Names have been changed to protect privacy
If you work in urban schools, especially with Black and Brown boys, you probably know the numbers. Low achievement. Low graduation rates. High dropouts. Higher incarceration. But what those statistics don't show is that these young men are often doing the best they can with the little guidance they've received.
Driving to my school one morning in 2013, I locked eyes with a young man at a bus stop — bald head, baggy white shirt, Nike Cortez. He was shouting profanity-filled lyrics of a rap song he was listening to, pointing at people as they drove by. A younger me would've yelled back. A younger me would've wanted to fight that dude.
Instead, I sat there at the light with tears in my eyes.
I saw what younger me could never have seen — this young man was doing the best he could with what he had. He was following the model of manhood he'd been given. Just like my students. Just like my son.
That same week, one of my students, Darren, had gotten into a fight at school. When he finally calmed down in my office, he told me about his dad who'd gotten out of prison after going in when Darren was four. He’d come for a couple months, then was locked up again for stealing. He died from cancer in prison. Darren was angry, so he fought. He was doing what the men before him had done.
That day, I wiped my eyes, went to school, and summoned 30 of our lowest-performing boys — boys whose fathers were dead, locked up, or had never been there at all…boys who drove teachers crazy, who were leaders but leading in all the wrong ways. These boys didn't need a lecture. They needed a space to reimagine what being a man could mean.
The poet Rumi wrote: "Out beyond wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there."
Our Men's Group became that field.
Finding the Field Beyond Right and Wrong
That Rumi quote has stayed with me since my wife first shared it with me. It captures the idea that there can be a space between people where there are no titles, no criticism or condemnation — just human beings meeting each other where they are. These boys needed that field more than anyone.
I summoned 30 boys for our first Men's Group meeting. I wanted the boys to physically move, so I asked them to leave our main building and walk to the parent center — a separate space, removed from the usual dynamics of school life.
When the boys walked in and saw the circle of chairs, some tensed up. I could see the "Oh s**t" on their faces. I knew I only had a minute, maybe two, before they'd decide whether to walk out or tear the place up. These kids were used to being yelled at. They weren't used to being talked to.
I greeted them by name. "Hey Adrian, good to see you.” "Daniel, thanks for coming.” Some of the boys looked shocked ("He knows my name?"). Even though I was clearly the one wearing the lanyard and running the show, I had no intention of exerting power over them. This group was designed to harness power with them. These boys needed boundaries, but they also needed space. I was going to give them both.
When they walked through that door, we were in Rumi's field. I put my name on these boys — the ones who drove people crazy, the ones teachers were happy to send my way.
People sometimes ask why I picked these particular boys. The answer was in the data. They had one thing in common: No male figure at home. In our school's parent center, these boys were about to start learning how to father themselves.
“I Do Stuff I Don’t Want to Do:” Caught Between Boy and Man
I looked around the circle at their faces — the "troublemakers," the ones who kept their teachers and mothers up at night.
"People tell you to man up," I started. "Some of your mothers or aunts said you were the man of the house when you were just a kid. So let me ask you: What does it mean to be a man?"
They knew the "right" answers. Take care of business. Do what's right. Don't stress out the people who love you. Don't go to jail. Each answer was about what not to do, about avoiding the paths they'd seen other men take.
Then I asked the harder question: "Based on what you just said, are you a man?"
The silence was heavy. Most shook their heads or mumbled "not yet." But when Marcus spoke up, something shifted.
"I ain't a man," Marcus said, his voice raw. "But I sure ain't no boy. I do stuff I don't want to do, but I have to." He started crying, and we held that space. No one moved. No one spoke. These young men who would rather fight than talk sat there, witnessing Marcus’ truth.
It was as if they'd been waiting for permission to exist in that space between boy and man, between the expectations placed on them and the reality they lived. They knew more people in prison than in college. They'd learned that when men disagree, they fight. When things get hard, men leave. These were the models they'd inherited.
In this circle, they were safe and free from judgment. Unless they were being hurt or wanting to hurt someone else, I told them whatever happened in our circle stayed in our circle.
At the end of that first meeting, I told them to shake hands, high five, or hug three people before they left. They did it without hesitation. Something cracked open — a possibility that there might be another way to become a man.
If Not Us, Then Who?: Breaking the Cycle
The boys in my circle weren't built for traditional classrooms. They were built for survival. They had to father themselves, piecing together ideas about manhood from broken models and absent fathers. When these young men got angry, when they got in fights, when they acted out, they were doing what they'd been taught.
I saw myself in their questions, the ones they thought were too "dumb" to ask anywhere else, the ones they couldn't ask the men who should have been there to answer. Just like I once needed my teacher, Mr. McHarg, to show me a different path, these boys needed to see another way. In our circle, we could imagine something different.
They needed to learn that real men don't inflict pain, they protect others from it. This is what I want my own precious son to know. Young men like those in my Men's Group don't need another person telling them what they're doing wrong. They need someone to show them what doing right looks like.
If we educators are not going to tell these young men how to be men, then who will? If not us, then who? If not now, then when? The cycle of absent fathers creating angry sons who become inmates or absent fathers themselves stops with us. It stops with educators willing to step into that gap, to show up, to create the space where boys can learn to become the men their own fathers couldn't be. This is not our job, but it is the work.
Until we address the trauma our Black and Brown boys carry, those grim statistics — low achievement, dropouts, incarceration — won't budge. But when we give them space to process their pain and find their path, they rewrite those numbers themselves.
Ready to Create Your Own Field Beyond Right and Wrong?
The statistics facing our Black and Brown boys don't have to be their destiny. Whether you're looking to create a Men's Group at your school or want professional development on implementing this model, I can help. I offer both hands-on facilitation and training for educators who want to create these transformative spaces in their own schools.
Want to learn more about starting a Men's Group or bringing this training to your school? Connect with me to discuss how we can work together to change those statistics — one circle at a time.
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