We recently found ourselves, a group of black men including a doctor, a filmmaker, a health care executive, and a writer, simmering with collective anger. Well past our youthful barroom brawl days, our professional identities and societal roles seemed to clash with the raw emotion we felt. This feeling, for black men like us who have cultivated lives Beyond The Streets, is often complex, intertwined with echoes of a different code.
Growing up in urban centers like New York, Baltimore, and Chicago, we were first initiated into the Code of the Streets. In these environments, respect and reputation form the bedrock of social interaction. These values, frequently dismissed by those unfamiliar with the realities of violence, are not abstract concepts when physical confrontation is a constant presence. A reputation for assertive resilience, especially within a tight-knit group sharing this mindset, acts as a necessary shield. This street code, while not a solution for broader societal issues, operates with its own stark logic within its specific context.
However, outside of this context, the rigid application of the Code of the Streets appears incongruous, even absurd. I recall attending a book reading by a black author where a disruptive group at the back disregarded his polite requests for attention. Witnessing his rising anger, it was clear the old street laws were taking hold. He felt disrespected, triggering a familiar response. His eventual, strained declaration, “Don’t let the suit fool you,” highlighted the misplaced application of street values in a setting far removed from their origin. The streets, in a sense, had deceived him, making him react in a way that was out of place and potentially self-damaging. For many who live by the code, longevity and reflection are luxuries rarely afforded.
Taken out of its original environment, the Code of the Streets becomes not just ridiculous but actively self-destructive. Violence involving black men, irrespective of socioeconomic status, is often judged with a harsher lens than violence involving other demographics. In America, tragically, blackness itself can be misconstrued as a marker of criminality. Despite personal achievements – my own identity as a writer, accolades received, and residence in a respectable New York neighborhood – the reality remains stark. Had a physical altercation erupted that night, we were all acutely aware of how law enforcement and society at large would perceive and react to us. Violence is unequivocally wrong, but violence involving black men is too often seen as a uniquely egregious offense. Moving beyond the streets requires not just a change in location but a constant negotiation with ingrained codes and external perceptions.
