes filled with tears.
I’m all alone, I thought. Nobody wants to help me. Nobody’s ever going to help me. Nobody gets what I’m doing, and they don’t want to help these kids.
The tears overflowed from my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. I tried to wipe them away, but they wouldn’t stop. Sobs formed in the back of my throat, and I sniffled as I tried to choke them back.
“What’s wrong?” James asked. I didn’t answer. I just made a beeline for the bathroom.
I locked the door behind me and let everything out. This was no pretty, dainty cry. This was a snot-flying, wailing-like-a-two-year-old, ugly cry. I didn’t care who heard me or what they thought. I gave myself permission to bawl my eyes out, hollering like a kid who’d lost her candy. I was sick of feeling alone. I hated begging. I hated lowering myself like that, only to be rejected time and time again.
It’s too much. You got the wrong woman, Lord. I ain’t cut out for this. I can’t do it anymore.
My husband did what any sane man would do. He ran for the hills—or at least, straight to my mama’s house. Next thing I knew, my mama was banging on the bathroom door.
“Diane, come on out of there,” I heard her call.
I shook my head even though I knew she couldn’t see me. “Ma, I can’t,” I gasped between sobs. “I can’t do it no more.”
“Do what, honey?”
“Any of it.” I took a deep breath. The tears kept coming. “Nobody will help me, Ma. Nobody understands what I’m trying to do. I’m sick of begging for help. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Diane.” My mama’s voice was calm. “It’s your vision. God gave it to you. He didn’t give it to them.”
The sobs stopped coming as I listened closer.
“Why are you expecting them to do something?” she went on. “Of course they don’t understand it. How could they? God didn’t reveal it to them. He revealed it to you.”
Her words resonated with me. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, my mama was right. Why was I trying to make people do what God had called me to do? They didn’t get it. Maybe they never would. But I did.
You got this, I felt God telling me. Just follow Me. Let them catch your vision. Then they’ll help you.
My mom was waiting for me when I finally emerged from the bathroom, my eyes red, my face still dripping with tears and who knows what else. She took one look at me and laughed.
“I swear, Diane, you act just like you did when you were five years old throwing a fit.”
I had to laugh too. “I threw a pretty good tantrum there, didn’t I?”
Her words didn’t take any responsibilities off my plate. They didn’t put more money in my pocket or draw more volunteers to my program. But something about my mindset shifted that day. My mama had taught me and my sisters to earn respect. She’d taught us that if you built something to be proud of, your followers would come. I’d been so busy feeling sorry for myself that I’d forgotten that. Maybe they didn’t understand what I was doing or why they should help these kids. Instead of begging and pleading for them to change their minds, I had to show them. And the only way I could do that was by doing what I was supposed to do. What God had called me to do.
So I kept on running my program. I kept on holding basketball games on the lot and putting kids on stages to perform. And I invited people to come watch. I invited their parents, local politicians, people from other organizations. “Come hang out with us today,” I’d say. “We over here on Michigan.” Instead of begging them to come help us, I invited them to come be part of KOB. We had it going on.
And it worked. Before I knew it, word had spread throughout the community about KOB. Our name was on the lips of people I’d never heard of. People were giving us credit for things we hadn’t even done. Instead of me calling people, I had new volunteers calling me asking if they could please help out.
All this time, I’d been begging God to send me help. But the whole time, He wanted me to look inward. I didn’t need to change my circumstances. I needed to change myself.