I began growing my locs in the Spring of the year 2000. I was working at a small HBCU. Back then, if you had asked why I would have told you about the Jamaican Maroons and the rebellious symbolism of their "dreaded locks". That was all important, but looking back, I think I was just tired of being afraid.I had wanted locs ever since De La Soul. I was afraid to do it. That kind of fear bleeds over into a lot of other things. It puts you in a box.My girlfriend did her best with my comb curls, And when I came to work the next morning in the Office of Institutional Advancement, one of my co-workers looked at me and said, "Do you know who you look like? That kid. That kid on the The Little Rascals. You look like Buckweat!" Yeah, things went downhill fast at the College. I was sent to a few older men on campus who were supposed to talk some sense into me. Then I met with Human Resources. He suggested that I had broken my contract. I hadn't. But when my contract ended, I didn't renew it, and they didn't ask me to. I'm dealing with that same fear. I'm 44. I don't want to have regrets, but I know there are dozens of ways that I hold myself back.
A few days after my birthday I began boxing. I go almost everyday. It challenges me. They don't give me the option of staying in my comfort zone. Each round is three minutes long. It doesn't matter if you're tired, or if you can barely lift up your arms. It doesn't matter if you feel like you can't breath. You keep pushing yourself until the buzzer rings. Then you have thirty seconds to get yourself together before you start gain. It's crazy. I had a close friend grab my arm and say, "You're going to get brain damage!" Probably not. They are some of the most supportive guys I've ever met in my life. The only way I'll get brain damage is if I fall out of the ring. Boxing is like a laboratory to deal with self doubt. It's beautiful.
-Chad, Philly/Atlanta