Why my introverted side struggles with large crowds...

Get the Point

At the age of 51, I find that I am far more introverted than I was at the age of 15, back when as a 10th grader, the highlight of my week during the Fall was after our Friday night football games, exchanging my drum major uniform for a pair of Guess Jeans and a Coca Cola or Nautica shirt to head over to the "dance" in the FAMU High cafeteria—ones that drew hundreds of party goers from across Tallahassee's predominantly Black Southside. 

Back then, it was cool to be "cool;" walking in a nearly pitch black venue, exchanging dap with my boys from our school and rival schools that I knew well, all the while pretending to not "sweat" or overtly "check out" the girls that I (and we) were definitely "sweating" and apprehensive about asking to dance from fear of being told "no" 😂—such was a timeless right of passage at high schools across the country from time immemorial. 

A then 15-year old Hobbs, shown here after a televised quiz bowl match against Leon High School, never saw a dance or party that he didn't like back in the 80’s…

But when I was 15, while there surely was the occasional fight that interrupted a dance or several, I and my friends grew up safely knowing that when the lights flickered on and off indicating that the dance was over, that we would make it home safely because no one was packing heat to shoot up the place!

Today, at 51, the prospects of going out and returning home safely are fraught with a palpable sense of danger more real than imagined in cities, towns, and hamlets all across the United States. 

Case in point is last week when U.S. Army reservist Robert Card coldly killed 18 people and wounded 13 others at a bowling alley and bar in Maine allegedly because he "heard" that some of the patrons were calling him a pedophile, I am sure that no one who was killed or injured that night could have foreseen that their lives would end—or be forever altered—as they drove to their fateful destination 😢.

Now, I'm not here to debate the mental health status of the now deceased killer or the pedantic details of gun control because sadly, mass murder scenes are so regular these days that they no longer shock me when I watch or read about them on the news, and I no longer believe that politicians will ever really address the issue.

But my lack of shock is not tantamount to a lack of concern, as each time the bullets fly and the "thoughts and prayers" are extended following random (and not so random) acts of violence, such heightens my own situational awareness on those rare occasions that I do go out in public. 

Last week, my undergraduate and graduate school alma maters, Morehouse College (in tandem with Spelman College) and Florida A&M University, celebrated their very popular homecomings that drew tens of thousands of visitors to the campuses of these three legendary HBCU's. While I usually attend both events as they typically fall on different Fall weekends, work obligations made my choice a "non-choice" as I stayed in Tallahassee to have fun with my fellow Rattlers "on the highest of seven hills" last Saturday. 

HBCU homecomings draw thousands of alumni, supporters, and occasionally, a few wayward souls, each year…

But as I joined two of my oldest friends, Kenny Taite and Brian Holiday, as we walked among over an estimated 40,000 people at or around historic Bragg Stadium last Saturday, I could not help but keep my eyes sharp—and my head on a swivel—from fear that some misguided soul may pull a weapon and either cause a mass panic that ended with thousands of folks running and trampling each other, or, open fire and killing or wounding innocent people who simply were there to have a good time!

At the FAMU Homecoming tailgate last week with (from left) Aaron Taylor, me, our high school Kappa League advisor Laverne “Strike” Washington, Kenny Taite, and Brian Holiday…

Fortunately, neither happened during the six or so hours that we were on FAMU’s campus, but I admit that I breathed a sigh of relief when we got safely to the truck and exited from what turned out to be another great homecoming weekend for us.

And yet, when I scrolled down my Facebook page later that night, several of my social media friends noted that there had been at least one "mass panic" incident on Perry Street near FAMU’s stadium not long after I had exited the scene. While I am glad that I missed that madness, and I am ecstatic that no one was injured, such still confirms that I am not becoming paranoid as my once jet black beard turns grayer by the day—but that I am wise to remember that as day turns to dusk at mass events, such signals my time to head to the safe confines of my home or hotel if I am out of town! 

As I write these words this morning, I cannot help but think that my long deceased father would be happy in knowing that his once “hard headed” 15-year old son, the one who just had to be "on the scene" during his school days, is echoing his father's old sentiments about exercising caution because "bullets ain't got no names on them."

Actually, both of my parents used that expression quite a bit, but I distinctly remember being embarrassed and frustrated the year I was turning 15 when our family traveled to visit our folks in Miami after Christmas. When we arrived on the evening of December 26th, my father loud talked me and told me to "take my shoes off and sit down somewhere" when my slightly older cousin, Troy Hobbs, showed up with his friends around 10 p.m. to take me to play basketball with them at the lighted outdoor courts in Perrine. 

The next morning, as my father and I woke up early to eat left over oxtails, grits, and gravy at my Aunt Lenora's kitchen table, my old man told me that he didn't let me hang out the previous night not because he lacked trust in his nephew Troy, but because he didn't know the boys that Troy was with and, more crucially, no one out there at that park (but Troy) knew me! At the time, I simply said "yes sir," but honestly, I felt totally lame and sheltered as I sat among the elders at home instead of hanging out with my peers.

Well today, at the age of 51 and not 15, I revel in being "lame" and prefer the shelter and security of my own surroundings over the prospects of being prematurely surrounded by graves in a graveyard for all eternity because some wayward sort decided to open fire in a crowded space. 

Lest I, or we, forget...