(IAVM Note: The world needs all voices and we need all hands on-deck. Do you have a public platform? If so, use that voice for the cause of dignity for all. Spread the message of human rights for every individual. Spread the message of love, unity, and respect for all. Should you have money, donate to the cause of inclusive opportunities. If you have time, donate that time and your energy to the cause.)
By Frantzer LeBlanc, MBA, CVP
One of the greatest things about our country is that everyone has the opportunity to become successful. Where you start in life does not have to become your destiny. You can accomplish whatever you set your mind to. That thought was always encouraging to me. I grew up in a very impoverished area of Philadelphia. My mother did the best she could, but she was a single parent raising two children trying to provide a life for us with only a high school education.
For most of my childhood, we moved more times than I can count. We were also on welfare and sometimes got food 
from the food bank until I was 18-years-old. Although I knew my father, I did not have him in my life. I have been working since I was in middle school partly to help my family and also to have a little spending money. The first job I had was when I was 12-years-old, working as a custodian at our church and also helping the local handyman in our neighborhood with side jobs.
Growing up in these conditions, it can be difficult to dream a life for yourself more prominent than what you see around you. But I did! I wanted to go to college following in the footsteps of my Uncle Tim, who at that time was the only person in my immediate family that graduated from college. This process was not easy for me either; I worked through my entire high school years and worked a full-time job while in college to support myself as I started living on my own after I turned 18 and I took out loans to pay for tuition.
I became the first person in my entire family to achieve a Master’s degree, and have had a successful career in college athletics and now in venue management. I serve on the Board of Directors of IAVM, I wrote two articles that were published, I have been asked to speak at many different Universities to talk about my expertise, and I have the privilege and honor of mentoring over 15 individuals. But despite overcoming my challenging upbringing, achieving many of my goals, and becoming a valuable member of our society, the truth is none of that matters. At times, I am reduced to what you see, a black man.
Growing up as a youth in the ’80s, my mother and grandmother would share their stories of dealing with racism, segregation, and unjust killings of black people. At a young age, I remember hearing the story of Emmett Till, the way he was murdered and why. In 1991 I watched on TV as Rodney King was brutally beaten by LA police officers, and I watched on TV as a grocery store clerk murdered a black teenager. In both of these cases, the individuals committing these crimes were not convicted.
As we moved into the new century, the same problems plagued us. This year I watched George Floyd being murdered by members of the Minneapolis police department. I watched Ahmaud Arbery being senselessly murdered on the street while running and heard the story of Breonna Tayler being murdered in her own home by police officers. As I contemplate these situations, I think that could have been me.
I want to try to make you understand how watching these videos and hearing these stories feels to me. Some of you are old enough to remember 9/11. You, like me, remember exactly where you were when the planes went into the buildings. You remember the stories of the innocent people who were murdered that day. And like me, you remember how scared we were that day wondering what was next and if there would be another attack. Then we as a country wanted justice, we wanted to find out who did this, and we needed to get them.
Now imagine that we never were able to receive that justice, and every year there was another attack that we had to watch and experience that same pain and fear all over again. How angry as a country would we be? Every time I see a video of another black person being unjustly murdered during their encounters with police and others for performing regular life routines, I relive every encounter I had all over again as well. The anger of the injustice that I had to endure overwhelms me, and the sick part is I feel “lucky” that I am alive. Each time one of these murders happen without justice, that pain and fear are both multiplied.
• When Trayvon Martin was murdered on the street for “looking suspicious,” I remember when I was 16 years old going to a bank in a suburb of Philadelphia to cash a check. After I left the bank, a police officer pulled me over and asked me why I went into the bank. After I told him I went in to cash my check, he informed me that there were robberies in the past at this bank and asked to check my ID. I asked him did the bank call the cops; he said no. Five minutes later, I was surrounded by five officers against a wall. I was so angry that this was happening to me just for cashing my check legally. I raised my voice at the officers, and I will never forget this. One of the officers said, “stop raising your voice to me. I can get nervous, and you don’t want me to be nervous.” Luckily for me, the sixth cop that arrived pulled everyone away and calmed the situation down. I went to the police station to try to file a complaint, and nothing came of it.
• When Christian Cooper had the police called on him for merely asking a woman to follow the laws and put her dog on a leash, I remember when I was 18 years old as a freshman at Liberty University. I was falsely accused of threatening to hurt one of my dormmates. It was my word against his, and his version of the story was taken as facts. I was charged with a first-degree misdemeanor, taken to jail and thrown out of college. I will never forget the look of pleasure on the officer’s face as he put handcuffs on me in front of my friends and arrested me. Luckily for me, when the case went to court, the judge saw the facts and put me under one-year judicial probation that allowed me to clear my record after the year was complete. I believe that case should have been thrown out, but I had a public defender so I guess beggars can’t be choosers, right?
• When Amadou Diallo was killed by four police officers in New York City, I remember at 20, visiting one of my white friends in Lancaster, PA. There were three of us in the car, two of whom were African American. We were pulled over by the cop, for what, I still do not know. The officer demanded that we all give him our ID’s, so he could check our records, I always assumed. After he obviously found no warrants open on us, he took our white friend out of the car and told him he should not hang around guys “like us.” Even though this cop never met us before, in his eyes, this 20-year-old white kid should not hang around two Black males. We were able to leave after our friend refused to leave us.
• When Phillip Pannell was shot in the back and killed by a police officer, I remember at 21 while driving home from work, a cop car flashed its lights into my rearview mirror, blinding me. I pulled over, and when the officers came to my car, I asked them if I did anything wrong. One of the officers asked me why I was driving through this neighborhood. I told him I was going home. He asked me if I bought drugs today. I told him no. He asked if he checked my car, would he find crack? I told him no and told him to check my car if he wanted to, although I was terrified that they might plant something in my car. After 10 minutes, these officers told me I could go. They followed me for another five minutes before leaving me alone. I still have nightmares to this day that a cop would plant something in my car when I get pulled over.
• When Philando Castile was murdered in front of his child during a routine traffic stop, I remember at 31 going to lunch during work when I was working in Long Island. I made an illegal U-turn and was rightfully pulled over by an officer. After I was pulled over, the officer asked me for my license and registration. Having been trained by my previous experiences, I warned the officer that my registration was in my glove compartment, and I would have to move and open it up to retrieve it. The officer put his hand on his gun and asked me if I had anything in my glove compartment while he was shaking nervously. Trying to ignore that question and remain calm, fearing if I showed how offended and how angry I was, I might not survive this encounter, I told him no, just the registration. He kept his hand on his gun until I gave him my license and registration. Once he saw my license, he asked me if I lived in Brooklyn and what I was doing here. I told him that I worked on Long Island and was going to lunch. He kept asking me why I was on Long Island, not comprehending that I worked there. He asked me if I had any weapons with his hand on his gun again; I told him no. He wrote me a ticket and told me I shouldn’t come to that area. I left to go back to work angry with that experience, but grateful I was alive.
• When Botham Jean was murdered in his apartment by an off-duty police officer entering the wrong apartment, I remember at 35 after purchasing my first home. I was outside, cutting my grass. Apparently, someone called the cops on me because I went into the garage. The officers came to me while I was outside and asked me where the owner of the house was. I told him I owned the house and he looked surprised and said, “really?” I asked him if there was a problem; he told me someone called the cops. I told him this is my house and everything is fine. I had to confirm by showing this officer my license, and he left.
So why am I angry? To you, the one video could feel like a single incident; for me, it is a reminder of my pain and that at any point, I could be the person in that video being murdered. I am angry because if you talk to any black man in America, they can share similar stories of their encounters with police. I am angry because I have to plan my daily running routine around what is the most visible and least residential area to limit any chance of cops being called on me. I am angry because I should not have to be scared every time that I get pulled over by a police officer. I am angry because I should not have to have a conversation with young black men and, eventually, my son about how to act when you get pulled over by the police so you can survive. I am angry because if I carry a gun, I am looked at as a criminal and not a 2nd amendment loving American. I am angry because I should not have to hear people say to me, get out of the country if you don’t like it when all I want to do is make it better. I am angry because being a minority in our country is tough, being poor in this country is nearly impossible, and being a black man in this country can be dangerous. And mostly, I am angry because no matter how much I have and will accomplish, I will still be judged by the color of my skin.
Benjamin Franklin said, “Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are.” To create the change we need, I need all of you who are not minorities to help. Care enough to ask the hard questions with the intent to learn. I don’t need you to understand what it feels like to be me. I just need you to understand that being me is different from being you and not accept that that reality as okay. I need you to become an advocate with us, demanding justice when needed and demanding change to end the systematic racism that has plagued our country throughout its entire history. I need you to be angry with me and then empathetic enough to help me change our society.
I will choose not to remain angry but become hopeful because tomorrow always brings an opportunity for change. One of my favorite songs is one recorded by Louis Armstrong called “What a Wonderful World.” Louis Armstrong recorded this track in 1968. Louis Armstrong is a black man who lived through the Great Depression, three wars, experienced racism and segregation, and participated in the civil rights movement.
His explanation of what this song meant to him has always stuck with me. When asked to explain, Mr. Armstrong said, “All I’m saying is see what a wonderful world it would be if only we’d give it a chance. Love, baby, love. That’s the secret. Yeah. If lots more of us loved each other, we would solve lots more problems. And then this world would be better. I am hopeful that you, the unaffected, will join me to make this country better for everyone who lives in it and fight with me for justice.
Frantzer LeBlanc, MBA, CVP, is Director of Events and Operations at the UMBC Event Center | OVG Facilities in Baltimore, Maryland.
