The great Black writer James Baldwin once said, “They saw themselves as others had seen them. They had been formed by the images made of them by those who had had the deepest necessity to despise them.” In a sports field known for the flamboyant and for sheer spectacle, the basketball star who wears jersey number 3 stands out among his peers. In a sport where tall and big men dominate, he is neither. Of modest height and slender girth, he plays as if he is the biggest, strongest, and baddest man of the bunch. His name, of course, is Allen Iverson, captain and shooting guard of the Philadelphia 76ers, who recently sent the city into a tizzy when he spoke candidly about his fears while dwelling in the City of Brotherly Love. In that recent interview, the NBA star explained, “I want to be in Philadelphia, but I’m scared now to be in Philadelphia. I’ve heard about police officers toasting to Allen Iverson’s next felony conviction. It scares me because I know if there’s any crooked cops out there, they can do anything. Allen Iverson can end up dead tomorrow if a crooked cop wants him dead. It’s as simple as that. It really scares me, man.”
The now to which he referred was a recent arrest on unfounded spousal abuse charges, which the local and national media blew up all out of reasonable proportion. Although these charges were later thrown out, local authorities provided the rapacious media with the ritual and obligatory perp walk, where the accused is paraded before the flashes and pops of TV and print media cameras. Iverson had to spend hours in the city’s grimy and repressive detention facilities. Doubtless, the talented NBA star learned something about the nature of the police-media system in Philadelphia. He learned that neither of them cared about him, no matter how many points he scored, nor how many dollars he earned. He might be a millionaire, but to those in power in the city, to those who wield the powers of force and prosecution, he was just another n*$$r, just more human fuel for the machine to consume, and it scared him.
There are those in white civil authority who resent the fact that a young Black man like Iverson can make the money he does. They are also no doubt resentful that he wears his hair in braids and opts to dress in the hip-hop style of his contemporaries. He doesn’t wear $500 Italian suits or look down upon the class from which he came. They want to bring him to heel, to humble him for daring to be so proudly reflective of his own ghetto style. He senses this, and like any thinking man, it scares him. And when he speaks this truth, this powerful truth, the white corporate media seems somehow offended that he speaks such a truth and uses its terrible power of persuasion to somehow, any which a way, get him to say that this isn’t really what he meant to say. But he knows, for he has lived too long in American ghettos and has seen countless homies get caught up in the relentless jaws of the state. He’s seen it. He knows it.
If you’re a Black man of means, especially a sports star, you’re expected to take the money, smile, and shut your mouth, or smile and sell something like a grill. Iverson is one of those sports stars that smiles when something is genuinely funny, and seems unwilling to jeff, to jaw, or hambone his way through his career. He’s by any measure a phenomenal player who often scores a third of the team’s total points in a given night. He’s played despite aching joints, sprains, and an occasional broken bone. He plays like a Zulu warrior wages war, all or nothing. To some, apparently, that is not enough.
They want his Black soul, and Iverson, a smart man, a brilliant athlete who can peep a move being made on the other side of the court and counter it in the blink of an eye, is scared of what he sees. Who can dare blame the seer? A century ago, Jack Johnson was targeted for his choice of women, white ones. Ali was condemned for his choice of faith, Islamic pacifism, and today Iverson is rebuked for speaking the truth. I think he’s in damn good company. From death row, this is Mumia Abu-Jamal. T
These commentaries are produced by Noelle Hanrahan for Prison Radio.
