Inside Job: Young men dig deep into selves in Rites of Passage Mentoring Program

Tuesday, Aug. 16, 2005 | 8:13 a.m.

In a room at the West Las Vegas Arts Center, Nadir Abdul Majied prompts a group of five chatting boys to stand at attention by asserting "Sankofa."

The West African word means to move ahead by learning from the past. To Majied, these boys, who are nearing the end of a 16-week rites-of-passage program, are indeed moving ahead.

They've learned what it means to acknowledge personal responsibility. They respect their elders, sit at the front of the classroom at school and don't curse. Their grades have improved, as has their self-esteem.

"Who are you?" Majied asked the boys, all of whom were still at attention.

Eyes forward, chins high, they respond in unison: "I am the original man, the one created to endure all challenges and emerge victorious."

"What is your responsibility?" Majied asked them.

"My responsibility is to take charge of my life and destiny and to create conditions that are conducive to my growth and the growth of my family and community," they answered, again in unison.

"What is your mantra?"

"Our mantra," they answered, 'is to never miss an opportunity to do a good thing." These catechisms, 15 in all, were written by Majied. They are based on what he thinks today's youth need to learn. The boys, ages 10 to 13, are to know and understand each one.

"They are all things that were instilled in me," Majied said. 'I try to put them in a form where children can readily understand them. To really get our boys to understand anything you have to drum it into them. Make it so it's second nature."

Majied grew up in Oakland, Calif., in a small community that looked out for its youth. If Majied was overheard cursing, he'd hear about it from the adults in the neighborhood, then from his own parents when he got home.

His partner in the mentoring program, Gregory Akbar Shakir, grew up in rural Alabama, where children spent more time outdoors than they did inside watching television. Shakir was taught to respect his elders and was quick to clean up his grammar whenever his mother corrected him.

For both of them it was, "yes sir," "no sir," "yes ma'am," "no ma'am." Their black male role models were dentists, lawyers and other professionals. When there was trouble, the entire neighborhood was somehow involved, or at least aware.

So rather than shake their heads at today's youth, who dress in sagging jeans (worn far below their rear-ends) and who they say listen mostly to their televisions and learn from the streets, Shakir and Majied agreed to become the role models that aren't readily visible in the community.

This month, as their fourth Sankofa Rites of Passage Mentoring Program nears its end, Shakir and Majied will lead their charges through a crossing-over ceremony in which they'll move from being boys to being young men.

The program was inspired four years ago by Marcia Robinson, coordinator at the West Las Vegas Arts Center, where a similar program for young women called Sista (Sisters in Society Taking Action) is ongoing. Sankofa is for boys only.

"You'll find typically in white communities boys grow up in social confines that guide them," Majied said. "Boy Scouts -- that's not the norm in the black community. In our neighborhood the streets are taking the tutelage. Character is paramount. If we don't teach our boys who they are, they grow up thinking they're second-class citizens.

"There's a whole world out there. In order to prepare for that world you have to learn about things outside of this community."

Love and discipline

Majied, a 54-year-old Vietnam war veteran who works as a limousine driver and math tutor, said that he had various men in his life who led him on his path to adulthood, something not all kids have today.

With black boys, Majied said, "They're at risk, not because of any family structure, but because society has already determined who they are and where they came from. We have more youngsters in prison than college."

The program has its dropouts, kids who can't make the two-day-a-week commitment, who don't keep up with their homework or don't commit to the conduct required of them. The current course began with 22 boys; it is now down to seven.

Those who stayed have been taught not to undermine authority and to treat women and peers with respect, whether they believe that person respects themselves or not.

Most of all, these boys are to respect themselves.

"We talk to them straight, just like they need to be talked to," Majied said. "We're not trying to make good black boys or good black men. Our objective is to raise good human beings. Not just in west Las Vegas or Las Vegas, but as citizens of the world."

The twice-weekly program is reputed to be difficult and strict, but Shakir, who works as a slot-machine technician, says it's merely about getting back to the basics.

"Children want that kind of structure and discipline," Shakir, 43, said. "My father did not allow us to sleep in on Saturday. My mother would not let words get by her and I thank her to this day.

"If we were to realize the neglect our young men are suffering, every man in every community would become a mentor."

The need for a mentor, a positive black role model, is why Sabrina Sims brought her son, Maurice, to the program.

"Maurice was acting out in school," Sims said. "The neighborhood we live in, he was losing who he was. He started drawing pictures of himself in school having blond hair, blue eyes. He thought he should have blond hair, blue eyes. All his friends' dads were white. So I felt he needed strong black mentors in his life."

And, Sims said, "They've helped him so much."

Joyce Thomas and her husband enrolled their son Michael, who is home-schooled and active in church, in the program as another way to enrich his life.

"All boys have to go through rites of passages," Thomas said. "We believe in the concept that it takes a village. It takes other opinions, other thoughts to help him to grow. It's just an extension of the family.

"I have one time to do it right. I don't care if you have three or four children, you have one time to do it right."

Deep discussions

Both Majied and Shakir are single fathers. They talk to the boys frankly about war, peace, women, politics, hygiene, slang, fashion, drugs and alcohol.

When in the first year's program, Shakir and Majied noticed the children seemed dispassionate about the murder of a peer, they took the kids to Logandale to teach them about the finality of death. The children played with and befriended more than a dozen lambs before they were told to slaughter two of them.

Less extreme courses cover grooming, puberty, family issues, body language and self esteem. Guest speakers discuss anything from understanding women to African culture. Social graces and personal safety are also included. Role playing is common.

"We have the spit-and-polish attitude," Majied said. "We let our boys know when we're disappointed, when we're pleased. In turn, they say, 'I don't want to disappoint the person I look up to.' "

Dhyer Joseph, whose son, Edward, is in the program, attended the introductory class with other parents, read all the material and trusts the men completely.

"My husband and I did it because we felt that if it was men other than his dad teaching him, he would take to it better," Joseph said. "He's gained more confidence and is doing better in school."

She and her husband go over the catechisms with Edward and hope the mentoring program will prepare him for junior high, where Edward will begin as a sixth grader rather than the traditional seventh grade.

"We needed somebody to do something like this," Joseph said.

Coming of age

Shakira and Majied have made longtime commitments to the young men, planning to follow them throughout their high school years and be there for them if or when their parents can't.

"Just about every black male you see that has amounted to something, they can all trace it back to someone in their lives who touched them, reached them and teach them about how to become a young man," Majied said. "They say, 'It was my high school teacher, the mailman down the street,' whoever it may. It used to be that the No. 1 influence was homelife, church, parents. Now it's peers, television, video games.

"Television. We think that is one of the worst devices ever created. Our children are bombarded with all of the garbage."

Because of television, Shakir said, "Kids are not used to dialogue, the art of speaking, the art of thinking.

"Somewhere along the line someone has decided your own thoughts are not good enough for you. Television will tell you when something is funny. When to applaud. (Television) alone short-circuits the brain of what it was designed to do, which was to observe nature."

Sankofa is funded by each child's $25 tuition fee. Other costs come out of Majied and Shakir's pockets. Three other men assist in mentoring.

The Sankofa class, Majied said, "It's not just for black boys. We think the information we give is lifesaving to any boy we reach."

Ten-year-old Maurice Sampson was drawn to the class after hearing about it on the radio.

"I thought it was going to be fun because it's a male figure teaching young boys how to act right," Sampson said. "They're trying to teach us how to do the right thing.

"I learn about controlling my emotions and behavior. If I get in a fight at school I can act in a manner that bespeaks my appreciation for creation."

Eleven-year-old Edward Joseph said, "We needed more discipline. I was going way too crazy at home. I wouldn't clean up and get better grades in school."

Each of the mothers say that they have seen a change in their sons, whether it's more confidence, better social behavior, better grades or more self respect. Sims said that she usually hears of problems her son has with summer programs. This year there were none.

Deandre Cummings, 13, said that the program has taught him how to handle certain situations by asking himself the "three questions": "Is it legal? Is it appropriate? Is it good for me?"

Cummings enjoys the program so much that he's somewhat of an Sankofa evangelist among his friends.

"I've talked about it around the neighborhood," Cummings said."They ask 'When is the next class? When can I get in?'

"They want to learn what you should really do in life."

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