The truth is, we’re losing our sons before they even get a chance to become themselves.
Caleb Wilson was just 20 years old—a student at Southern University, a young Black man on the road to something. Maybe a degree. Maybe a legacy. But definitely a life. That was cut short after he was punched in the chest during a fraternity hazing ritual. That’s how he died. Not in a shootout. Not on some street corner. But in a brotherhood that mistook violence for bonding and pain for passage. Multiple people have been arrested. And yet, we still haven’t arrested the idea that masculinity must be earned through suffering.
Because make no mistake: masculinity in our community is still being handed out like a membership card. And the gatekeepers? They look like us.
They sound like that “comedian” Funny Mike—who hopped on livestream and scolded his own son for writing in a pink notepad with a unicorn on the cover. A unicorn. A child’s notebook. And yet somehow, that moment was too much for a grown man to stomach. He snapped, embarrassed that his child was caught being… a child. Because in our world, Black boys don’t get innocence. They get misdirected instruction. Be tough. Be hard. Be a man. And God forbid they swerve even slightly off script.
We saw the same script when Anthony Mackie caught heat for explaining how he parents his sons—teaching them to be young men from an early age, leaning into gender roles that some folks saw as outdated or regressive. But here’s the thing: even when you think you’re doing right by your sons, there’s a whole community standing ready to judge whether you’re raising them right. No one wins, because nobody agrees on what “a man” even is. Some people would rightfully argue that this is a major problem in the Black community. They don’t let kids be kids but then want to correct them for being “too grown” at times. Where’s the line?
Add to that the rise of the term “YN,” short for “Young N*gga”—a name worn like armor in some spaces, like branding in others. But ask yourself: what are we really baptizing our boys into? A culture where they’re expected to be fearless, unfeeling and unshakable before they even hit puberty?
And then come the voices—loud, commanding, drenched in incense and righteous fury. The Umar Johnsons of the world. Men who say they’re saving the Black community, but preach a kind of masculinity that leaves no room for softness, creativity or fluidity. It’s the same sermon dressed in Pan-African robes: “Be strong, be stoic, be straight or be silent.” All while having deadbeat dad allegations flowing through the internet as I type this. Is that what masculinity is?
So again, I ask: Who holds the keys?
Is it the fathers with firm hands? The people buying up podcast equipment? The culture critics dissecting parenting decisions from iPhone screens? The frat brothers who mistake trauma for tradition?
Or maybe, no one should.
Maybe Black masculinity isn’t a house with a lock on the door. Maybe it’s an open field—spacious enough for the boy who plays football and the one who paints unicorns. Room enough for the Mackies, the Calebs, the ones who cry in private and the ones who dance in public. Space for the soft-spoken and the outspoken. For protectors and dreamers.
Because what Caleb Wilson’s death should remind us is that our current blueprint for masculinity is broken. He didn’t die because he wasn’t “man enough.” He died because people around him believed being a man required pain. And that kind of thinking kills more than it builds.
We don’t need more keys. We need more care. We need more freedom to let Black boys be—before we bury them under our insecurities.
So let the unicorn notebook be. Let the pink pen write. Let Black masculinity bloom without permission, without punishment, without performance.
The key is not yours to hold. It was never a lock to begin with.
