{"id":1557,"date":"2021-07-15T06:03:00","date_gmt":"2021-07-15T10:03:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.robertwesleybranch.com\/robertwritings\/?page_id=1557"},"modified":"2026-05-02T09:22:56","modified_gmt":"2026-05-02T13:22:56","slug":"million-man-march","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.robertwesleybranch.com\/robertwritings\/the-wisdom-writings-of-robert-wesley-branch\/million-man-march\/","title":{"rendered":"1995: October 16: Million Man March"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Million Man March: October 16, 1995. Washington, D.C. National Mall. Ready for revolutio<\/em>n<\/span><\/strong>.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

WASHINGTON – October 16, 1995.<\/strong> In the Company of My Brothers. Words and Images by Robert Wesley Branch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My father reached into his briefcase and pulled out a red-black-and-green button: Million Man March, Day of Atonement, I Want to be in THAT Number!, October 16, 1995<\/em>, it read.  \u201cIt\u2019s for you,\u201d he told me.  \u201cI saw them and I thought about you.  Got me one too,\u201d he smiled, sitting at the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two days before the Million Man March (MMM), I still hadn\u2019t decided to go.  I had purposely not watched the news or listened to the radio in the weeks before because I was well familiar with the mainstream\u2019s take on anything remotely related to Louis Farrakhan. Part of my resistance to attending the March was a deep-seated distrust of Black men.  I could only hope the gay brothers wouldn\u2019t become targets for their straight counterparts; and that the Christian brothers wouldn\u2019t become whipping posts for the Nation\u2019s Muslim brothers.  I was weary of the divisive name-calling; fearful of the spirit of machismo that has separated and alienated so many of us for so long. I was 29.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today, all these years later, now in my late fifties, I see this behavior I describe as “toxic masculinity.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a few phone calls, I had arranged to march with DC-based artist and filmmaker Fred Brown, and his friend, NY-based actor Mykal Knight, who I had also become acquainted with over the years.  The plan was that I would meet up with them on Sunday at 8:30 pm, stay in Washington overnight, and we\u2019d all walk down to the March together on Monday morning.  I hung up with Fred and lie across my bed, in the suburbs, where I was raised since age three. A native Washingtonian, we moved to Prince George’s County, Maryland in 1970.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sunday was beautiful: the clouds and rain and wind of Saturday had faded into a chilly, breezy churchgoing Fall afternoon.  While Fred and Mykal attended mass at St. Augustine\u2019s in Washington, I was at home, meditating and preparing to meet up with them.  Later that evening, my sister offered to give me a ride to Adams Morgan, which I accepted.  I wished my father a happy march, and my sister and I were out the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I arrived at Fred\u2019s, he wasn\u2019t there, but his roommate Greg, who I\u2019d met numerous times before, answered my call. I noticed pinned to his shirt a red-black-and-green button: Million Man March, Day of Atonement, I Want to be in THAT Number!, October 16, 1995.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Monday morning, the day of the March, Fred and I sat together on the third floor, going through some analysis on the state of Black men.  He shared his concerns about the March, which were surprisingly similar to my own trepidations.  He stared ahead blankly, lost in his thoughts, doubting his intentions, questioning his motivation for both wanting and not wanting to attend the March. A few moments later, Greg came out of his neighboring bedroom, heading for the bathroom.  He walked past the open door where we sat, never saying a word.  Moments later, Mykal came up from a second-floor bedroom. Fred was now up and moving about. Greg and I had retreated to the patio to talk.  He wanted to share with me a piece of work he\u2019d recently written.  We stood side-by-side on the terrace, the bursting sunlight crashing down upon us, the trees swaying gently, the baby-blue sky nearly cloudless.<\/p>\n\n\n

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Park Rd., N.W. Washington, D.C. October 16, 1995. On the deck with Brother Greg (right).<\/span><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

As everyone began to shower and prepare for the day, Greg called us into his room to catch a piece about the March on the news.  Fred and I became energized as we witnessed just a glimpse of the coverage, seeing a young brother with his son, and a couple of other brothers in the background embracing.  The Spirit seemed to be high and we wanted to be part of that energy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Within twenty minutes, Fred and I were driving through Cleveland Park, headed for coffee on Connecticut Avenue.  As he parked the car, I noticed a group of brothers noticing me; probably had something to do with the red-black-and-green poncho I was wearing and the red-black-and-green leather Rasta cap I had pulled down close over my eyes.  I\u2019m sure I looked like a cross between Bob Marley and a Black Panther of the 60\u2019s.  That\u2019s precisely the look I was going for; it\u2019s exactly how I felt: powerful, culturally in tune, unstoppable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sitting outside the coffee shop, a brother walked by and said to me: \u201cWhat\u2019s up, brother?\u201d  Only minutes later, a sister says: \u201cGood morning, brother!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRobert, you\u2019re getting a lot of brotherly love and energy this morning,\u201d Fred leaned over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n