OUTSIDE THE FRAME

OUTSIDE THE FRAME

by Robert Jordan

They say a Black man’s story starts in chains,
but mine started in my father’s hands steady, present, unshaken.
A real one.
Not a myth.
Not a statistic.
Not a ghost in the doorway with a “be right back.”
A man who taught me how to walk like I had a spine
in a world that loves to bend us.

But even with a father,
even with discipline,
even with dreams,
I grew up feeling like I was walking against a wind
that only blew on Black skin.

And you’d think the wind was white,
cold, distant, professional,
but sometimes the wind blew darkest
from people who shared my reflection.

Every day I breathe the breath of a Black man
who’s doubted by his own kind,
hated by his own kind,
cut down by the same hands
that clap in church but sharpen knives outside.
Not from the pigs,
not from the white folk,
they look at me with caution, sure,
but at least they ain’t surprised
when I choose success.

My own people though
“Oh, you got a pops? Damn, nigga, you lucky.”
Like having a father’s a luxury,
a jewel,
a glitch in the system,
like I’m some anomaly
instead of the blueprint we should’ve been following all along.

And the way we say “nigga”
sometimes it sounds like love,
sometimes it sounds like defeat,
but most of the time
it sounds like a name they gave us
that we decided to brand on our own skin
because the world kept calling us by it anyway.

And then I grew older and learned
that being raised right
almost makes you suspicious
in the eyes of your own family tree.
You get called whitewashed
for speaking with clarity,
for dreaming too loudly,
for wanting more than a gun, a chain,
and a story that ends with candles on a curb.

They tell me,
“You ain’t like us.”
But I am.
I’m just the version we forgot we could be.

But let me slow down.

There’s a dark spirit hanging over the community
not like ghosts
more like a fog
thick, heavy, hiding the sunrise.
It turned funerals into family reunions,
turned mourning into routine,
turned Black excellence into an exception
instead of expectation.

And it’s crazy
because the world already sees us through a cracked lens.
We didn’t break it,
but we keep pressing our faces against it
like we want to stay distorted.

They say,
“Why do Black men sag their pants”
Because the world already pulled them down.
“Why do they clutch their purse when we walk by”
Because they were taught our shadows steal.
“Why can’t Black men be good dads”
Because too many dads never learned how to stay.

But what hurts most
ain’t the questions the world asks
it’s the ones we ask each other.

Why we glorify the hood
but clown the ones who leave it
Why we cheer for shooters
but mock the scholars
Why we hate on the man with a plan
and ride for the boy with a body count

Why is pain normal
but peace suspicious

Why is the stereotype a prison
but we treat the key like a sin

And yet
I ain’t blind to the history.
I know where the wounds came from.
Four hundred years of being branded Black,
auction-blocked Black,
denied Black,
segregated Black,
gentrified Black,
shot Black,
profiled Black,
but somehow still standing Black.

A legacy soaked in blood and brilliance.
A people who turned survival into art,
rhythm into resistance,
pain into poetry,
struggle into soul.

But even with all that strength,
there’s a price to breathing in this skin.
You can do everything right
and still get wronged.
Wear a suit, still a target.
Drive a Benz, still a suspect.
Build the world, still called a threat in it.

Still nigga.

But the story ain’t just external.
It’s internal too.
Because you can escape a system,
but escaping your own people’s expectations
that’s another battlefield.

See, when a Black man climbs,
we treat him like he’s betraying gravity.
“Look at this nigga thinking he made it.”
“Acting brand new.”
“Talking proper.”
“Trying to be white.”

Nah.
Maybe he’s trying to be free.

Maybe he’s trying to be the version of us
we should’ve been rooting for.

But instead of building him up
we tear him down
because broken mirrors hate reflections
that ain’t cracked.

But I ain’t writing this to shame my people.
I’m writing this to save them.

Because I believe in us too much
to act like dying is our destiny
and living is the exception.

I want us to carry ourselves
like we got bolts in our brains
tightened, aligned, thinking straight.
When you see a brotha on the bus to success
do not throw rocks at the window
hop on.
Clap for him.
Ask him how he built the map.
Then build your own crew and ride with him.

I want us to redefine what it means to be Black.
Not a stereotype,
not a punchline,
not the world's fear,
not our own enemy.
But a legacy.
A monument.
A movement.

I want to see Black men
become fathers who show up
not just pay up.
Men who raise their sons with wisdom
not warnings.
Men who teach their daughters
what love looks like before the world distorts it.
Men who build homes
and break curses
who plant seeds
instead of excuses.

I want us to stop seeing ambition as betrayal
stop labeling discipline as whitewashing
stop acting like success is suspicious
and failure is authentic.

Imagine a community
where being smart ain’t acting white
where dressing well ain’t trying too hard
where dreaming big ain’t forgetting where you came from.
Imagine a world
where our excellence ain’t a surprise
but a standard.

It starts with us.
With how we treat each other.
With how we lift each other.
With how we rewrite the script
we’ve been forced to memorize.

Because truth is
ain’t nothing changed
but the angle of the chains.
But chains still break
if enough hands pull.

And I’m pulling.
With my words.
With my hope.
With the legacy I plan to leave.
Not in diamonds,
not in cars,
not in Instagram flexes,
but in roots deep enough
to choke the stereotypes
that tried to bury us.

I’m writing this
as a warning
as a mirror
as a prayer
as a blueprint.

I’m writing this
because I’m tired of being an outcast
for wanting to live
for wanting more
for being raised right
for dreaming
bigger than bullets
for being Black
in a way that ain’t tragic.

And if that makes me an outcast
good.
I’ll be the outcast that builds the bridge.
The outcast that breaks the mold.
The outcast that becomes the example
my people needed but didn’t know they had.

Because one day
my son will ask who he is.
And I’ll tell him
“You’re a Black man
not a threat
not a stereotype
not a statistic
but a monument in motion.”

And my daughter will ask what she’s worth.
I’ll tell her
“You’re a Black woman
unbreakable
unchained
unrepentantly powerful.”

And maybe
just maybe
when they grow up
the world will call them more than shadows.
More than suspects.
More than survivors.

Maybe they’ll be what we should’ve been
all along
united
uplifted
unstoppable.

Until then
I keep writing.
I keep fighting.
I keep building.
I keep breathing.

Outside the frame
outside the box
outside the stereotypes they try to paint me in.

Not an outcast.
Not a victim.
Not a warning.

But a beginning.

A beginning
that looks like me
sounds like me
speaks like me
stands like me.

A beginning
that knows being Black
ain’t a curse
it’s a calling.

And I intend to answer it.