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and the love of humanity, then why couldn’t I do the same thing? I guessed that going forward whenever
     the misguided notion that lighter was somehow “better” revealed itself or made an appearance I would have to challenge and
     resist the notion, just as Mandela did, with elegance and dignity.
    Nelson Mandela was free. Gary Dourdan was free. And as I stood there that day, watching all kinds of black people of every
     shade and hue cheering Mandela and his freedom—even whites in the crowd in Harlem were screaming his name—I was freetoo. It felt good. It felt natural. On that day we all were one people with one cause, and that cause was to resist bigotry,
     ignorance, and hate, and be free.
    I now know that to overcome inequity and change the course of history is in my DNA, and the DNA of my people. I now know that
     just as bigotry from whites is dated, dangerous, and just plain silly, so is the bourgeois ideology of organizations such
     as “Jack and Jill”—formed in the 1930s by black prosperous families to provide their children access to teas, debutante balls,
     and other social practices of wealthy whites, from which they were excluded because of prejudice. The group’s critics accused
     it of practicing its own brand of bigotry, favoring well-to-do and lighter-skinned blacks for membership.
    The diversity train has taken off. People need to get on board or risk being run over by it.
    My story is clear. Ignore Africa at your peril. Africa is in ALL of us and she is reaching out for help now in more ways than
     ever! Africa gave us the first civilizations and Africa will give each of us our freedom, just as she gave me mine. When we
     help Africa, we help ourselves.
    Whap, whap, whap
! I felt the sting of each measured blow on my back and my neck being administered by a very large and focused hand. I was
     strapped onto a machine hanging upside down in the darkness and unable to breathe. I was beginning to wonder whether I was
     going to die of asphyxiation or a broken neck.
    Everything seemed to slow down and become very quiet. People were gathered around speaking in hushed tones and frantic whispers.
     The air was filled with urgency as someone hit me again and again.
    I couldn’t help but wonder, “Damn, is this what it felt like when I was born and not breathing? Did the doctor hang meupside down and violently spank me into existence? Shit, this sucks!”
    This was not the first time I had experienced this feeling. I had nearly drowned twice in my life. But each time, someone
     or something always brought me back to life. This time, a peanut shell was threatening to kill me. A huge man was fighting
     back, hell bent on not letting me go. That man, my savior, was Mr. John Amos.
    We were all backstage during an intermission at the Capital Repertory Theatre in Albany, New York. I was playing the part
     of Cory Maxson in August Wilson’s
Fences
and John Amos was portraying the powerful patriarch Troy Maxson. Hundreds of people were patiently waiting in the audience
     for the second half of the play to begin. It would have been in extremely poor taste to die backstage before the paying audience
     could see how one of Wilson’s greatest works ended.
    The script called for my character to shell and eat peanuts onstage, listening intently as his father spoke. The monologue,
     designed to warn his son against the false hope and promises of the sports world, was delivered beautifully each night by
     Amos. Troy Maxson wanted his son, Cory, to focus on finding a real, steady-paying job. Cory had scholarship offers to play
     football and was confused as to why his father resented his chance for advancement.
    I remember hearing the part in the dialogue where the father says, “You need to stop worrying if somebody likes you. You need
     to make sure that they pay you.” At that moment I knew something was wrong. For a minute I thought John was speaking directly
     to me and not my character. I started to perspire