Rough Roses: From Concrete to Morehouse

Yesterday, I watched young Black men tear a social justice debate apart.

Intelligence. 

Discipline. 

Pride.

Afros.
Bantu locs.
Academic language spoken with confidence and authority.

And as I sat there listening to them challenge ideas, reference research, and command the room, one thought crossed my mind.

This is what Tupac meant by “funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air.”

Tupac once wrote about roses growing from concrete. Yesterday, I saw them standing in front of me.

Young men who learned how to grow in places the world never expected them to bloom.

These are the rough roses.

Though they did not win the debate tournament, they walked away victorious.

They received feedback from some of the best minds in the nation. They hosted teams from across the country and made sure everyone felt welcomed. They gained wisdom, experience, and connections that will last them a lifetime.

This blog was inspired by the rough roses I watched tear ‘Da House down during their 10th annual social justice debate tournament on their campus. The team is led by my uncle, Kenneth Newby, and it is a nationally recognized debate program.

The Fulton County District Attorney, Fani Willis, served as one of the judges alongside respected authors and professors.

But what moved me most had nothing to do with titles.

It was the sight of young Black men with Afros and Bantu locs standing confidently in academic spaces. Their arguments were thoughtful. Their language was precise. Their presence was unapologetic.

It was a breath of fresh air.

Because I know those young men understand more than one language.

They know how to blend into rooms when they need to.
They know how to code switch when environments demand it.

But watching them make space for themselves in academia without shrinking who they are filled my heart in a way I cannot fully explain.

When I look at those young men, I do not only see their future.

I see Daylon.

I see boys I once taught.

I see the brilliance that too many systems never learned how to recognize.

And so many other students of mine who never made it out of the concrete.

Often times, I find myself imagining who my students might have become.

Then life reminds me of something else.

Kevin Marcus was only in the eighth grade when we lost Daylon. On that tragic day he hid in my closet before we finally found peace in that room. Now, he is a Freshman at Morehouse. 

Serenity, Daylon’s little sister, was in the seventh grade at the time. Today, she is preparing to attend Clark Atlanta University this fall.

Time has a way of revealing something we cannot see in the moment.

Life keeps moving.
Dreams keep forming.

Many of Daylon’s friends are now playing ball, chasing their goals, and building lives beyond the concrete.

This blog is about what we have already done.

And what we still have the power to do.

Because one of the most dangerous weapons used against generations is not violence.

It is not poverty.

It is not failing schools.

The most dangerous weapon is often what we do not know.

The Greatest Weapon Is What We Do Not Know

One of the most powerful weapons used against communities is ignorance.

Not stupidity.

Ignorance.

What we do not know quietly shapes what we believe is possible.

And sometimes the people suffering the most are the same people we blame the loudest.

A Lesson from Rocky

While reflecting on this, I thought about a sermon my pastor once preached about the Rocky Balboa movies.

Rocky did not win every fight.

But he never quit.

Every time he got knocked down, he got back up.

The odds were rarely in his favor.
The facts did not always support him.

But faith, discipline, and heart determined what happened next.

The apostle Paul said it this way:

“I have fought the good fight.
I have finished the race.
I have kept the faith.”

Winning happens in moments.

Sometimes it is talent.
Sometimes it is timing.

But finishing requires something deeper.

It requires endurance.

Sometimes the real victory is not winning the fight.

Sometimes the victory is simply going the distance.

And surviving is not the same as failing.

What the Research Actually Shows

For years people have debated what is wrong with education.

People blame teachers.
People blame parents.
People blame poverty.
People blame funding.

But educational researcher John Hattie, after studying more than 300 million students worldwide, discovered something powerful.

The greatest influence on student learning is not programs.

It is not a policy.

It is not even funding.

The most powerful factor is the belief systems inside the learning environment.

Hattie identified some of the strongest influences on student achievement:

 Teacher clarity
Strong feedback
High expectations
Collective teacher belief
Students believing they can grow

In other words, learning grows where people believe growth is possible.

But here is the uncomfortable truth.

When the adults inside a system become exhausted, discouraged, or stuck in survival mode, expectations begin to shrink.

And when expectations shrink, outcomes shrink with them.

The Question That Changes Everything

During my years serving in education in Pine Bluff, I watched students get written off in real time.

But the truth is, I had heard those conversations long before I ever became an educator.

As a child, I remember adults having those same conversations about some of my classmates when I went to Dollarway.

“These kids don’t care.”
“They always causing problems.”
“They gonna end up in jail or dead.”

Years later, standing in classrooms and hallways as an educator, I realized something that unsettled me.

The conversations had not changed.

Only the generation had.

Students were still being labeled.

Disruptive.
Unfocused.
Difficult.

People still said things like:

“These kids don’t care.”
and much worse about their parents.

But something about that never sat right with me.

So I started asking a different question.

Not:

“What’s wrong with you?”

But:

“What happened?”

That question changed everything.

Because most children are used to adults asking what they did wrong.

They are not used to someone asking what they have endured.

And when you give young people space to speak, you begin to hear stories that have nothing to do with school.

Loss.
Instability.
Pain no child should have to carry alone.

In that moment something became clear to me.

We spend so much time reacting to behavior that we rarely stop to understand the pain producing it.

We punish the symptoms.

But we ignore the root.

Many children are not failing.

They are surviving.

And surviving is not the same thing as failing.

Sometimes the real victory is simply getting back up.

And sometimes the most powerful thing an adult can do is slow down long enough to ask the right question.

When we start asking the right questions, we begin to see something we often missed before.
The rose growing through the concrete.

Rough Roses

The phrase came to me yesterday.

I was watching the Morehouse debate team and something about those young men made the words form in my mind: rough roses.

They might quote rap lyrics one minute and solve a complex academic problem the next.

They speak the language of their culture.

And they carry the intelligence to thrive in academic spaces.

Some people see contradictions.

I see adaptation.

Roses growing through concrete.

If you have ever seen a rose grow through a crack in a sidewalk, you understand something important.

The environment was never designed for it to grow.

The conditions were not ideal.

But life found a way anyway.

That is what many young Black boys in America are doing every day.

Navigating expectations.
Stereotypes.
Pressure.
Environments that were never designed with them in mind.

And still they bloom.

That is not weakness.

That is resilience.

But the tragedy is that too often we only see the concrete.

We focus on the slang.
The posture.
The music.
The attitude.

And we miss the rose.

Pine Bluff is full of Roses.

But too often we spend more time talking about the concrete than nurturing what is trying to grow through it.

When a System Teaches Us to Despise One Another

The writer James Baldwin once said something that has echoed in my mind for years:

“Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them. Children cannot learn from people who despise them.”

That quote is uncomfortable.

Because it forces us to ask a deeper question.

What happens when “The System” works so well that people begin despising one another?

Not strangers.
Not outsiders.

But people who look like them.

In communities like the ones I have served, the tragedy is not simply poverty or struggling schools.

The deeper tragedy is that generations of pressure and survival have slowly turned us against each other.

Parents versus schools.
Schools versus families.
Educators versus administrators.
Community versus community.

And the strange part is this.

Most of the time, we all look alike.

We love the same children.

We pray to the same God.

We want the same outcomes.

But systems under pressure often produce something dangerous.

Exhaustion.

And when people become exhausted long enough, compassion begins to shrink.

When compassion shrinks, blame grows.

Suddenly the problem is no longer the system.

The problem becomes each other.

We shame children instead of asking what happened to them.

We criticize parents instead of asking what support they need.

We blame teachers without asking what systems they are working inside.

And slowly, generation after generation, the system does something tragic.

It teaches people to despise the very reflection of themselves.

And Baldwin warned us long ago.

Children cannot learn from people who despise them.

Not because children are stubborn.

But because children are observant.

They imitate what they see.

Which is why the work of healing systems is not just about policy.

It is about restoring dignity.

Remembering that the roses growing through concrete are not problems to be managed.

They are lives to be nurtured.

Transformation Requires Learning Adults

If we want different outcomes for the next generation, we cannot keep doing the same things.

Systems must evolve.
Communities must evolve.
Schools must evolve.
Parents must evolve.

And educators must evolve too.

In education we often talk about Professional Learning Communities, or PLCs.

But a real PLC is not just a meeting.

It is a culture where adults commit to learning just as deeply as the students they serve.

Real transformation requires:

Time.
Trust.
Accountability.
Humility.

Because the truth is simple.

Children are not the only ones in school to learn.

Adults are too.

The moment adults stop learning, the system stops growing.

And when systems stop growing, children pay the price.

Going the Distance

The crowds rarely show up when you are in the trenches.

They appear when you are near the finish line.

But God prepares people in private for what He reveals in public.

The hits meant to destroy you were shaping you.

The trials were developing you.

They strengthened your faith.
They deepened your endurance.

I did not win every battle.

But I stayed in the fight.

And when the race is over, what will matter most is not who applauded.

Not who doubted.

Not who disappeared.

What will matter is whether we finished the fight God placed in front of us.

Because when you know who you are and whose you are, something powerful happens.

You realize you are still standing.

And the only reason you are still standing is because God sustained you.

Even concrete cannot stop what God planted.

Yesterday, I watched those rough roses stand in a room full of scholars, prosecutors, authors, and professors.

Afros.
Bantu locs.
Academic language.

Unapologetically brilliant.

And in that moment I was reminded of something simple.

The concrete was never the end of the story.

Because when God plants a garden inside someone, even concrete cannot stop it from growing.

Sometimes the greatest victory is not winning the fight.

Sometimes the greatest victory is simply this.

You went the distance.

Don’t be afraid to go the extra mile and lend a helping hand.

You might be who brings the Rose through concrete to land.