Before we left for the trip, we were informed we were heading to a part of town trapped in economic depression for years. We drove through the downtown inner city area for an hour, but could not find our hotel. My wife asked me to stop and ask for directions. I pulled into the parking lot of a corner store in an area that reminded me of my hometown in Baltimore City. My wife went into the store to ask the duty cop for directions.

     As I sat in the car reminiscing about my past, I quickly remembered my youth. It was as if someone transported me back in time from the bridge of a Star Trek Enterprise of the 21st century to the 20th century of the 1960s and 70s to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life, and boldly go back to the hood, where no one has gone before.

     "Dad where are we?" my ten-year-old son asked.
 
     "We're in the hood," I answered.

     "What do you mean by the hood? I don't like the hood!"
 
     I smiled. "The hood is what some Blacks call their neighborhood." I realized my son had no connection to the "hood" and no knowledge of what it meant or its history.
 
     When my wife returned, we were hungry and ready to eat.
A chicken and fish take-out waited next door. "We can eat there," I suggested.

     "No, Dad," my son said. "Please. Let's go somewhere else."

     His anxiety surprised me. "It's okay here," I reassured him, "But we'll look elsewhere." We drove around for awhile, but we couldn't find another restaurant. Growling stomachs forced our move and we drove back to the chicken and fish take-out.
 
     I put my arm around my son and led him into the restaurant. "There's no reason for fear," I told him gently. "These are our people, at least by race."

     We gave our food order, and while waiting for the clerk to call our number, a man walked in with a suitcase, went to the door of the manager's office, knocked and entered. A little while later he walked out without his suitcase. My son's wide eyes followed every move.

     I suspected he was homeless and wanted the manager to keep his possessions safe. He returned and knocked on the manager's door again. The manager stepped into the doorway. "I'm sorry, but you can't keep coming here," he said. He handed the man his suitcase.

     The man's eyes lowered and he shuffled out the door.
 
     "Dad, why . . . ?"

     "I don't know the details, son, but I'd guess that man made some bad decisions that stole his future."

     We finally received our food and directions to our hotel, and continued our journey through downtown Atlanta. When we finally arrived at the hotel, I was amazed to see a fence surrounding the entire hotel as if it were a prison. No doubt, the fence was to make sure the hotel guest's cars wouldn't leave the parking lot overnight.

     I pondered my son's fear while driving through the inner city. It troubled me. I reflected on my own childhood. In the 60s and 70s in the inner city of Baltimore, the corner stores were owned by Black and Jewish people. Today in most Black hoods, Asians, Arabians and other nationalities own these stores. Blacks rarely own anything. Why is this?

     Let me digress for a moment. Now, I purposely did not use the term ghetto to describe this Atlanta African-American community because the term originates with Jewish slums in the early history of Europe and Hitler's reign. Some Jewish people turned their economic powerlessness into economic power despite ghetto imprisonment. They created wealth through business and helped one another. Blacks picked up the term ghetto because Jewish people and black Americans had similar economic challenges in their unique hoods and histories. Blacks took ownership of the term and became ghetto fabulous without economic power, without business ownership, and without even home ownership, with few exceptions. But the hood should not always be associated with a certain place or a group people.

     Some Blacks see the good in the hood but realize without economic development, the cycle of generational poverty, crime and depravity will swallow up another generation. Jessie Dixon, in his book, If God Is So Good, Why Are Blacks Doing So Bad (2007), states financially and economically that "of the $668 billion blacks earn annually, we only spend 4% with African-American business-96% of the wealth we earn is spent outside our community. For every 1,000 African-Americans, we only start 9 businesses." This fact alone is a call for Blacks to make an exodus from consumer slavery to enter the promised land of entrepreneurism.

     My digression brought me to question myself and ask what we've lost in our exodus from the hood for the so-called middle class suburb life, and if this life disarms us from "keepin' it real." On the surface it appears we've lost nothing, but underneath the shelter and trappings of the burbs, have we forgotten to teach our son the tools of being street wise. Have I done myself and my children a disservice by not taking them back to the hood? Did I overlook the opportunity to teach him about the struggles, the fights, the successes, the failures, the young lives of Black youth lost to violence in the 60s and 70s? Should I have let him know what it took to make it in the hood and out of the hood?

     I often hear my pastor, Karocakas Watkins say, "The power to define is the power to determine destiny." Have I allowed the trappings and the spoils of suburbia to redefine who I am, and thus affecting my son's full understanding of the hood? Now our children and grandchildren no longer know how to both maneuver in the hood and manage in the boardroom. I know the hood has some good because our parents taught us about how to play the game of life the right way with good instruction. We also learned life lessons from the streets on how not to be a victim of a street criminal. Later in life, those same lessons of knowledge in the corporate world helped us spot a white color criminal trying to run a game on us.

     Going to Atlanta, which some call the Black Mecca, gave me a wake-up call about whether I'll send my son to a Black institution of higher learning or a predominately white institution. From the 1960s onward, politicians, activists, sociologists, panelists and community organizers still sound the alarm about depressed economic Black communities and the need for economic development in all minority communities. Over thirty years of dialogue, and I go to Atlanta and see the 1960s over again. 
 
     What was the most important lesson about my trip back to the Atlanta hood?

      I must never allow my son to forget that he is a Black male living in America and that despite what he saw, Black people have a great history still in discovery. And I'm proud to say the hood can produce great people. With presidential candidate Barak Obama, whose hood began in Kenya, we could witness a monumental history making event unfold with the first African-American president.

     I owe it to my son to teach him the good and bad about the hood. It is a part of history that requires understanding, not fear. The journey for me and my son will begin at a place in Huntsville that I drive past frequently on my way home from work. There's a historic slave burial ground on the campus of Oakwood University. My son and I will visit the sacred burial ground because the call of our ancestors echeo across history and time to remind us the journey to freedom is not over. There we well begin the story of the Africans journey to America. Just like the Jewish people never let anyone forget their struggle and history, Black Americans must be diligent not to let our expierences fade into history either, especially the youth of our younger generation.

     Let's go back to the hood and teach lessons and not hate so all races understand the struggle. In the end, the hood is not just Black only or where most Blacks live. The hood is a place you left from physically and mentally to strive for a better life. And if you stayed in the hood and legally prospered, celebrate it. The truth is, wherever you live is your hood.

    Copyright Frank Chase Jr. All Rights Reserved. Frank Chase Jr. is the author of False Roads To Manhood, What Women Need To Know: What Men Need To Understand. His tag line is D.E.S.T.I.N.Y.: Determined Effort So Tenacious It Negates Yuck.